Chapter 14: Cheerleading Court
The cold, polished linoleum of the dormitory hallway bit into Ben’s knees and the palms of his hands. Each inhale brought in the vague, communal scent of laundry detergent and microwaved noodles, now undercut by the sharp, athletic odor of Patricia’s sweat, which still clung to his skin from the gym. The heavy championship belt, its engraved plate cold against his nape, was a leash, and every slight tug from Patricia’s fist connected directly to his pride, pulling it thinner and thinner.
“Heel,” she said, her voice light and conversational, as if she were commenting on the weather.
A door creaked open ahead of them. A stunned freshman in flannel pajamas peered out, a physics textbook dangling from his hand. His eyes widened, traveling from Patricia’s triumphant, gleaming smile down to Ben on all fours.
Patricia gave the belt a deliberate, sharp yank, bringing Ben to an awkward halt. “Go on, Ben. Say hello to… what’s your name? Doesn’t matter. Ben, say hello.”
Ben’s throat clenched. The humiliation in the gym, with its closed circle of athletes, had been a concentrated burn. This was exposure, a slow, spreading stain. The gym’s aggressive chants were replaced by a ringing, oppressive silence from the open doorways, broken only by the faint bass of someone’s music down the hall.
“I won’t ask twice,” Patricia sang, applying steady downward pressure on the belt until Ben’s spine bowed and his forehead hovered just above the linoleum.
A low, choked sound escaped him. It wasn’t a bark. It was a strangled exhale of pure shame.
“Pathetic,” she sighed, though her eyes sparkled. “Come on, everyone! Our little econ whiz here used to argue market futures with me for hours. Now look at him. Can’t even manage a simple greeting.” She addressed the growing audience—a few heads now, curious and uneasy, framed in doorways. “He used to beat me by two points on the midterm, you know? Two. Points.”
She started walking again, forcing Ben to crawl forward. His shoulders ached. The buckle of the belt jangled a mocking rhythm with every shuffling movement of his hands and knees.
Another door opened. This time it was Lara from the debate team, her sharp, assessing gaze taking in the scene without a flicker of surprise. “Evening, Pat. Out for a walk?”
“Just showing off my new trophy,” Patricia said, pausing again. She planted a foot lightly on Ben’s lower back, not to hurt him, but to still him, to display him. “He’s housetrained, mostly. Still a little defiant. Needs a firm hand.”
Lara smirked, leaning against her doorframe. “I heard about the match. Sounded… conclusive.”
“Oh, it was. Wasn’t it, Ben?” Patricia applied pressure with her foot. “Tell Lara who’s the better wrestler. Use your words.”
The words were ash in his mouth. “You are,” he mumbled into the floor.
“Louder for the people in the back, champ.”
“You are!” The shout tore from him, raw and scalding. It echoed in the hallway, followed by a few scattered, nervous giggles from the onlookers.
“See?” Patricia beamed at Lara. “He learns.” She lifted her foot and tugged the leash. “Now, the bark. We’re skipping the formalities. Let’s hear it. For every door we pass.”
He crawled. The first bark was a whisper, a cough. Patricia stopped dead. “Nope. Unacceptable. This is a victory lap, not a funeral procession. Give it some spirit, or we’ll go back to the gym and start the pin count all over again. My shorts are still sweaty.”
The threat, visceral and specific, unlocked something in him. A desperate, degrading performance. At the next door, he let out a sharp, loud “Yip!” It sounded absurd, alien. Laughter, more genuine this time, rippled down the hall.
“Better!” Patricia encouraged, like a trainer with a dim pet. “Good boy! Now, this one.” She pointed to a door decorated with a band poster.
“Woof,” Ben forced out, his face burning.
“Ah-ah! Full commitment!”
He barked again, louder. The door remained shut, but he heard a muffled snort from behind it.
They made it to the junction of the two dorm wings, a wider common area with a few stained couches. A small crowd had gathered now, ten or twelve people, drawn by the spectacle and the noise. Phones were out, held discreetly at hips, screens glowing. The click of a shutter was unmistakable.
Patricia saw it too, and her grin turned radiant. She soaked in the attention, giving the belt leash a little flourish. “This,” she announced to the room, “is what happens when potential remains unrealized. This is the distance between ‘almost’ and ‘champion.’ He almost had me in calc. He almost scored that takedown. Almost.” She let the word hang, then jerked the leash. Ben’s head snapped up. “Now he’s just my little follow-along. Aren’t you?”
The collective gaze of his peers was a physical weight. He saw recognition, pity, amusement, and in a few faces, a dark, voyeuristic interest. This was his new fact. The boy on the leash. Patricia’s victory made flesh.
“Okay, Ben,” she said, her tone shifting to one of final, mocking generosity. “I think they get the picture. Let’s finish the lap. To the stairs and back. And this time… let’s see a little hustle.”
She didn’t just walk this time; she broke into a light, brisk jog. The belt went taut. For a horrifying second, Ben scrambled, his knees slipping on the slick floor, his hands slapping down to keep up, a desperate, scrambling crab on the end of her tether. The laughter around him was no longer nervous. It was full-throated and united.
As they reached the turn at the stairwell door, Ben, gasping, caught a clear glimpse of their reflection in the dark safety glass. A blonde goddess, barely winded, leading a broken, crawling thing. The image seared itself into his mind, final and absolute.
Patricia slowed, looking down at him with a satisfied, almost gentle smile. She leaned close, her voice for him alone now, though the crowd still watched. “You know the best part, Ben? Tomorrow, in Poli-Sci, you’ll have to sit right next to me. And you’ll still have to call me ‘Patricia.’ And every time you do, you’ll remember the taste of this floor. And my sweat. And the sound of your own voice begging.”
She straightened up, giving the leash one last, possessive flick.
“Come on,” she said loudly, cheerfully, to the hallway at large. “Show’s over. The champ needs to put her trophy to bed.”
She began the slow walk back towards her room, pulling her utterly defeated rival behind her, the muffled sounds of the dispersing crowd echoing like the last, fading notes of her triumph.
The leather of the championship belt dug into the back of Ben’s neck with every tug. Patricia kept the lead short, forcing him to crawl just behind her sneakers on the cold, polished linoleum of the dorm hallway. The smell of industrial cleaner and old takeout hung in the air, a pathetic backdrop to his procession.
“C’mon, champ. Let’s go. Heel,” Patricia said, her voice sweet with mock encouragement. She glanced over her shoulder, her blonde ponytail swinging. “We’ve got an audience.”
Doors were cracked open. Faces peered out. A phone camera light flickered on, a blinding white eye in the dim hall.
“Bark,” Patricia said, stopping before the first open door where two freshmen stared, wide-eyed. “Let ‘em know you’re here.”
Ben’s arms trembled from the strain of holding himself up. His knees ached. The taste of her sweat, forced on him in the gym, still clung to the inside of his mouth. He stayed silent, gritting his teeth.
Patricia sighed, a theatrical sound of disappointment. She gave the belt-leash a sharp, vicious yank. The sudden choke pulled him forward, his chin snapping up. “I said bark. Or do I need to sit on your face again to jog your memory?”
A low chuckle rippled down the hall.
A strangled, humiliated sound escaped Ben’s throat. It wasn’t a bark. It was a gasp.
“Pathetic,” Patricia announced to the spectators. “But we’ll work on it. This is Ben Thompson, everyone. Used to beat me by half a point on physics midterms. Now he’s figuring out how to lick my sneaker without getting floor wax on his tongue.” She started walking again, forcing him to scramble on all fours to keep up. “Bark at that one. Go on.”
He did it. A short, sharp “ruff” that burned his ears worse than any insult.
“Louder! Let ‘em hear you in the stairwell!”
“RUFF!” The word tore out of him, echoing.
“Good boy!” Patricia cooed, patting his head hard enough to jostle his skull. “See? He’s a quick learner when he’s motivated.”
They turned the corner into the main freshman corridor, a wider avenue with a bank of vending machines buzzing under fluorescent lights. And there, clustered like a flock of brightly colored birds, was the Riverside University cheerleading squad, still in their practice shorts and crop tops, bags slung over their shoulders.
Patricia’s face lit up with pure, unadulterated joy. “Well, hey ladies! Perfect timing.”
The squad’s captain, Mia, a petite brunette with a razor-sharp smile, stepped forward, her eyes scanning the scene—Patricia standing tall, the belt in her hand, Ben on the floor at her feet. A slow grin spread across her face. “Whoa, Pat. What’ve you got there?”
“Oh, this?” Patricia said, giving the leash another little jiggle. “This is my new pet. Ben. He’s a little disobedient, but we’re house-training him.”
The squad converged, forming a half-circle around them, cutting off any route of escape. Ben felt the heat of their collective gaze like a physical pressure.
“No way,” said Chloe, a blonde with glitter still dusting her cheeks. “Is that the Ben Thompson? Mr. Dean’s List?”
“The very same,” Patricia confirmed, her voice rich with pride. “Had a little disagreement on the mats earlier. We settled it. Didn’t we, Ben?”
Ben kept his head down, focusing on a faded gum stain on the floor. His whole body was a live wire of shame.
“He doesn’t look so tough now,” Mia laughed, nudging his shoulder with the toe of her sneaker. “What was it you used to call our routines, Ben? ‘Synchronized jumping for people who failed a real sport’?”
A firestorm of giggles erupted.
“I remember that!” another cheerleader, Zoe, piped up. She crouched down, bringing her face level with his. “You said our skirts were a distraction because we couldn’t win on skill. Look at you now. Not so distracting down there, are we?”
“He’s kinda cute like this, though,” Chloe mused, pretending to consider him. “Less talking. More… compliant.”
Mia stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. “I heard about the match. The whole ‘kiss my ass’ thing. Is that true?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She looked at Patricia. “Did he really do it?”
“Like a devout pilgrim at the altar,” Patricia said, grinning. “Want a demo?”
“Yes!” the squad chimed in unison.
Patricia didn’t move her feet. She just turned slightly, presenting the side of her grey sweatpants-clad hip to Ben’s face. “You heard the ladies, Ben. Show ‘em your best trick. Give Mia’s shoe a little kiss. Consider it an upgrade.”
The hallway was silent now, except for the hum of the vending machines. Every cell in Ben’s body screamed to rebel, to lunge up, to scream. But the weight of the gym, the crushing finality of the pin, the leather around his neck—it all pressed him down. He was hollowed out. Defeated.
He leaned forward, the movement stiff and robotic, and pressed his lips briefly against the cool, clean rubber of Mia’s sneaker toe.
The squeals of laughter were deafening.
“OH MY GOD HE ACTUALLY DID IT!”
“He’s like a little dog! Pat, does he do parties?”
Mia looked down at him, her expression one of fascinated cruelty. “You know, for a guy who used to argue with professors about intellectual superiority, you’ve really found your level.” She looked back at her squad. “What do we think, girls? Should he try out for the squad? We need a new mascot now that the cougar costume fell apart.”
“He’d have to be able to jump higher than that,” Zoe snickered. “All he can do is crawl and kiss feet.”
“And lose,” Chloe added. “Don’t forget lose. He’s really, really good at losing.”
The taunts came faster, overlapping, a symphony of mockery.
“Bark for us again, mascot!”
“Does he fetch?”
“I bet he’d carry our pom-poms if you told him to.”
“Hey Ben, is the calculus final going to be this hard, too? Or just getting up off your knees?”
Patricia watched, arms crossed, a queen observing her court entertain her. She let it build, let their words sink into him, each one another shovel of dirt on the coffin of his old pride. Finally, she held up a hand. The girls quieted, eyes bright with amusement.
“Alright, alright. We’ve got a victory lap to finish. But I think you’ve given him some excellent motivation for his next training session.” She yanked the leash, pulling Ben’s head up. “Didn’t they, Ben? Say ‘thank you, ladies.’”
His voice was a ghost. “Thank you, ladies.”
“What was that?” Mia cupped a hand around her ear.
“THANK YOU, LADIES!” he shouted, the words raw and torn from his throat.
The cheerleaders applauded, a slow, sarcastic clap.
Patricia gave a final, regal wave and started walking again, the leash pulling taut. Ben crawled. The chatter and laughter of the squad followed them down the hall, a soundtrack to his ruin. He focused on the rhythmic scuff of his own hands on the floor, the burning in his shoulders, the metallic taste of total defeat. It was all he had left.
Behind them, he heard Mia call out, her voice clear and ringing with delight, “Don’t forget to wipe your feet, Pat! You never know where he’s been!”
Their laughter was the last thing he heard before they turned the corner, a bright, cruel echo that followed him all the way to the stairwell door.
The dorm hallway was a tunnel of noise and flashing phone lights. The industrial carpet was rough against Ben’s palms and knees, a grating texture that echoed the humiliation burning through his veins. Patricia’s championship belt, looped around his neck, was a cold, heavy weight. Every few steps, she’d give it a sharp, corrective jerk.
“C’mon, Benji, louder,” Patricia’s voice sang out from above him, amplified by the hallway acoustics. “I think the guys on the third floor missed that last pathetic yip.”
He’d just managed a choked-off bark at an open doorway, met by a chorus of laughter and someone throwing a crumpled chip bag at his head. The smell of microwave popcorn and sweat hung in the air. His own sweat, mostly, salty and sour.
“Look at him!” Patricia announced to a group of students leaning against their doorframes, cups of beer in hand. “Straight-A student. Physics department’s golden boy. And now he’s figured out his true calling. Right, Ben? Tell them.”
She stopped, planting a foot near his hand. The silence, filled only by the muffled bass of someone’s stereo and the eager whispers of the crowd, was worse than the noise. He felt the leather of the belt tighten imperceptibly, a silent threat.
“...Woof,” he muttered, the word scraping his throat raw.
“See?” Patricia beamed. “A natural.”
They rounded the corner towards the common lounge area, and the crowd swelled. The victory lap from the gym had deposited a trail of spectators here, a buzzing, expectant hive. And at the center of it, like a waiting jury, were three members of the university cheer squad—Tiffany, Chloe, and Marissa. They were still in their practice gear, glittery tops and tight shorts, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and vicious amusement.
“Well, look what the champ dragged in,” Tiffany drawled, popping her gum.
Patricia’s grin widened. “Just showing off my new pet. He’s house-trained. Mostly.”
Ben kept his eyes on the floor, on the scuff marks and old stains in the linoleum. Anywhere but on their faces. He could feel their eyes on him, dissecting his posture, the blush he knew was crawling up his neck.
“He doesn’t look like much,” Chloe said, circling slowly. Her sneakers squeaked on the floor. “I heard he used to give you a run for your money, Pat.”
“Used to being the key words,” Patricia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “Turns out he’s all talk. Folds quicker than a cheap lawn chair. Isn’t that right?”
She didn’t yank the belt this time. She just let the question hang. The expectation was its own leash.
Ben said nothing. The defiance was a dead, cold coal in his gut, smothered by the sheer, overwhelming weight of the spectacle.
“Aw, he’s shy,” Marissa cooed, her voice sugar-sweet and poisonous. She stepped right in front of him, so all he could see were her legs. “Maybe he needs some encouragement.”
Patricia handed the end of the belt to Tiffany. “Here. You girls want a turn? He’s very obedient.”
A fresh jolt of something—panic, sheer disbelief—shot through Ben. This wasn’t part of the script. This was a new page, a deeper dive. He started to push himself up, a grunt of protest forming in his throat.
A sharp, stinging impact exploded on his backside. He flinched hard, a shocked gasp ripping from him. Chloe stood to his side, wielding a lightweight plastic megaphone she’d snatched from a nearby couch.
“Uh-uh,” Chloe tutted. “Did anyone say you could get up, puppy?”
Laughter rippled through the watching students. Hot, prickling shame flooded him, hotter than any anger.
“Good boy,” Patricia said, her eyes gleaming. She nodded to Tiffany. “Go on.”
Tiffany gave the belt a playful tug. “Heel!”
The command, so absurdly canine, broke the last of the bystanders’ restraint. Whoops and clapping erupted. Ben moved forward on his hands and knees, the leather pulling him towards the cheerleaders. The world narrowed to the shine of their shoes, the smell of their vanilla body spray mixing with his own stale sweat.
“Sit!” Marissa commanded when he reached them.
He sank back onto his heels, his head bowed. The posture was one of utter submission. He felt a hand, Chloe’s, ruffle his hair aggressively, nails scratching his scalp. “Who’s a good loser?”
“I think he needs a reward for being so compliant,” Patricia said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the perfect director of the scene. “But what do you give a dog?”
Tiffany looked down at her pristine white cheer sneaker, then at Ben. A slow smile spread across her face. She placed her foot lightly on his bent thigh. “They lick boots, right? Or… shoes.”
A terrible understanding dawned on Ben. He shook his head, a minute, desperate movement.
“Do it,” Patricia said, and her voice lost its playful edge. It was flat, cold, and final. It was the voice from the mat, pinning him just as effectively. “Or we’ll find something much worse for you to lick. The bathroom stalls on this floor are famously gross. Your choice.”
The crowd had fallen silent again, a rapt, breathless audience. The pressure of the foot on his leg wasn’t heavy, but it was an anchor, chaining him to this moment. The clean white leather of the sneaker was a blank canvas for his degradation.
He closed his eyes. The taste of sweat and vinyl from the gym was still in his memory. This would be different. This would be his.
He bent his head.
The first touch of his tongue on the cool, slightly rubbery sole was a shock. A collective “Ooooh!” swept the hallway. He did it again, a mechanical, wet swipe. A salty tang of dirt and floor cleaner filled his mouth.
“Ew, gross!” Tiffany giggled, but she didn’t move her foot. “He’s actually doing it!”
“Now the other one,” Chloe demanded, pressing her shoe against his other leg. “Hurry up.”
The movement became a rhythm. Left shoe, right shoe. His world dissolved into the taste of synthetic grime, the sound of jeering encouragement, the burning pressure behind his own eyes. He was no longer Ben Thompson, rival, equal. He was an object in a ritual, a prop for their dominance.
Patricia watched, her mischievous glint solidified into something harder, more satisfied. This was the true victory lap. Not just beating him, but dismantling him, and having an audience—her audience—participate in the demolition.
Finally, she pushed off the wall. She took the belt back from Tiffany, her fingers brushing the other girl’s in a silent exchange of power.
“I think he’s learned his lesson,” Patricia announced, her voice cutting through the noise. “For now.”
She gave the leash a final, definitive tug, pulling him off-balance so he fell onto his side with a thud. He lay there, curled slightly, not looking at anyone.
The show was over. The crowd, buzzing with the adrenaline of shared cruelty, began to disperse, conversations already moving on to parties and homework. The cheerleaders gave him one last, disdainful look, laughing amongst themselves as they walked away, their sneakers—the ones he’d cleaned—squeaking on the polished floor.
Patricia crouched down beside him, close enough that only he could hear her. The scent of her triumph was a mix of perfume and perspiration.
“Remember this feeling, Ben,” she whispered, her voice low and intimate. “Remember what happens when you think you’re my equal.”
She stood up, the leather belt swinging loosely from her hand. She didn’t make him get up and crawl again. She just left him there on the common room floor, a broken trophy in the fading echo of laughter, the metallic taste of defeat the only thing left in his mouth.