Chapter 1

I took a gig as a college cheerleader just to cover my living expenses. The pay was insane—twenty grand a month.

I never imagined that our job wasn’t just hyping up the crowd on the court.

Behind closed doors, we were expected to take care of the players’ private needs.

Staring into their lust-filled eyes, my trembling hands slowly let go of my skirt...

It all started when my dad was in a brutal car crash. The emergency surgeries and hospital bills wiped out every last cent of our family savings.

He couldn’t work anymore and had to rely on disability checks.

"Chloe, honey, don't worry about us," my mom told me over the phone, her voice shaking. "The doctors said he's out of the woods. Just focus on school. If you need money, let me know."

A lump formed in my throat. There was no way I could ask them for a dime.

I put on a brave face and lied, telling her I’d scored a scholarship and had plenty of cash.

When you're out on your own, you only share the good news and swallow the pain.

To be honest, college life was bleeding me dry.

Dorm spots on campus were super competitive, handed out on a first-come, first-served basis with crazy price tags. On top of that, there were non-refundable application fees and security deposits.

Since I didn't get a room on campus, I had to rent an apartment.

Prioritizing my safety, I chose a gated complex with decent security, which cost sixty-five hundred dollars a year.

After paying the rent, my bank account was completely cleaned out.

With asking my parents out of the question, I had to scramble for cash on my own.

The second word got out that I was looking for part-time work, recruiters came knocking. They were pitching either gigs at strip clubs or bottle-service jobs at dive bars.

Honestly, I was confident in my looks.

Years of skincare and fitness had given me glowing skin and an athletic, curvy build—tiny waist, full curves, and long legs.

Walking down the street, I constantly drew predatory stares from guys. Even when I glared back, they wouldn’t look away. They just took it as flirting.

As an broke undergrad with no connections, finding a respectable, high-paying job was next to impossible.

I tried landing some modeling gigs using my looks, but the industry was toxic. Almost every agency demanded a fat "portfolio deposit" upfront.

That was when Coach Blanco, from our university's top-tier basketball team, reached out.

"The varsity cheer squad has an opening. Twenty grand a month," he said. "If you're interested, I can put in a good word for you."

Blanco, a middle-aged white guy, kept a straight face while saying it.

Yet I caught his eyes scanning my chest and thighs.

Deep down, I knew no ordinary cheerleading gig paid that kind of money.

But I was backed into a corner. I figured an on-campus athletic department would be safe and regulated, so I took the bait.

The next day, I went to the athletic facility for my interview.

To my surprise, Blanco was the sole interviewer.

As head coach, he didn't just manage the team; he also had the final say on the cheer squad.

The moment I stepped inside, he locked the office door behind me, claiming it was for "confidentiality."

Like many retired athletes, Blanco had packed on the pounds, but he was still massive, his bulk a mix of fat and dense muscle.

His gaze crawled over my body without shame, lingering on every sensitive curve.

I felt a prickle of fear, but he assured me it was standard procedure, so I swallowed my urge to run.

"You know we operate like a pro program," Blanco said smoothly, grabbing a clipboard. "Our physical standards for the squad are extremely strict..."

His formal demeanor made me drop my guard slightly.

Then, his tone shifted.

"What are your exact measurements? Bust, waist, hips? And your cup size? I need to verify them."