A similar case came up when I was in college, and went to the Big Guns.

I was friends with the players on both sides: Ron, an awkward Christian guy who struck me as someone who maybe spent a lot of time alone in the shower with his hand, and Adam, whose goal seemed to be to score with every chick on grounds (he tried with me once when his girlfriend went to the bathroom at a party--it’s hard to take that as a compliment, especially when he does it to every skirt in the room).

On the other hand, over beer with Ron, I would do what I could to mess with his head.
Me: “I like your tie, Ron.”
Ron: “Yeah? I thought the color would ...”
Me: “It’s such a shame you’ve got that whole virgin thing going. Otherwise we could have so much fun, you and me.”
Ron: “Me?”
Me: “Yeah, Ron. We could, you know, do stuff.”
Ron: “Yeah? Like what kind of stuff.”
Me: “Stuff. You know: you, me, Alice.”
Ron (big eyes now): “Yeah?”
Me: “And George.”
Ron: (deflated) “NO! No, no, I’m a Christian. That’s just wrong.”
Me: “You mean if I want to make out with you, my friend, and my first cousin George, God’s got something to say about that?”
Ron: “That’s just wrong. That’s wrong.”
Me: “I think God’s busy, Ron. I think God’s very busy ...”

“George” in question was my then-boyfriend, who swore up and down to Ron that our mothers were sisters.

Kids. Probably being pushed by some wannabe parents.