Chapter 4

From that picture, it was clear the girl was on the squad.

I worried about predatory locker-room dynamics, which put me on high alert.

The cheer captain, Kelly, was a tall, leggy blonde who looked like she belonged on a runway.

She took me backstage, handed me my uniform, walked me through the basic sideline choreography, and placed me with the rest of the squad to rehearse.

No male athletes were around in the morning.

By afternoon, the varsity basketball players walked into the arena to begin their training session, and the atmosphere instantly shifted.

During water breaks, players casually pulled cheerleaders into private lounges or trainers' rooms. They would disappear for fifteen or twenty minutes and emerge looking flushed and unbothered.

The exchanged looks between the athletes and cheerleaders were blatant and heavy with lust.

During practice, Kelly constantly praised my curves, pressing close to guide my posture.

Her hands lingered a little too long on my hips, her breath tickling my neck. She was a girl, so I brushed it off as overly friendly coaching.

After rehearsal, Kelly asked for my SnapChat and invited me to dinner. That was when her intentions became obvious.

She casually let slip that she swung both ways, and she made it clear she wanted to get closer to me.

"If you're up for it, we can play together sometime," she whispered with a smirk. "I promise you'll lose your mind..."

I pulled back and turned her down on the spot.

Kelly didn't push. She just gave me an amused, knowing look and reminded me that our first home game was in two days.

Sweaty and exhausted, I went into the women's locker room to shower.

The place was completely deserted. I wondered why none of the other girls were showering after such an intense workout, but assumed they headed straight to their dorms.

I stepped into the stall, lathering shower gel over my body.

Then, heavy footsteps echoed on the wet tiles outside.

Thinking another teammate had walked in, I kept rinsing off.

As I washed the suds away and turned around, a massive silhouette was standing right outside my shower curtain. A man.

Before I could scream, Tucker's deep voice boomed through the stall:

"Heard you need cash. Five hundred bucks for a round?"

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped closer.

"I'm the star player here. Half the scouts in the NBA have their eyes on me. You scream and damage my rep, and the school will sue you into bankruptcy over that NDA you signed."

Panic hit me like a truck. Blanco's "confidentiality clause" wasn't meant to protect the team—it was a trap.

Before I could process it, Tucker ripped the curtain aside.

His eyes locked onto my naked body like a predator cornering its prey.