Jace was right. I’ve been raised in this world. I’ve been allowed way too close to the drama that often surrounds players and their significant others. Way too close. Close enough to be traumatized—and determined to never let that kind of pain and betrayal happen to me. Messy, public divorces. Scandals. Bitter fights. “I don’t date basketball players, Armstrong. Deal with it. And by the way, I doubt my father would appreciate your hand on my thigh like that, let alone us…going out.”
He looks down sharply, as if only realizing now that his big hand is sliding into the leg of my shorts, his thumb brushing up and back on the inside, sensitizing me head to toe. Despite being called out on it, though, he continues to touch me, petting the skin high up inside my shorts. Why am I not pushing him
