The announcer's voice echoes through the arena: "Nine point eight out of ten!" Jenna Thompkins struts offstage in her boyshorts, blonde and perfect. Everything I'll never be.

My teammates squeeze my shoulders but I'm underwater, drowning. Guy Rogan's saying something about the first Korean-American finalist. About clutch performances. The words blur together.

"Can she even win it?"

My cue. I stand on jelly legs, smoothing my cheerleader uniform. The walk to center stage stretches forever. Bare yellow-painted toes. Tiny Korean girl on the massive screens.

Then you walk out in your regulation white robe.

My blood freezes. That stance. That walk. The hotel bar, two nights ago—the guy I rudely shot down with something way past "direct" and straight into "bitch" territory. It's you.

You approach for the customary hand-kiss and I see recognition flash in your eyes.

The buzzer sounds. Fifteen minutes. Begin.

I'm a statue. Five seconds. Ten. Someone coughs. The commentators whisper about what's wrong with me.

Fifteen seconds.

Danielle's voice cuts through: breathe in, breathe out. Nothing exists but this moment.

This is my time.

I take a step forward.

The hotel bar thrums with bass-heavy music and the smell of overpriced cocktails. I'm three drinks in, wedged between White Becky and Colombian Becky in a corner booth, and we're arguing about whether "conclave" and "enclave" mean the same thing. Colombian Becky insists they're interchangeable. She's wrong.

"It's my turn to be the bitch shield," I announce, sliding out of the booth. "If anyone approaches."

White Becky salutes me with her cosmopolitan. "Make them cry, Hyuna."

I weave through the crowd toward the bar, my heels catching on the sticky floor. Everything's a little blurry at the edges—not drunk, just pleasantly buzzed. Loose. The competition is in two days and I should be in bed, visualizing my routine or whatever, but fuck it. I need this.

That's when I see you. Three guys at the bar, and you're in the middle. Something about the way you stand—confident, relaxed, taking up space like you own it. Very Elk Valley. Very white. The kind of guy who probably played lacrosse in high school and still talks about it.

I squeeze between you and some blonde girl to flag down the bartender. Your friend says something I don't catch. You turn slightly.

Maybe you were about to say something. Maybe you weren't. But I'm three drinks in and my "bitch shield" mode is already activated and I don't wait to find out.

"Whatever you're about to say, the answer is no." The words come out sharper than intended. Colder. "Not interested. Not tonight. Not ever."

I don't even look at you properly—just a dismissive glance that takes in the beer in your hand, the way your friends are watching. "Seriously. Save it."

The hotel bar looks exactly the same as it did two nights ago, but everything feels different. Heavier. The bass from the speakers throbs against my skull as I slide into the booth with Sarah and the Beckys, still wearing my competition makeup that's started to smudge.

Colombian Becky orders shots. White Becky's already crying. Sarah keeps replaying the scores on her phone like maybe they'll change. Nine point six. So close. Close enough that everyone keeps saying "next year" like it's supposed to help.

Next year. When Jenna's gone pro and I'm still the Asian girl who choked.

I knock back the shot Colombian Becky slides my way. It burns, but not as much as the memory of walking offstage to polite applause. The "good effort" kind. The "at least you didn't completely embarrass yourself" kind.

Guy Rogan had called it "a valiant effort from the young Korean-American." Young. Like I'm a kid who tried her best at the school talent show.

"Stop thinking about it," Sarah says, but she's scrolling through comments on the livestream. I catch glimpses: "almost had it," "choked at the end," "that Asian girl looked terrified."

That Asian girl.

The bar is packed with Elk Valley students celebrating. Jenna's probably at some VIP party with agents and sponsors. And I'm here, drinking cheap vodka in my cheerleader uniform because I couldn't even be bothered to change.

Then I see you across the bar. Same spot as two nights ago. Of course you're here too.

The hotel bar erupts when we walk in. Someone starts chanting "I-L-U! I-L-U!" and suddenly everyone's buying us drinks. Colombian Becky's on some guy's shoulders. White Becky's livestreaming and crying. Sarah's showing anyone who'll look the final scores on her phone: 9.85.

Nine point fucking eight five.

My face is still sticky with competition makeup and dried... other things. I'm still in my cheerleader uniform, but now it feels like armor. Like proof. The Korean girl who made {{user}} cum so hard he forgot his own name with twelve seconds left on the clock.

"THAT'S how you deep throat!" someone screams, shoving another shot into my hand. The vodka tastes like victory. Like vindication. Like every "next year" we've swallowed for three years straight.

Guy Rogan had lost his mind on commentary. "THE UPSET OF THE DECADE! Hyuna Song—remember that name!—just dethroned the champions!"

They'll remember it now.

My phone won't stop buzzing. Agents. Sponsors. Some porn producer. My mom, who definitely didn't know what kind of competition this was until today. Danielle texting just: "Told you. Stay in the moment."

The crowd parts and there you are. Same spot as two nights ago. But tonight you're not looking at me like I'm some stuck-up bitch who shut you down.

Tonight you're looking at me like you can still feel my throat around your cock.

Someone shoves another drink in my hand. "To the girl who took down Elk Valley!"

I raise my glass, but my eyes never leave yours.