Emily wrapped her arms around Delilah the moment the PheiCrush Simps stepped off the court, their shoulders slumped, glitter still clinging to their skin like the last stubborn sparks of a dying firework.
The final note of the official cheerleaders' routine still hung in the air—crisp, perfect, triumphant—while the Simps' own performance, raw and desperate and beautiful in its imperfection, faded into the rafters like smoke.
It hadn't been close.
Not even a little.
Paige and Brielle stood at center court like twin statues carved from victory and spite, accepting the crowd's roar with the lazy, practiced smirks of people who had never once doubted the outcome.
Years of elite training, private coaches flown in from LA or worse... Italy, synchronized routines drilled until muscle memory became instinct, budgets that turned cheerleading into high art—they had brought every unfair advantage Paradise could buy, and they had used every single one of them without apology.
