From the corner of my eye, I check him out some more. He’s taller. Six-three. Maybe six-four now. Shoulders filled out like college lifting turned him from polished prep prince into something solid. Built. Controlled.
I had to tilt my chin up just to meet his eyes.
I hate that.
Everything about him screams wrong building.
Khakis pressed razor-sharp. Leather loafers that have never seen a locker room puddle. Armani belt. Fitted golf polo that probably costs more than my first semester’s textbooks. Ray-Bans tucked neatly into the collar like he stepped off a yacht instead of into a D1 gym.
“Wrong gym, country club. Get the message?”
I twist the cap back on my bottle.
He just smirks. “Loud and clear,bonita.”
“You lost?” I ask again more direct, irritated as fuck he just dropped a sweet nothing in that sexy voice of his.
His mouth curves.
“Not anymore.”
My face heats.
His flirting was always my weakness.
He doesn’t look uncomfortable. Doesn’t look out of place.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“I’m here to meet Coach Canely.”
I blink.
“For what?”
He shifts his weight casually. Like he has nowhere else to be.
“I entered the transfer portal a few months ago. I’ve been negotiating NIL and offers ever since.”
My eyebrow lifts before I can stop it.
“The transfer portal...?”
“Basketball, princess.”
He shrugs lightly.
“Harvard was a little… stuffy… even for me.”
“West Coast vibe feels more my speed,” he adds. “Sun. Space. Palm trees. Less hierarchy.”
I let out a short laugh.
“You are hierarchy.”
His eyes flicker with amusement.
“I’m also six-four with a forty-inch vertical.”
