summary : this is totally based on the dijonai and nalyssa moment where she picks her up mid game while being on different teams like it’s normal. (i still laugh at this even after 2 yrs later lmaoo)
wc: 2k~
pairing: dating!allisha gray x dating!reader
The game had been physical from the opening tip.
Not dirty.
Just one of those games.
Bodies flying over screens, jerseys getting tugged, loose balls ending with three people on the hardwood.
You and Allisha had already spent three quarters making each other’s jobs miserable.
“Quit reaching,” you muttered after she slapped at the ball again.
She grinned.
“Quit dribblin’ so high.”
“You are so annoying.”
“Still got the ball though.”
“Unfortunately.”
The ref shoved the ball back into your hands before either of you could keep talking.
“Let’s go.”
⸻
Midway through the fourth.
Tie game.
Every possession mattered.
You caught the ball on the wing and attacked immediately.
One hard dribble.
Spin.
A second defender stepped over.
Contact.
The whistle echoed through the arena before your second foot could hit the floor.
Your momentum kept carrying you forward.
Your balance disappeared.
For a split second it looked like you were about to plant face-first onto the hardwood.
Except…
You never got the chance.
Two arms wrapped around your waist.
Firm.
Easy.
Like she’d done it a hundred times.
Instead of crashing forward—
You were lifted.
Literally.
Both feet left the floor for half a second as Allisha caught your momentum and pulled you upright before setting you back down on your sneakers.
The two of you were already looking toward the referee.
“So whose ball?” you asked, brushing your shorts off like nothing had happened.
“Looked like they got you on the reach.”
“Mhm.”
“Aight.”
She gave your hip one absent pat, the same absent-minded kind someone gives a teammate after helping them up.
Then jogged toward her bench for the timeout.
Neither of you even acknowledged it.
Because neither of you had.
It had happened before your brains could catch up.
⸻
The first person to say something…
Wasn’t the internet.
It wasn’t the commentators.
It was your own teammate.
The second you reached the huddle she stared at you.
“…Girl.”
“What?”
“…Did she just pick you up?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“Like…”
She mimed wrapping both arms around someone’s waist.
“…Pick you up.”
“I was falling.”
“So?”
“…So she caught me.”
Your teammate looked at everyone else.
“Y’all saw that, right?”
Another one snorted.
“I know damn well I don’t pick up nobody from the waist professionally.”
Laughter broke out around the huddle.
You frowned.
“Y’all are making it weird.”
“We’re making it weird?”
“She lifted you.”
“So I didn’t eat hardwood.”
“I’m just saying…”
She leaned closer.
“That was a domestic save.”
⸻
Across the floor…
Atlanta’s bench wasn’t doing much better.
As soon as Allisha sat down, rhyne bumped her shoulder.
“…You good?”
“Hm?”
“You just…”
Another teammate stood up and demonstrated the motion.
Scooping someone clean off the floor.
“You know…”
Allisha stared.
“…She was finna bust her face.”
“So?”
“So I caught her.”
“With both arms?”
“Girl, how else was I supposed to catch her?”
The entire bench dissolved.
One player wiped imaginary tears.
“I’m cryin’.”
Another shook her head.
“Lish…”
“What?”
“You ain’t help her up.”
“I know.”
“You picked her UP.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’.”
“No kidding.”
⸻
The timeout ended.
The game resumed.
Neither of you mentioned it.
In fact…
You forgot about it completely.
Until after the game.
You were halfway through changing when your phone started vibrating.
Again.
Again.
And again.
“…What now?”
You unlocked it.
Thirty-seven notifications.
Forty-two.
Sixty-eight.
Your group chat had exploded.
Girl…
EXPLAIN THIS.
A screen recording.
You tapped it.
The broadcast angle caught everything.
The whistle.
You stumbling.
Allisha immediately wrapping both arms around your waist.
Lifting you completely off the floor before gently setting you back down.
Then…
The funniest part.
The two of you continuing your conversation like she’d just handed you the basketball.
No embarrassment.
No pause.
Nothing.
Just…
“So whose ball?”
You laughed out loud.
“Oh my God.”
Across the room your teammate looked over.
“You finally watched it?”
“…Yeah.”
“I told you.”
“You made it sound worse than it was.”
She looked offended.
“Worse?”
She walked over and replayed the clip.
“Lemme ask you something.”
She paused on the exact frame where your feet weren’t touching the floor.
“…Do those look like professional coworker activities to you?”
You started laughing harder.
Meanwhile…
Across town…
Atlanta’s locker room was having the exact same discussion.
Someone had connected the locker room TV to social media.
The clip replayed.
Allisha walked past carrying her bag.
“…Can y’all quit watchin’ that?”
“No.”
“Lish.”
“No.”
A teammate paused the video.
“You literally scooped her.”
“I caught her.”
“You cradled her.”
“I absolutely did not cradle—”
“You almost bridal carried that girl!.”
“I did not!”
Another teammate leaned back.
“I ain’t never seen somebody prevent a common foul from turnin’ into a romcom movie.”
The room erupted.
Allisha covered her face.
“Lord…”
Someone from the back called out in the thickest fake Southern accent imaginable,
“Aw, bless your heart. Reflexes don’t usually come with that much tenderness.”
“Oh, hush.”
By the next morning…
The clip had escaped basketball Twitter.
Not because it looked romantic.
Because it looked…
Oddly intimate.
People kept replaying the split second after the whistle.
Noticing how automatic it was.
No hesitation.
No awkwardness.
No checking to see who was watching.
Just instinct.
Most fans chalked it up to sportsmanship.
Others weren’t convinced.
One viral tweet read:
“Either Allisha Gray is the nicest opponent alive… or there is a LEVEL of familiarity here I cannot explain.”
Another replied,
“She caught her like she knew exactly how she’d fall.”
Then someone slowed the clip down.
Frame by frame.
Showing how Allisha’s hands found your waist before you even started going down.
Someone simply wrote:
“That wasn’t a decision. That was muscle memory.”
Neither of you liked the tweets.
Neither of you addressed them.
You just texted each other later that night.
You: Apparently you saved me a little too professionally. 😂
Three dots.
Then,
Lish: Girl…
Another message followed almost immediately.
Lish: …you almost kissed the floor. What was I supposed to do?
You: Not pick me up like I weigh twelve pounds.
A minute passed.
Then
Lish: …can’t promise that won’t happen again.
You stared at your phone, smiling before typing back.
You: looking forward to it.
Because that was the thing.
Neither of you had meant to tell on yourselves.
Your bodies just had.
And somehow, that made the whole thing even sweeter.
————
A/N: WHAT do u mean this beautiful woman has almost no fics?? finna start being a fan page swear.
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a/n: i love women 🫡 but lemme know y'all thoughts, i have some more fic cooked up for the WNBA 🤭 not proofread as usual
You had agreed to run the kissing booth before remembering that anybody could kiss you. Literally anybody. It’s not like you just had to kiss everyone that walked up, you could turn them down. But what was the purpose of volunteering for the booth if you were gonna say no to everybody who wanted a kiss. Besides, it didn’t have to be a makeout. Just a quick smooch.
You sent a text to all your friends, begging them to come by so you could at least kiss people you knew.
“Want us to tell Rhy to come through?” You couldn’t help but blush at that. You and Rhyne knew each other, overlapping friend groups, but you had never spent 1-on-1 time together.
“I mean, you can.” You tried to play it cool but they weren’t buying it. “I don’t know why you playing shy. You know you wanna see her.” One of your friends responded, everyone reacting to the message with exclamation points.
“I’m not playing. I am shy.”
“Shy but you manning the kissing booth for SUBOG? Okay.”
They had you there. You hated talking to new people, so why did you think it would be a good idea to have a turn at a kissing booth of all places. You didn’t know but you hoped your shift would go by quickly. You only had 4 hours and you’d be free. The first 30 mins drag. Randoms stop by every now and again, but for the most part you’re just sitting, playing on your phone.
“Being on your phone does not make people wanna kiss you.” You look up at the person who spoke and could’ve died on the spot. It was Rhyne. “What if that was the goal?” You ask, tucking your phone into your back pocket. “I should leave then?” She questions with a knowing smirk on her face.
“I mean that’s up to you. Not gonna beg you to kiss me.” You try to act nonchalant but Rhyne sees right through you. “You’re not gonna beg but you blew up the groupchat tryna get people to come.” You were gonna kill your friends. “I just didn’t wanna kiss random people my whole shift. You know me.”
“Hmm, a little bit.” She steps closer to you, almost leaning over the counter. “So how much for a kiss?” She says like it’s nothing.
“$1 for the cheek, $5 for the lips.”
“That’s kinda low to have your lips touching someone else’s.”
“I didn’t make the prices Rhy.”
She laughed but pulled out a $10 bill from her pocket. She held it out towards you and you went to grab it but she yanked it back at the last second. “Can I pay you to kiss my cheek?” “Am I running the booth or you?” You ask jokingly, but your heart was beating a mile a minute.
“It’s my money. Can I not decide how it’s spent?” Typical Rhyne.
“Fine. How many cheek kisses do you want?” You concede too easily. “Five.” “You want change? This is a $10 bill.” “I know. I want a real kiss after the cheeks.” If your own cheeks could turn red then you knew they would’ve.
“Fine. Five cheek kisses and one regular kiss.” You held out your hand, and she slapped the money in it. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” she says. You laugh and then motion for her to lean down. She practically towered over you, so seeing her have to almost bend herself in half to reach you was funny.
You grabbed both of her cheeks in your hand and turned her head to the left. Kiss one. You turned her head to the right. Kiss two. You turned her head back to the left. Kiss three. You go to turn her head to the right and she stops you. You’re looking at each other in the eyes and it’s almost like everyone around you disappears. “I could use that real kiss now,” she says in that soft voice that you had grown to love.
You glance down briefly but her fingers gripping your chin have you looking back up at her. She leans in, as if it’s possible to get any closer, and lays one on you. It’s brief but soft. Feels like something out of a movie. You break away and she gives you a smile.
“Two more kisses. You almost forgot.” She grabs your cheeks and turns your head, giving you one kiss on the left, one kiss on the right. “Now we both got kissed. Bye.” She says with a wave and turns and walks off. You stare at her and try to process what just happened.
You’re still standing there when three of your friends walk up to the booth. “Why you looking stuck? Who done been through here?” “Must’ve been Rhy. Look at her.” That breaks you out of your trance and you throw your hand up at them. “Ain’t nobody stuck, I was just thinking.”
“Thinking bout what?” They stood and waited for you to talk but you were lost for words. Another one of your friends walks up and tells the others that they saw Rhyne leaving the booth.
“Damn she beat us here. We tryna be good friends and she showing us up.”
“You know she couldn’t wait to kiss miss shy girl over here.” One of your friends pointed at you. “Did yall come over here to bully me or buy some kisses?” you ask, ready to stop talking about Rhyne. “How much are they?” “$1 for the cheek. $5 for the lips.”
“This cheap as hell. Your lips not worth more than $5?” Your friend questions but pulls out her wallet. “You sound like Rhy,” you laugh, holding your hand out. “Rhy Rhy wanna know why it’s so easy for everybody to get their lips on her girl,” she responds. “I’m not her girl,” you say, tucking the money into the blue zipped bag under the counter. “Not yet,” she says motioning for you to come forward. You lean in and she softly grabs your cheeks, pecking your lips. You’re not surprised she wanted a kiss on the lips. You had shared plenty of platonic kisses on your nights out together, this didn’t feel out of the normal.
Your other friends follow suit, each one handing over their money and giving you a short and sweet kiss on the mouth. “Everybody wanna kiss me on the mouth today, y’all must like me or something.” You tease them, pulling out a water bottle.
“Honestly we just want Rhy to get jealous enough that she’ll come back and kiss you again.” You choked on the water you were sipping, coughing hard enough for your friend to lightly pat you on the back. “What you mean jealous?”
“Come on girl. Rhyne got it bad for you. Why you think she was the first person here? We just told her like 10 minutes ago.” That shocked you.
“What did she say when y’all told her to come through? Matter of fact what did yall even say to her?” Your friend did a few taps on her phone before turning it around and showing you a message thread.
“Kissing booth on the lawn for SUBOG. your girl running it and want everybody to come kiss her so she don’t have to kiss randoms.” You rolled your eyes at “your girl” cause all they do is play.
“Bet. When?” You almost laugh at Rhyne not asking any questions.
“Right now.”
“I’m finna come through, don’t tell her.”
Your cheeks flush and you push her phone back towards her. “She ain’t waste no time girl. Alexa, play Need U Bad by Jazmine Sullivan.” “Whatever, who else yall tell to come through?” You were curious now. “AACC girls, the girls from our floor, the girls from the team, and Rhy.” Your friend lists out without a care like she didn’t just name 60 people.
“Girl, how many people did you think I wanted to come?” You ask her.
“Did you wanna be kissing randoms for 4 hours? I didn’t think so.” She answered matter of factly.
1 hour had now passed. You had kissed Rhyne, three of your homegirls, and 4 girls from the AACC all in the span of 30 minutes. You glanced down at your phone to see a text from Rhyne, “How many people you done kissed so far?” You couldn’t even think of a response before someone in front of you cleared their throat. You looked up and you recognized Allisha who played on the team with Rhyne. You and her had never hung out but plenty of people had mentioned how close her and Rhyne were.
“Hey girl,” she said with her country accent and a grin on her face. “Hey girly. You here to give me a kiss?” “Ion know about that. Rhyne said you was doing the kissing.” You rolled your eyes because of course she did. “That was just for Rhy, I don’t know why she telling people that.”
“Oh so Rhyne getting special privileges I see.” That got you sputtering. “Not special, she was just the first.” “Uh huh. I don’t believe you but here go $20. I just want one kiss on the cheek and consider the rest a donation.”
You gladly took the money from her and leaned forward with your head turned. She smacked her lips at you and held her hand out. “Gimme my money back if you not gone kiss me.” You blew out a breath and told her to lean forward, her head turning without you even having to say it. You gave her a peck and she stood straight up with a grin. “Nice doing business with you.” She waved and walked off, phone going to her ear, no doubt on the phone with Rhyne.
Not even 5 minutes went by and two more players from the team walked up. You recognized Naz and Bri. You exchanged pleasantries and they showed you the money. Big bills but only wanting cheek kisses and you could pocket the rest. So far it felt like you were the one doing the kissing and not the other way around. But if it meant you only had to kiss once and get it over with, so be it.
You shot off a text to your homegirl when you felt someone in front of you. You hurried and put your phone down only to look up and be met with locs, kind eyes and a smirk. Rhyne was back. “You never responded to my text.” She said first.
“Damn, no hello, how are you?”
“Hello, how are you? Why didn’t you respond to my text?”
“You’re the one who sent all your teammates. I got distracted.”
“You didn’t let them kiss you did you? I gave very clear instructions.” You had to laugh. You didn’t believe she liked you at first but it was becoming clear that she felt something for you for sure.
“No, Rhy. Only been kissing them on the cheek.” That had her cheesing and you rolled your eyes. “I don’t know why I’m even explaining myself to you,” you said to her, jokingly. “You know why,” she responded holding out a $20 bill to you. You snatched it before she could say anything and she smacked her lips.
“Whatchu want this time?” You ask her. She tapped her cheek like she was thinking and you grew impatient. “Okay, you’re playing –” She grabbed your chin, bringing your face to hers and pressed your lips together before you could finish your sentence. You paused for half a beat before fully leaning into the kiss. Your hands went to her waist and your lips started moving with hers. You felt her tongue licking your lips and you opened your mouth letting her in. Before you could get too deep into it someone cleared their throat. You pulled back and your roommate was standing there with a grin.
“Am I interrupting?” She asked. “Nah, we were just finishing up,” Rhyne replied giving you one more peck before turning and walking off. You let out a breath before looking back at your friend who was looking at you expectantly. “So?” She questioned. “What?” you responded, grabbing your water and drinking from it, noticing your hand shaking as the bottle came towards your face.
“She got you shaking girl, what’chu mean what? How was the kiss?” You set down your bottle and wiped your mouth. “Which one?” you asked her. “Oh period! Rhy Rhy finally claiming her girl.” “She ain’t claiming nothing. We just kissed.” “You don’t even believe that. But I’m not here to listen to you lie.” She pulled out a $50 bill and handed it over. You jokingly held it up to the sky and let out a whistle. “You bringing out big money for little ole me. What did I do to deserve this?” You tucked the bill inside your pouch while you both shared a laugh.
“This not for you. This for SUBOG.” Y’all laugh and peck twice, waving to each other as she tells you to text her once you’re finished. The next 2 hours pass with no sign of Rhyne. Not that you were looking for her but you did kind of miss kissing her. All the girls from your floor had managed to stop by, and they had told all of their friends so you ended up kissing them as well. You had kissed more people in the last 3.5 hours than ever before.
You only had 10 minutes left and you hoped Rhy didn’t send anymore teammates over. You liked them but at this point you would have kissed the entirety of the women’s basketball team. You started packing your stuff, making sure the booth was tidy for the next person and just so happened to look up and lock eyes with Angel. Both of y’all laughed as she walked over with another girl you recognized as Jordin.
“Hey pretty girl,” she waved and hugged you. “Hey girl,” you replied, returning the hug and greeting Jordin. “Rhy told you to come over too huh?” “You know she did. She told the groupchat actually.”
“What groupchat?”
“For the team. Said you were doing the booth and we all needed to come support.”
You wanted to roll your eyes but you were happy that Rhyne was trying to make you comfortable. Jordin was the first to pull out her money. “Kiss on the cheek for me. Rhyne said we couldn’t kiss you forreal.” You laughed, taking the money from her and kissing her cheek. Angel scoffed pulling out her money. “She told y’all that, not me. I’m not passing up a chance to kiss a baddie.” That got a laugh out of you and Jordin both. You and Angel shared a quick peck, not even lasting 2 seconds and you heard somebody kissing their teeth. You both looked and it was Rhyne leaning against the counter shaking her head at the two of you.
“I get the girls to come support you and you kissing them for real? That’s crazy.” Rhyne said. “You said we couldn’t kiss her forreal. I gave her a peck. You can’t say that’s forreal,” Angel replied to her. “Whatever, you just wanted an excuse to push up on my girl.”
“Your girl?” you questioned. “When you ask me to be yours?” Angel and Jordin took that as their cue to leave, giving you a wave and walking off. “Well I wanna be you girl. You wanna be mine?” Rhy asked matter of factly. You were slightly shocked by how blunt she was being but you knew she didn’t like beating around the bush. “We haven’t even spent any time with each other just us. How you know you wanna be my girl?” You ask her. “We spent time together today,” she replies. You throw your hand up at her and turn to greet the person replacing you at the booth.
You chat for a few minutes, handing the money pouch over to them and giving them the rundown. You grab your backpack and make your way around the booth to where Rhyne is still standing. “You busy?” You question. She cooly slides her arm around your shoulder saying no. “Take me on a date then.” She leans down, puckering her lips and you meet her for a kiss. She leans back up and starts leading you away. “Whatever my girl wants.”
summary: You transferred into LSU expecting basketball, not her.
Jada Williams notices you first—and never really stops.
What starts as teammates and routine turns into something softer, closer, harder to ignore.
wc; 4k~
pairing: teammates!jada x teammates!reader
The first thing Jada noticed wasn’t your game.
It was your silence.
Not the empty kind, not the awkward kind either, but the kind that looked like it had weight behind it. Like you didn’t speak unless the world earned it.
You had just transferred into LSU, stepping into a gym that already felt loud even when nobody was talking. New shoes squeaking differently on the court, coach calling names too fast, teammates already mid-laugh like you were supposed to fit into something you hadn’t even been shown yet.
You stood near the edge of it all, listening more than looking. Stoic face set in something unreadable, but not cold in the way people assumed. Just careful. Like you were deciding how much of yourself was safe to give away.
Jada saw you from across the court before anyone introduced you. She was mid-warmup, ball in hand, but her dribble slowed for half a second she didn’t notice. She’d tell herself later it was nothing. Just a new transfer. Just another teammate. But in that moment, her brain did something annoyingly simple.
Oh.
You’re pretty.
Then immediately after, as if she caught herself doing something illegal.
Focus.
But she kept looking anyway.
Coach called everyone in not long after, clapping his hands like the season depended on it already. Introductions started, names blending into each other the way they always did at the beginning of something new.
When your name was called, you stepped forward without hesitation, said it clearly, no smile, no performance. Just truth. You were aware of the room without trying to belong to it yet.
Jada clapped like everyone else, but her attention didn’t move away when it should’ve. You didn’t look at her. That was the second thing she noticed. Not arrogance. Not disinterest. Just… restraint. Like you were choosing not to look too long at anything that might look back.
And for some reason, that felt louder than anything else in the gym.
The days started folding into a rhythm after that. Morning practices that made your legs feel heavier than your thoughts, film sessions where everyone pretended to understand more than they did, team meals that always ended with the same chaotic energy no matter how tired everyone was.
You didn’t talk much at first. Not because you couldn’t, but because you were careful with it. People misread your face often, you already knew that. You’d seen the way teammates hesitated before speaking to you, like they were unsure if you were in a mood or just existing normally. You were used to it. Still, you didn’t correct it.
Jada, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate much with anyone. She slid into spaces easily, laughter already familiar to people who had known her longer. But she noticed something else too. Every time she spoke near you, you listened fully. Not half attention, not polite nodding. Full attention. Like what she said mattered in a way you didn’t offer easily to others.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
It did anyway.
The first real interaction wasn’t planned. It happened during a scrimmage when rotations got messy and everything turned into noise and instinct. You cut hard off a screen, read the defense a second faster than it expected, and Jada saw it before anyone else did. She passed without thinking. Clean, sharp, instinctive.
You scored.
You landed, looked up briefly, and for the first time your eyes met hers.
It wasn’t long. Just enough.
But Jada felt it anyway, that small internal shift she couldn’t explain yet.
Good read, she said later in passing, like it meant nothing.
You nodded once. Thanks.
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Somewhere in the background of all of this, Grace and Bella started to form their own opinions. They were everywhere at once, as teammates like them tended to be, loud in the right places, observant in the wrong ones. They noticed things quickly, especially things people tried not to say out loud.
Grace was the first to lean toward Bella during film one afternoon, whispering something under her breath while the screen replayed a missed defensive rotation.
Bella didn’t even look away from the court. “She’s staring again.”
Grace hummed. “At who?”
Bella finally glanced over, then smiled like she already knew the answer. “Don’t play dumb.”
It became a pattern after that. You and Jada weren’t obvious in the way people expected romance to be. There were no dramatic gestures, no obvious flirting, nothing that would’ve made it easy to label. It was smaller than that.
Like how Jada always seemed to end up on your side during drills without switching herself. Or how you always seemed to appear in her peripheral vision at exactly the right time during water breaks. Or how conversations that started with teammates would slowly lose everyone else until it was just the two of you standing there like the world had thinned out around you without permission.
One afternoon after practice, the gym was nearly empty, the echo of bouncing balls still hanging in the air like leftover noise. You were sitting on the floor stretching, hair slightly damp, breath still uneven from the last run. Jada was nearby, pretending to scroll on her phone, but not really looking at it.
“You always this quiet after games?” she asked eventually.
You glanced at her, then back down at your hands. “Only when I’m thinking too much.”
“That sounds dangerous,” she said.
You almost smiled, but stopped yourself just before it fully happened. “Depends what I’m thinking about.”
That made her pause for a second longer than it should’ve. Not because it was dramatic, but because you said it like it was normal. Like honesty didn’t scare you, even if everything else did.
“You’re hard to read,” she said, more softly now.
You leaned back slightly, looking up at the ceiling. “People usually decide what they want me to be before they try.”
“And what am I?” she asked before she could stop herself.
That time, you did look at her properly. Not quickly. Not guarded. Just direct.
“I haven’t decided yet,” you said.
There was something almost dangerously simple about the way she smiled after that. Like the answer didn’t scare her. Like it made things worse in the best possible way.
The friend group started interfering without ever calling it interference. Grace would casually suggest post-practice smoothies and somehow always end up sitting you next to Jada. Bella would “forget” to save seats until the only open one was beside her. It never felt forced. That was the worst part. It always felt natural enough to ignore.
Until you couldn’t ignore it anymore.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting practice, the locker room was loud in that relieved, collapsing way teams get when the pressure finally leaves their bodies. You were tying your shoes slowly, taking your time the way you always did when you didn’t want to rush back into the world outside the court.
Jada was nearby, talking with Grace and Bella, half-listening, half-laughing at something Grace said. You caught your name in the conversation once, then twice, but didn’t ask. You weren’t sure you wanted to know the context.
Still, you felt it. That subtle awareness of her presence without needing to look.
When you finally stood, she was already looking at you.
“Heading out?” she asked.
“Yeah,” you said.
A pause. Not awkward. Just full.
“You good?” she added, like it was something she actually meant.
You nodded. “Always.”
That made her exhale a small laugh under her breath, like she didn’t fully believe you but respected the answer anyway. “That’s not a real response, you know.”
“It is for me,” you replied.
And for a second, something passed between you that neither of you commented on. Not tension. Not clarity. Something softer and more confusing than both.
Outside the gym, the air felt cooler than it should’ve. You adjusted your bag strap, ready to walk off, when you heard her footsteps catch up slightly behind you.
“You don’t have to always be fine,” she said.
You slowed, not turning fully. “I’m not not fine.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
You finally looked at her again. Really looked. The gym lights behind her made everything softer around the edges. She wasn’t smiling now, not fully. Just watching you like she was trying to understand a language you refused to translate.
“I know,” you said quietly. “I just don’t like giving people reasons to stay too long.”
That landed differently than you expected. You saw it in her expression immediately, the shift that wasn’t pity, wasn’t pressure. Just understanding trying to form itself into words and failing.
“I’m not people,” she said after a moment.
You didn’t answer right away.
Because that was the problem, wasn’t it.
She wasn’t.
And somewhere in the background of it all, Grace and Bella were watching from the gym doors like they’d just seen the beginning of something they absolutely refused to pretend they didn’t notice.
Grace leaned slightly toward Bella. “They’re so in love”
Bella nodded. “Yeah. Just not aware yet.”
Inside, Jada stood there a second longer than necessary before finally stepping back.
“See you tomorrow?” she asked, like it was casual.
You hesitated just enough to be honest. “Yeah.”
And when you walked away, neither of you noticed how long the other watched until you disappeared past the lights.
But everyone else did.
————
The thing people didn’t get about you was that you weren’t always quiet.
You were just selective.
Around strangers, you were composed—careful, contained, unreadable in a way that made people assume you were distant. But around the team, once the walls stopped feeling necessary, something else came out entirely. Something lighter. Sharper. A little unhinged in the way only comfortable people ever got to see.
And LSU figured that out faster than you did.
It started in small moments. A comment in the locker room that made two girls laugh harder than expected. A dry response during stretching that turned into a running joke. The way you’d deadpan something ridiculous and then immediately act like you didn’t just ruin everyone’s composure.
Jada noticed that version of you early too.
Not because you were loud.
But because you weren’t performing.
And when you weren’t performing, you looked… softer. Not in expression. In presence. Like you weren’t bracing against anything.
It made it easier for her to look at you longer than she probably should’ve.
She just didn’t say that part out loud.
Not yet.
Somewhere between early practices and the team settling into its rhythm, something unspoken started happening around you two.
It wasn’t announced. It wasn’t discussed.
It just… formed.
Like gravity.
You’d walk into the training facility and find your water already next to hers without remembering placing it there. You’d reach for cones during drills and realize she’d already adjusted them in your direction without being asked. You’d finish a sprint and glance up to find her watching you—not in a way that made you uncomfortable, but in a way that made you hyper aware that she always knew where you were on the court.
That awareness went both ways, even if you pretended it didn’t at first.
Because you caught her staring.
A lot.
Not obvious, not exaggerated. Just these moments where you’d look up between reps or during breaks and she’d already be looking away too late, like she’d been caught mid-thought instead of mid-look.
The first time it happened, you didn’t say anything.
The second time, you raised a brow.
The third time, you just smiled under your breath and went back to what you were doing.
That one made her ears go slightly red, which you absolutely noticed and absolutely stored for later.
Grace and Bella made it their personal mission to ruin both of your emotional stability in the most casual way possible.
It started during lunch one day when the seating arrangement somehow “naturally” ended with you beside Jada again. You didn’t even question it anymore. That was the problem. It had stopped feeling arranged and started feeling normal.
Grace slid into the seat across from you both like she owned the table, immediately glancing between you two with the expression of someone watching a slow-moving disaster she refused to intervene in.
Bella, already halfway through her food, nodded once toward you.
“Y’all are doing it again,” she said.
You didn’t look up. “Doing what.”
Grace leaned forward. “Existing like that.”
You finally glanced at her. “Like what.”
Bella smiled like she was tired of pretending. “Like you’re already a married couple”
Jada choked slightly on her drink.
You paused.
Then, completely calm, you said, “That’s a crazy thing to say over chicken.”
Grace snorted. “She didn’t deny it though.”
Jada pointed at her immediately. “Don’t start.”
But she wasn’t actually annoyed.
That was the problem.
She never was when it came to you being involved in the conversation.
————
The softness didn’t come in big moments.
It came in habits.
Jada started doing things that didn’t need explanation, and somehow never asked for one either.
Like the way she’d slide you an extra granola bar after practice without looking at you. Or how she’d remember you mentioned offhand that you liked a specific drink from campus and suddenly it kept appearing near your bag like it had always belonged there.
You noticed.
Of course you did.
You just didn’t comment at first.
Until one afternoon after a particularly long practice, when your energy had dropped just enough that you were quieter than usual, she tossed you a bottle of something cold and familiar.
You looked at it.
Then at her.
“This is the third time this week,” you said.
She shrugged, tying her hoodie around her waist. “So?”
“You’re tracking my hydration now?”
She gave you a look. “You say that like it’s weird.”
“It is weird.”
“It’s not.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Why do you know what I like.”
That made her pause just long enough for it to matter.
Then she said, way too casually, “You mentioned it once.”
You blinked.
“That was like two weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“…and you remembered it.”
Now she looked at you properly. Like the question wasn’t difficult, just unnecessary.
“Yeah,” she said simply.
And that was it.
No big confession. No moment of realization.
Just fact.
Like you were something worth remembering.
The bus rides became their own kind of language.
Not romantic in the obvious way people expected romance to look like.
Just… consistent.
You’d sit beside each other, sometimes talking, sometimes not. You’d lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes while she scrolled through her phone. She’d nudge your arm when the bus hit bumps too hard, not because you needed it, but because she knew you’d pretend you didn’t react otherwise.
Once, you fell asleep without meaning to.
When you woke up, your hoodie was pulled slightly over your shoulder.
You hadn’t even noticed her doing it.
When you looked at her, she was already looking out the window like nothing had happened.
But her hand was resting a little too close to yours to be accidental.
You didn’t move it.
Neither did she.
By the time people stopped pretending they weren’t watching you both, it wasn’t even subtle anymore.
Teammates would start conversations and somehow end them directed at you two instead. Coaches would assign pair drills and not even try to hide the pattern anymore. Even film sessions started feeling like everyone was just waiting for you to sit near each other without making it obvious.
Which you always did anyway.
At some point, it stopped being something people joked about and started being something they expected.
And on the court, Jada caught you during a drill, passing you the ball a second earlier than necessary just to see if you were paying attention.
You were.
Of course you were.
And when you scored, you looked back at her without thinking.
She didn’t smile big.
Just that small one again.
The one she tried to hide.
The one you were starting to recognize too well.
And for the first time, you didn’t look away immediately after.
————
The team has settled. The chaos has softened into routine. Wins and losses blur into practices, bus rides, shared meals, inside jokes that no one remembers starting.
And somewhere inside all of that, you’ve started changing without announcing it.
It wasn’t sudden.
It was gradual in the way mornings become familiar without you noticing.
At first, it was just small things. You laughing a little longer at something Bella said instead of just exhaling through your nose like usual. Grace calling you “less intimidating now” like it was an observation and not an accusation. Teammates reacting like your smile was still rare enough to be news when it wasn’t anymore.
Because it wasn’t rare anymore.
Not around her.
Jada was the reason you stopped treating silence like armor all the time.
She didn’t force it. She didn’t try to pry anything open. She just… stayed close enough that you stopped feeling like you had to keep everything locked down.
It showed up in the smallest ways first.
Like how you started leaning into conversations instead of ending them early. How your responses got quicker when she was the one talking. How you started looking for her on the court without realizing you were doing it.
And how, once you found her, your expression softened before you could stop it.
She noticed everything.
Of course she did.
She always did.
There was one practice where it became obvious even to you.
You had just finished a fast break drill, slightly out of breath, hair messy in that effortless way athletes never plan for. You caught Jada already looking at you again from near the baseline.
This time, instead of ignoring it, you tilted your head slightly.
Caught her.
A small pause.
Then you smiled.
Not big. Not performative. Just there.
Like it belonged.
Jada blinked like she forgot what she was doing for half a second.
And you, instead of looking away like you used to, just walked past her and bumped her shoulder lightly as you went.
Barely anything.
But it made her stop talking mid-sentence to someone else.
Grace saw it immediately.
Bella saw it too.
They didn’t even need to speak. They just looked at each other like they were witnessing a slow disaster finally turn into confirmation.
Because now it wasn’t just Jada orbiting you.
It was both of you circling something neither of you had named yet.
It started getting worse in the best way after that.
You began sitting closer without thinking about it. Not because anyone arranged it. Just because it felt normal now. Your presence near her didn’t feel like something to question anymore.
And she started doing the same.
You’d find her leaning slightly into your space during team talks, shoulder almost brushing yours, like distance had become optional. During film sessions, you’d catch her quietly reacting to your comments under her breath, like she was sharing a conversation with you even when she wasn’t speaking directly.
You started responding back the same way.
A glance instead of words. A small expression. A look that said you understood what she meant before she finished saying it.
And sometimes, a wink.
The first time it happened, it wasn’t planned.
You had just made a sarcastic comment in the locker room that made Bella laugh too hard and Grace shake her head like she was exhausted by your existence. When you looked over, Jada was already looking at you.
You didn’t even think.
Just gave her a quick wink.
It was instant chaos.
Not outwardly.
Internally.
Jada went still for half a second like her brain stopped processing language. Then she looked away too fast, pretending to adjust her hoodie like it suddenly became extremely important.
You didn’t even realize what you did until later.
But you noticed something important.
Jada didn’t stop looking at you after that.
She just started doing it more carefully.
Like she was trying not to get caught.
Failing completely.
The team dynamic shifted fully into something softer too.
You weren’t just teammates anymore.
You were a unit.
Meals were louder. Bus rides were less structured, more alive. People stopped separating into cliques without noticing. Even the coaching staff started using words like “chemistry” more often when talking about the team, like something had naturally clicked into place.
And somehow, without effort, you and Jada became part of the center of it.
Not because you tried.
Because you didn’t have to.
There was a moment after a close win that sealed it for everyone but neither of you.
The gym was loud, buzzing, full of relief and adrenaline. Teammates were celebrating everywhere, shouting, laughing, collapsing into each other in exhaustion and joy.
You were standing near the bench, catching your breath, when Jada came up beside you.
Neither of you said anything at first.
Just stood there in the noise.
Then she bumped your shoulder lightly.
You looked at her.
She looked back.
And without thinking, you smiled again.
This time it stayed.
Longer.
Easier.
Like it had always been there waiting for permission.
Jada’s expression softened in a way she didn’t even try to hide this time.
“Good game,” she said.
You nodded. “Yeah. We were solid.”
A pause.
Then you added, quieter, “You were really good.”
Her eyes flicked to yours.
Just for a second too long.
“Yeah?” she asked.
You shrugged like it was nothing. “Yeah.”
And instead of turning away like you would’ve weeks ago, you stayed right there.
Close enough that neither of you had to raise your voice.
Close enough that it didn’t feel accidental anymore.
Just inevitable.
————
It didn’t happen all at once.
That was the thing that made it dangerous.
It started with you noticing her differently before you even admitted it to yourself. Not in a dramatic way. Just moments that lingered longer than they should have.
Like when she’d finish practice with her hoodie half off her shoulders, hair slightly messy, breathing still uneven from drills, and you’d look up at the wrong time and think—too casually, too honestly—that she looked really good like that.
Or when she’d laugh at something Grace said, head tilted slightly back, completely unguarded for half a second, and your brain would do that annoying thing where it paused just long enough for the thought to slip through.
Hot.
Then you’d immediately try to act normal about it.
And the worst part was, you were getting worse at hiding it.
Jada noticed.
Of course she did.
She always noticed.
It started showing in how she reacted to you now. Not louder, not obvious, but closer. Like she was testing how far she could exist in your space before you moved away.
And you weren’t moving away anymore.
You were staying.
That was new for both of you.
The first time it turned into something that felt like possession, it was so casual you almost missed it.
You were sitting on the bench after practice, leaning forward slightly, talking to Bella and Grace while Jada stood nearby, half-listening, towel over her shoulder. Someone from another group wandered over mid-conversation and sat down right next to you like it was nothing.
Too close.
Not inappropriate. Just… unaware.
You didn’t even react.
But Jada did.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at the space between you and the girl for a second too long. Then she walked over, slow, calm, like she was just joining the conversation.
And she stood directly behind you.
Not beside.
Behind.
Her hand brushed the back of your chair as she leaned slightly forward, cutting the space without announcing it.
“Didn’t know we were moving seats,” she said lightly.
It wasn’t directed at you.
It was directed at the space.
The girl shifted away almost immediately.
Grace’s head turned so fast you’d think she heard a whistle.
Bella looked like she was trying not to laugh.
You just tilted your head slightly, glancing up at Jada.
“Everything good?” you asked.
Jada looked down at you.
For a second too long.
Then she nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just didn’t like that.”
You blinked. “Didn’t like what?”
But she was already moving like it didn’t matter anymore.
Like she hadn’t just erased someone’s entire presence from the conversation.
And the weirdest part?
You didn’t hate it.
After that, things started becoming too casual.
Her hand would rest on your shoulder for a second longer than necessary when passing behind you. You’d adjust her sleeve without thinking when it was twisted during warmups. She’d hand you your water bottle already opened, and you’d take it without questioning why that felt normal now.
Touch stopped being an event.
It started becoming language.
And with that came the awareness neither of you were fully admitting yet.
That it felt good.
Too good.
The shift in you was the one she reacted to first.
Because you started smiling at her more. Not polite smiles. Not small ones.
Real ones.
Especially when she said something ridiculous in practice and you caught her mid-serious face trying not to laugh at her own joke.
You started leaning into her space when talking instead of standing apart.
You started touching her back briefly when passing by.
Nothing dramatic.
But it changed the way she looked at you.
Like she was recalibrating something internally.
And then came the moment you didn’t plan.
After a long drill, you were standing with Grace and Bella, still catching your breath, hair slightly damp, shirt sticking just enough from sweat, laughing at something Bella said.
You didn’t see Jada watching you at first.
But she was.
And when she finally walked over, she didn’t interrupt the conversation.
She just stood beside you and said your name.
You turned slightly.
And she looked at you like she was deciding something.
Then, very casually, she reached out and fixed a strand of your hair that had fallen out of place from your ponytail.
Just that.
Simple.
Normal.
Except she didn’t pull her hand away immediately.
And you didn’t step back.
The air changed.
Not loudly.
Just enough that Bella stopped talking mid-sentence.
Grace slowly looked between you two like she was watching something cross a line without permission.
You swallowed once, quietly.
“You good?” you asked, softer than before.
Jada’s eyes flicked to yours.
And there it was again—that pause she always took when she was about to say something honest but didn’t want witnesses for it.
“Yeah,” she said.
But her hand was still there.
Then, lower:
“You just looked… good.”
It wasn’t flirting
It was said like a fact she forgot to filter.
You froze for half a second.
Then your mouth curved slightly before you could stop it.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say out loud,” you murmured.
Her expression shifted just a little.
Like she caught the meaning behind it faster than you expected.
“Why?” she asked.
You tilted your head slightly, still not stepping away.
“Because I heard you.”
That landed.
Not dramatically.
Just clean.
That was the first time it didn’t feel like slow buildup anymore.
It felt like something tightening.
Like neither of you were accidentally close now.
You were choosing it.
And Jada, for the first time, didn’t hide how she looked at you after that moment.
She just let it sit there.
Let you see it.
Let you feel it.
And you very quietly, very dangerously started letting yourself look back the same way.
————
After that day, something in the dynamic stopped pretending to be innocent.
Not in a loud way.
In a way that made everything slightly heavier when she walked into a room.
Jada didn’t get shy about it. That was the difference.
If anything, she got worse—in the best possible way.
She started using it.
Not carelessly. Not recklessly.
Smugly.
Like she had discovered she could look at you a certain way and make you pause mid-sentence if you weren’t careful.
And she absolutely did it on purpose sometimes.
It would happen during practice first. You’d be talking to Bella or Grace, mid-laugh, relaxed in a way you didn’t usually allow yourself around strangers, and you’d feel it before you saw it—that shift in attention.
When you turned, Jada would already be looking.
Not quick. Not accidental.
Just settled on you like she had nowhere else she needed to look.
And when you caught her, she wouldn’t look away immediately anymore.
She’d just smile.
Small. Knowing.
Like she was letting you see it now.
Like she was testing how long you could hold it.
You started holding it longer.
That was your mistake.
Or maybe hers.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked her one afternoon after practice, voice calm but eyes narrowed slightly.
She was sitting on the bench, tying her shoes slower than necessary, hoodie half zipped, like she wasn’t in a rush to pretend innocence anymore.
Jada didn’t look up right away.
“Like what?” she said.
You tilted your head. “Like you’re about to say something stupid.”
That made her finally glance up.
And she smiled.
There it was again.
That confident little thing she started doing now.
“I’m not saying anything,” she said.
A pause.
Then, casually:
“You’re just easy to look at.”
You blinked once.
“…you can’t just say that.”
“I just did.”
“You’re going to get yourself in trouble one day.”
She stood up then, slow, closing the distance between you like she wasn’t even thinking about it.
“Depends,” she said, quieter now. “Do you want me to stop?”
That landed differently.
Not loud.
Just direct.
You held her gaze.
“No,” you said before you could overthink it.
Her expression shifted just slightly at that.
Like she liked the answer more than she expected to.
It escalated from there.
Not in big dramatic steps.
In proximity.
Always proximity.
Jada started standing closer when talking to you, like she forgot personal space had a limit. She’d brush past you and let her hand linger at your wrist just a second too long.
You’d catch her adjusting your jersey collar after drills like it was nothing, like it wasn’t making your brain short-circuit every time.
And you started responding.
Not verbally.
Physically.
You’d fix her hair when it fell into her face after practice without asking.
You’d grab her wrist to pull her somewhere instead of calling her name.
You’d lean into her when laughing instead of stepping back.
And she noticed every single one.
Of course she did.
That was the problem.
Neither of you were pretending anymore.
You were just waiting.
————
The turning point didn’t happen on campus.
It happened at a team gathering.
Something casual. Dinner, music, older atmosphere than usual, everyone dressed differently, relaxed in a way that made everything feel slightly unreal.
And Jada looked unfairly good.
That was the first thought you had when you saw her.
Not complicated.
Just immediate.
Black outfit, clean lines, hair slightly styled differently than practice, confidence sitting on her like it belonged there.
She saw you looking.
Of course she did.
She walked up immediately.
“You’re staring,” she said.
You didn’t even deny it. “You’re dressed like that on purpose.”
Jada tilted her head. “Like what?”
“Like you know people are going to look at you.”
A pause.
Then she smiled slightly.
“I only care if you do.”
That should’ve stopped you.
It didn’t.
everything softened into noise.
Music louder. Lights dimmer. Conversations blending. Teammates scattered in groups, laughter spilling across tables.
You ended up near the bar area at some point without meaning to.
Jada was already there.
Leaning casually against the counter, one hand on the surface, the other holding her drink loosely like she wasn’t thinking about it at all.
She turned when she felt you approach.
“You disappeared,” she said.
“I didn’t disappear,” you replied. “I moved.”
“Same thing.”
You scoffed lightly. “You’re dramatic.”
She stepped closer immediately.
Not crowding.
Just… choosing distance deliberately.
“Am I?” she asked.
And her tone wasn’t joking anymore.
It had shifted.
You felt it.
You always did with her now.
“I think you like it,” she added, quieter.
You looked at her properly then.
Really properly.
And there it was.
The thing you’d been circling without naming.
Not confusion anymore.
Just awareness.
“You’re really confident about this,” you said.
Jada’s eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes.
“About what,” she asked.
You didn’t answer right away.
Because you both already knew.
The space between you had changed.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
She lifted her hand then, slowly.
No rush.
Just certainty.
And wrapped her fingers lightly around your waist, her thumb moving softly.
Not pulling.
Just holding.
Like she’d been doing it in pieces for weeks and finally decided to make it whole.
“You’re not moving away,” she said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
You exhaled softly.
“No,” you admitted.
That was it.
The switch.
Something in her expression broke open at that.
Not softness.
Intensity.
Controlled, but real.
She stepped in closer.
Now there wasn’t really space left to pretend.
“Good,” she said.
And then—
No hesitation anymore.
She kissed you.
Not rushed.
Not unsure.
But not soft either.
It was grounded.
Intentional.
Like she had been waiting for permission that you’d been giving her without words for weeks.
Her hand stayed on your waist the entire time.
And when you didn’t pull away—
her grip tightened slightly.
Not possessive in a showy way.
In a finally way.
you wrapped your arm around her head instinctively, leaning into her. one hand under her chin while both of her hands now circled your waist, your body’s becoming flush against each other feeling every part of each other that was off limits before.
When she pulled back, it wasn’t far.
Just enough to look at you.
The noise around you didn’t matter anymore.
She exhaled once, small, like she was resetting something in her head.
Then, almost annoyingly calm again:
“…yeah.”
You let out a quiet laugh, breath uneven.
“Yeah?”
Jada nodded slightly, still looking at you like she hadn’t finished processing how real you were now.
“Yeah,” she repeated.
A pause.
Then, softer:
“I’ve been trying not to do that for a while.”
That should’ve been the confession. it made you smile.
“just shut up and kiss me”
and she did exactly that. and the best thing?
it didn’t feel like the end.
It felt like the beginning of something neither of you were going to be normal about after this.
—————
A/n; not my best work but god the fic draught is insane.
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Why are all the SAPPHIC FANFICS LAME AND OVER-SEXUAL AND GIVING STRAIGHT RELATIONSHIP??? I READ STRAIGHT STUFF WHEN I FEEL LIKE READING STRAIGHT STUFF SO WHY TF AM I SEEING STRAIGHT VIBES IN SAPPHIC FANFICS?????? IT’S LITERALLY SO BAD AND ANNOYING FUCK
georgia amoore x reader where georgia is a flirt to everyone but gets so shy and awkward around reader
the lady in my life
pairing: washington mystics!georgia!dating!vet x washington mystics! reader!dating!rookie
wc: 8.5k
summary: she flirts with everyone the barista, the ball boy, the woman at the hotel front desk at eleven at night she has never once, in your entire time as her teammate, looked directly at you and said something easy. you've been trying to figure out what you did wrong turns out you didn't do anything at all.
the thing about being projected second overall for four months is that you learn to hold it loosely your notre dame coaches told you this in february, when the first mock drafts started circulating with your name near the top — don't read them, don't let it become a thing you need. you tried. you mostly succeeded. you are good at composure.
it is maybe the thing you are best at, the ability to look unbothered while your pulse does whatever it wants underneath so when dallas takes azzi fudd first overall, you are unbothered genuinely azzi is one of your favorite people in this draft class, has been since the nike summit when you were seventeen, and you watch her walk across that stage in her orange dress and you are nothing but happy for her.
when minnesota takes olivia miles second, you recalibrate quietly, fine okay, olivia is a generational passer, everyone knows it, you've known it since she was dismantling notre dame's press in a big east matchup three years ago you adjust. you wait.
seattle takes awa fam third, and this is the one that makes your stomach do something, because you were not expecting that, and now you are doing math in your head and the math leads somewhere that makes your hands go a little cold under the table and then.
with the fourth overall pick in the 2026 wnba draft, the washington mystics select—
your name, your name in that sentence coming out of the commissioner's mouth in a building full of noise that becomes, for about three seconds, something you can't quite hear because your own heartbeat is too loud.
you walk to the stage you shake hands, the commissioner holds a mystics jersey as you hold the other side and it holds slightly crooked and you don't fix it because you are not fully present in your body yet someone takes photos.
you hold the jersey you smile, and the smile is real, it just comes from a place that is very far away from where you are standing fourth you are fourth washington it takes until you are backstage, in the low-lit corridor where the earlier picks are gathered waiting for the press availability, for the recalibration to finish and when it does, what you are left with is something quieter than disappointment and more complicated than relief fourth overall.
washington mystics georgia amoore you know her game you've watched her since she was at kentucky, have three of her highlight reels bookmarked in a folder on your phone you would never admit exists.
point guard with a handle that makes defenders look slow and a court vision that borders on unfair. sat out last season with a knee injury back now your new teammate you are thinking about this about backcourt pairings, about pick and roll chemistry, about playing alongside someone whose game you have studied the way some people study a language when the door to the corridor opens and she walks in.
georgia amoore in person is approximately the same as georgia amoore on film except that on film there is a screen between you and whatever she is doing and in person there is not.
she scans the room the way athletes do, this quick efficient inventory, and then her eyes land on you and something happens that you don't have a word for yet.
it's a fast flicker she looks at you for maybe two seconds before she looks away, and when she looks away she finds something very interesting to look at on the opposite wall whereas you assume she's just oriented, it's loud, there's a lot happening.
the mystics do a rookie introduction thing in june, three weeks before training camp officially opens, where they bring in the new class and run them through the facility and feed them and take photos for social media.
lauren arrives first because she is always early angela is next, still in her travel clothes, headphones around her neck cotie is on the phone with someone who must be her mother because she's saying yes ma'am every few seconds you arrive fourth, which feels like a pattern forming.
georgia is standing by the water station when you walk in she's mid-sentence with sonia, gesturing at something, and sonia is laughing and then she sees you and the sentence just well stops, not trails off stops like someone cut the audio.
sonia looks at where georgia is looking, then she looks back at georgia then she picks up her own water bottle and takes a long sip that is mostly about giving herself time to compose her face. hey, you say, because someone has to. i'm —
i know who you are, georgia says, and it comes out a little sharp, a little fast, like she said it before she meant to she blinks something moves across her face. notre dame. shooting guard. a pause that lasts slightly too long. welcome to washington. and then she picks up her water bottle and walks away at a pace that is not quite normal.
sonia watches her go then she looks at you her expression is the careful neutral of someone who has decided, very quickly, to stay out of something. she's excited you're here, sonia says. she mentioned it.
she seems excited, sonia says firmly. very excited.
by the second week of camp you have an inventory you are good at observing it's part of what makes you a good shooting guard, the ability to read the floor before the play develops — and what you observe is that georgia amoore will flirt with anyone; this is not an exaggeration she compliments lauren's footwear and means it.
she does this thing with cotie where she uses a voice that makes cotie dissolve into giggles every time she texted kiki rice you were robbed about a play from kiki's college season and kiki screenshot it and showed everyone.
she charmed the facilities manager into getting the good coffee stocked in the players' lounge by bringing him a muffin one morning and looking at him like he was the most important person in the building she says eleven words to you per day you counted.
the words are always fine. practical. good screen. nice catch. your left is getting sharper. compliments about basketball, not about you professional appropriate completely unlike the version of georgia amoore that exists when she is talking to literally anyone else.
you have replayed every interaction looking for the thing you did you come up empty every time by wednesday of the second week, kiki who has been in the dc area long enough to have opinions about the mystics slides into the seat next to you at lunch.
can i ask you something, she says.
yeah.
do you think georgia doesn't like me, you say, before she can kiki pauses. that's not what i was going to ask. another pause. but since you brought it up.
she talks to everyone, you say. she brought the facilities manager a muffin.
i know.
she made cotie laugh so hard she choked on her water yesterday.
i was there.
she says eleven words to me. kiki is quiet for a moment she has the expression of someone choosing very carefully between honesty and diplomacy. have you considered, she says slowly, that eleven very deliberate words might mean something different than you think they mean?
you look at her. i have to make a phone call, kiki says, and leaves.
it is sonia who calls it an intervention this is, everyone agrees later, a strong word for what is essentially four people eating takeout on kiki's hotel room floor, but sonia has always had a gift for framing.
the attendees are sonia, kiki, angela who got pulled in because she came to borrow kiki's charger and then got curious, and cotie who technically wasn't invited but heard georgia and intervention through the door and let herself in.
the subject of the intervention is not present; she is in her own room, forty feet down the hall, probably watching film and not thinking about you at all, which is the thing that sonia is finding most frustrating.
she thinks about her constantly, sonia says, gesturing with a spring roll. constantly. i've heard her say your name in conversations you weren't part of. she watched a notre dame game from last season when she thought no one was looking.
the whole game? cotie says. the highlights, sonia says. but with a focus that i found genuinely concerning. kiki is lying on the floor with her knee up. the thing is she has no game when it comes to her specifically, she says. like she has infinite game in every other direction. she flirted with the woman at the hotel front desk for ten minutes just out of habit and then she saw her in the hallway after the lobby thing and said — what did she say?
'morning,' sonia says. with a period. not even an exclamation point. just. morning.
she needs to say something, angela says she is the most recent addition to this conversation and therefore still has perspective. or she's going to spend the whole season finding things to look at that are not her face.
we know, kiki says. someone has to tell her, cotie says.
they all look at sonia. i'm not doing it, sonia says. i love her but she's going to say something sarcastic and then i'm going to say something back and then it's going to be a whole thing.
they look at kiki. she doesn't listen to me, kiki says. i told her to just talk to her last week and she said 'i do talk to her' and i said 'eleven words is not a conversation georgia' and she said 'eleven is a lot of words' and i had to walk away.
angela raises her hand slightly. i've known her for three weeks.
that might be why she'll listen to you, cotie says.
what actually happens is that angela catches georgia in the gym the next morning, forty minutes before anyone else arrives georgia is going through her ball-handling warm-up, headphones in, and angela sits down on the baseline and waits until georgia notices her.
what, georgia says, pulling out one earbud. the girls wanted me to talk to you, angela says. about her.
georgia goes very still for a moment then she resumes dribbling. i don't know what you mean.
georgia.
i talk to her.
eleven words.
eleven is — georgia stops. bounces the ball once. did kiki tell you that.
kiki told sonia. sonia told cotie. cotie told me. it was a whole thing. angela pauses. she thinks you don't like her.
the ball bounces twice, unevenly. i— georgia starts and stops the dribbling slows. that's not— she pushes her hair back. it's not that.
i know it's not that, angela says. that's why i'm here. georgia is quiet for a long moment she's looking at the free throw line like it said something offensive. i don't know how to be normal around her, she finally says.
it comes out quieter than everything before it. it's like — with everyone else i just talk. it comes out. but with her everything i want to say sounds wrong before it gets to my mouth and so i just don't.
so you give her eleven words.
they were good words, georgia says, defensive. they were relevant.
angela stands up brushes off her shorts. i'm telling you this from a place of love, she says, because i've known you for three weeks and i already find you exhausting. she picks up her bag. she watches you too.
georgia looks up from the free throw line. when you're talking to other people, angela says. she watches. i've seen it. she starts toward the exit. eleven words, she says, over her shoulder. genuinely. that's not normal behavior from someone who doesn't care.
the gym door swings shut behind her georgia stands at half court for a long moment and she bounces the ball once twice. okay, she says, to no one.
the thing is you are not built for ambiguity notre dame's program runs on directness — coach niele ivey does not have time for passive communication and neither do you, after four years in that system.
you read the floor and you make decisions and you don't second-guess the read once you've made it kiki's comment sits in you for a week, alongside the image of georgia amoore going very still every time you walk into a room she's already in, and by the end of week three you have made your decision.
you find her after evening practice, in the corridor outside the locker rooms, where she is toweling off her hair and looking at her phone with a focus that you are now fairly certain is performance.
georgia.
she looks up that thing happens again the thing where she looks at you and everything in her face does a quick reorganization. hey, she says, and you can see her counting, you swear you can see her counting. good practice.
three words, you say.
she blinks. what?
that's three today. you've been running low. you lean against the wall, arms crossed, looking at her directly. you flirt with literally everyone in this building. you had a ten minute conversation with the ball boy about his college apps. you brought the facilities manager a muffin. you pause. you give me three words and a lot of eye contact with the floor.
georgia opens her mouth and closes it the towel in her hands is getting a lot of attention. so i'm asking you directly, you say, because i'm a direct person and i've been going crazy trying to figure out what i did. what's going on.
the corridor is empty, the sounds of the locker room filter through the door georgia looks at you and this time she doesn't look away, she just looks, for a long moment, with an expression that is the most unguarded thing you've seen from her. you didn't do anything, she says.
okay.
*it's — * she exhales. you know how i am with people.
yes, you say. that's what i'm asking about.
it's different with you, she says. that's the problem. the towel stills in her hands. with everyone else it just comes out. it's easy. but you— she stops. the first time i saw you was at the draft and you were sitting at that table and you weren't even nervous, everyone was nervous but you looked like you were just — waiting. like you already knew where you were going. and i thought—
she stops again she is doing the thing with her jaw that you've seen her do when she's working out a play. i thought, okay, that's someone i want to know, she says, quieter. and then you got to washington and i wanted to— she gestures, vague and helpless. and everything i thought to say sounded stupid so i just didn't.
the corridor is very quiet. eleven words instead, you say. they were considered words.
georgia.
they were. a pause then, softer. yes. eleven words. you look at her really look, the way you look at the floor when you're reading a defense, taking the full picture in georgia amoore who charms every room she walks into, standing here in this corridor with damp hair and a towel and the most undefended expression you've seen since you arrived in washington.
say something, you say. say what you actually want to say. a beat she wets her lip the corridor light is doing something warm to her face.
i think you're the best player in this draft class, she says. i've thought that since your junior season. i watched the notre dame-uconn game from february twice.
a pause. i think you're going to be the best shooting guard in the league. i think when we figure out our timing in pick and roll it's going to be something that people talk about. she stops. and i think you're — i've been trying to find the right word for three weeks and i haven't.
try anyway, you say she looks at you. a lot, she says finally. you're a lot. in a way where everything else gets quieter.
the locker room door swings open twenty feet down the corridor — cotie, not seeing you yet, heading for the water fountain and georgia takes half a step back and you let her, the moment shifting into something that can be picked back up later, set down carefully, not dropped but later that night she texts you. sorry about the eleven words thing.
you write back. don't be. i liked knowing they were deliberate.
three dots then. they really were. i'll do better. you set the phone down and look at the ceiling of your hotel room and think about georgia amoore at the draft saying i know who you are before you could finish your own name.
you were already a lot to her then you just didn't know it yet.
weeks pass.
the pick and roll timing clicks in week six, on a tuesday, during a five-on-five drill when you curl off a screen and georgia threads a pass through a gap that shouldn't exist and it hits you in stride so perfectly that you pull up for the jumper without thinking and it goes.
the gym makes the sound it makes when something works georgia points at you from half court, not a word you point back to that evening she knocks on your hotel room door.
you open it and she's standing there in practice clothes, hair up, and she has the expression of someone who has made a decision and arrived on the other side of it. i had more than eleven words, she says. i've been saving them.
you step back from the door to let her in. i know, you say.
the first time you kiss her you are both still in your practice clothes, standing in the kitchen of the apartment you've just signed the lease on, takeout containers on the counter between you, her mid-sentence about something she saw in film, and you decide the way you decide on the floor, quick and committed once you've read it right and close the distance.
she stops mid-sentence there's a breath of a pause where neither of you moves then georgia kisses you back with the focus of someone who has been composing this for a long time and has finally found the right moment to say it, and her hand comes up to your jaw and everything she never said in eleven words a day is somewhere in there, unhurried, patient, finally.
i had a whole plan, she says, when you pull back her thumb is still on your jaw. i was going to say something good. i had the words ready.
how were they?
good, she says. really good. the ghost of a smile. you didn't let me use them.
say them now. she shakes her head slowly. no, she says, soft. now i want to show you instead. the takeout goes cold on the counter.
later deep into the season, after a home win, the capital one arena is still loud somewhere above you she is lying with her head on your chest in the quiet of the training room and you are thinking about draft night, about fourth overall, about the way the math in your head led to washington.
i was projected second, you say, to the ceiling she hums her hand stills on your sternum. i know, she says. i watched the coverage. a beat passed. were you upset?
i was recalibrating, you say. for about a minute. and then i thought — washington. georgia amoore. and the recalibrating stopped.
she's quiet for a moment. you thought about me, she says.
i thought about backcourt chemistry, you say. and your assist numbers.
sure, she says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking. very practical.
very.
she tilts her head up and you look down the look between you is the look from that corridor, from that hotel room, from every moment she found something to look at that wasn't your face before she learned to just look. fourth overall, she says, quiet. best thing that ever happened to this franchise.
you kiss the top of her head. tell me the words, you say. the ones you had ready.
now?
now she's quiet for a moment and then she says to them, low, just for you, all the ones she held back and prepared and counted out so carefully in the beginning and this time there are a lot more than eleven.
the mystics are in chicago for a friday night game against the sky, which means a thursday afternoon flight and a hotel that books two players per room, which means you find out at 3pm via the team groupchat that your roommate is georgia.
sonia sends a string of dots and nothing else, kiki sends a single. interesting.
cotie sends a gif you don't look at closely enough to identify but which makes angela, next to you on the plane, cover her mouth georgia, sitting one row ahead, does not look back. but the tips of her ears go pink in a way that you have learned to read.
the thing about you and georgia is that it is not yet a thing, technically what it is in the training room, late into the season, her head on your chest and words said low in the dark that you have not talked about since.
a week of practice where something between you shifted into a new register more careful in one direction, less careful in another. her hand finding yours in the film room tuesday, just for a moment, just long enough, before she took it back. eleven words replaced by something that does not have a number yet, that you are both still figuring out how to count.
the unresolved part lives in the gap between what happened and what you have said about what happened, which is nothing which is very unlike you which is, you suspect, the georgia effect she makes you want to be patient with the timing the way she was patient with the words but you are still a direct person this has not changed.
three days before chicago, sonia texts the group chat she has named the powerpuff girls — you, her, kiki at ten in the morning. matcha noon. the place on u street. georgia's coming.
kiki: noted
you: sure
then, privately, kiki to you: she's been wanting to hang outside practice for weeks and keeps not asking. sonia is doing a thing.
you stare at your phone. what kind of thing, you write back kiki sends the dots then. a sonia thing. just come.
the place on u street is small and warm and smells like oat milk and something floral, and by the time you arrive sonia and kiki are already at the corner table and georgia is standing at the counter ordering, back to the door, and does not see you come in.
you see her first this has become a pattern you have noticed there's always a moment, before she knows you're there, where you get to see her unguarded.
she's in a cream crewneck and her hair is down and she is having what looks like a detailed conversation with the person taking her order, hands moving, and the barista is laughing the usual then she turns and sees you and the hands still and she does the thing the reorganization, fast, like a screen refresh and says. hey.
hey, you say sonia, from the corner table, is watching this with the focused attention of a scientist observing a reaction you order.
georgia moves to wait at the end of the counter and you move with her and stand beside her and the silence between you is the kind that has texture, that means something, that both of you are aware of. you good? you ask.
yeah, she says a beat passes between you and her. you?
yeah.
the barista calls her name and she reaches past you for her cup and her arm brushes yours and she says sorry very quietly and you say don't be and she looks at you sideways for just a second before she takes her matcha and goes to the table.
sonia, watching says nothing, kiki watching says nothing they are both doing the very specific nothing of people who have clocked everything.
the four of you at the table are easy, mostly this is the thing about sonia and kiki they are the kind of friends who arrived fast and stayed, who knew your order and your moods and your shot selection habits within the first month.
sonia has a theory about every player in the league and shares them without being asked kiki sends you film clips at midnight with no context except look at this angle. you love them in the way you love good teammates, which is to say a lot, and practically, and with a specific kind of trust.
georgia with them is different from georgia with you she's loose, easy, she's making sonia laugh within five minutes, is doing a bit with kiki about something that happened at shootaround that you only have half the context for but which is clearly very funny.
she is, in this context, completely herself the version that exists when she is not counting her words and then she'll glance at you and something shifts, just slightly, just a half-step, and she catches herself and looks away.
kiki sees it of course kiki sees it she says nothing, but she meets your eyes once across the table with an expression that is very precisely yeah, i know.
at some point sonia says, very casually georgia, remember what you told me about notre dame's offensive system? georgia looks at her. what?
you were saying, sonia says, about the way they run their two-guard sets. you were very detailed about it.
i don't know what you're —
you had thoughts, sonia says serenely. specific thoughts. about her specifically. she nods at you without looking at you as you said. what was it something about the way she reads the secondary option before the play develops.
the table is quiet georgia looks at sonia with an expression that is a very contained version of fury. i say that about a lot of guards, she says. you do not, kiki says, from behind her cup.
i watched film on a lot of people in this draft —
twice, sonia says. you watched notre dame-uconn twice. you mentioned it.
i–
the february game, sonia says georgia puts her cup down. i'm not doing this.
she already knows, kiki says, very gently. that's the thing, g. she already knows.
georgia still goes and she looks at kiki then slowly she looks at you and you look back you don't rescue her you let her look. you knew, she says, finally. it's not quite a question.
i read the floor, you say. it's what i do.
something moves through her face not embarrassment, exactly — something softer than that, and more complicated.
she picks up her cup, sets it down again and her thumb moves along the edge of the cardboard sleeve. right, she says quietly sonia stands up very suddenly. i need a water, she says. kiki come help me.
the waters are self-serve, kiki says. kiki, sonia says kiki comes.
you and georgia at the corner table the ambient noise of the café, her thumb still on the sleeve of her cup. how long, she says.
the corridor, you say. when i asked you outright. i had a pretty good read before that but the corridor confirmed it.
she exhales not quite a laugh. great.
georgia.
i know, she says. i know, i just — she stops looks at the table. i had it so composed for so long. the eleven words were a system. and then you just walked up and asked and the whole system—
fell apart, you say.
completely, she says. yeah.
you look at her at her hands on the cup, at the way she's not quite meeting your eyes, at the version of georgia amoore that exists in the space before she's decided how to say a thing. the training room, you say as she looks up.
i haven't stopped thinking about it, you say. about what you said. i want to make sure we're — i want to know where we are.
she holds your gaze for a moment the café does its thing around you, indifferent.
i don't know how to do this carefully, she says. with you. everything else i can do carefully. i can manage how i come across, i can read the room, i can — she stops. with you i just say the actual thing before i mean to. it keeps happening.
that's not a problem, you say.
it feels exposed.
i know. you reach across the table and your hand covers hers, just briefly, just for a moment. say the actual thing.
she looks at your hand then at you.
i want to figure it out, she says. whatever this is. i want to figure it out with you. a beat. that's the actual thing.
okay, you say.
okay?
yeah, you say. me too.
sonia, from the water station eight feet away, makes a sound kiki puts a hand over sonia's mouth you don't look over neither does georgia but the corner of her mouth does something, quiet and private, that you are going to think about for the rest of the day.
so, chicago thursday night one room, one bed, discovered at check-in when the team liaison hands you a keycard and a room number and georgia, next to you, says sorry? in the tone of someone who has heard correctly but is hoping they haven't.
we're fully booked, the liaison says. it's a king. should be fine. should be fine, georgia looks at you, you look at georgia behind you, somewhere in the lobby, you hear kiki say something to sonia in a voice too low to catch but which is definitely about this.
the room is on the fourteenth floor you take the elevator up in a silence that is a different kind of textured than the one at the matcha place, less complicated and more aware, the kind that comes from standing close to someone in an enclosed space and being conscious of every inch.
the room is nice, the bed is, as advertised a king georgia sets her bag on the chair by the window and looks at it like it said something. i can sleep on top of the covers, she says. if you want. like a line down the middle, i —
georgia, you say.
yeah.
it's fine.
she turns around and you are sitting on the edge of the bed, shoes already off, looking at her she looks back. okay, she says.
okay.
she gets ready for bed in the bathroom while you set an alarm and check the game notes on your phone and try to be a normal person in a normal hotel room and not think too carefully about the georgia-shaped shift happening in your chest.
she comes out in a notre dame t-shirt — i stole it, she says, preemptively, last week from the laundry pile, i was going to give it back — and you say you can keep it and something about that makes her go very still for a second before she gets into bed.
the lights go off, the dark settles, you lie there, both of you, not touching, a few inches of hotel sheets between you, and the quiet has the weight of two people who are very aware of each other. georgia, you say, to the ceiling.
yeah, she says.
you still have words saved up. a pause. a few, she admits.
say one.
the dark, the ambient hum of the hotel outside the window, chicago going about its thursday night.
i'm glad you went fourth, she says. i know that's — i know you were projected higher and i know it's not the same thing as being glad for you, because i am glad for you, i want everything for you. but selfishly. a breath. selfishly i am so glad you went fourth.
you turn your head on the pillow. she turns hers in the dark you can just make out the shape of her face, the line of her jaw, the way she is looking at you with the full version of her attention.
washington, you say.
washington, she says.
you close the last few inches between you and she meets you there, unhurried, and it is nothing like the kitchen — that was decision and momentum, quick and committed.
this is slower her hand finds your face in the dark the way it did in the training room and you think about all the words she held, all the ones she counted out so carefully, and how none of them are necessary right now.
later, much later, she's quiet in the way that means she's still awake, her head on your shoulder, the notre dame shirt warm against your arm. the february game, you say.
don't, she says.
both halves?
i'm going to sleep.
georgia.
a long pause.
yes, she says, very quietly. both halves.
you stare at the ceiling outside, chicago tomorrow, the sky right now, her breathing slowing into something even, the weight of her against you, the particular quiet of a hotel room that has stopped being temporary and started being somewhere you want to stay.
both halves, you say, soft she doesn't answer but her hand, resting on your sternum, curls just slightly.
you fall asleep to the sound of her breathing and think, in the last moment before you go under. fourth overall. best thing.
the morning is ordinary in the way mornings before games always are — alarm at seven-thirty, georgia already half-awake when it goes off, the two of you moving around the room in the careful choreography of people who are new to sharing a space and still learning its geometry.
she takes the bathroom first you find your shootaround clothes she comes out with her hair up and toothpaste still on her bottom lip and doesn't notice until you point at your own lip and she goes oh and disappears back into the bathroom and you stand there in the middle of the hotel room and feel something embarrassingly warm about the whole thing.
breakfast is the team floor, the long table, cotie and angela already there with plates piled high, sonia arriving two minutes after you with the specific expression she wears when she has clocked something and is choosing not to say it yet kiki sits down across from you and looks between you and georgia once, carefully, and then pours her orange juice.
good sleep? kiki says.
great sleep, you say.
mm, kiki says.
georgia is talking to cotie about something on her phone and is not looking at you but the tips of her ears are doing the thing sonia sees this sonia drinks her coffee in the particular way of someone savoring a private victory.
you eat your eggs and think about the sky's defensive scheme and try to be a professional.
shootaround is clean coach johnson runs through the chicago sets, the pick and roll coverage, who to watch — raven johnson's handle, the way the sky likes to push in transition you take notes on your phone.
georgia is two seats down, doing the same, and at one point she leans over without looking and taps your knee once, quick, pointing at something on her own screen. watch her left hand on the drive, she murmurs. she telegraphs it every time.
you watch the clip she's right she's always right about things like this. got it, you say she leans back the knee tap lingers more than it should.
the united center is loud in the way away arenas get loud when the home crowd smells a competitive game not hostile exactly, just charged, the particular energy of a building that wants something from the night.
you go through warmups with your headphones in, your routine locked, notre dame muscle memory carrying you through the layup lines.
the game starts well georgia finds you on the second possession, a quick pocket pass off the pick and roll that you catch in stride, one dribble, pull-up jumper over the closeout good she points. you jog back.
through the first quarter you are in it like really in it, the kind of game where the floor opens up and you can see everything, every gap, every rotation, the reads coming fast and clean.
sixteen points by halftime georgia has nine assists coach johnson says keep doing exactly what you're doing and you believe him the third quarter is where it happens.
you are curling off a screen at the elbow, georgia feeding you the entry pass, and you catch it and take one hard dribble baseline and the sky's two-guard trying to cut off the angle, moving fast, a little desperate comes in from the side and her knee catches your ankle at a wrong angle and the world tips.
you go down hard the sound the building makes is the particular sound of something stopping. not silence exactly a held breath, collective and instant.
you are on the floor and your ankle is sending signals that are urgent and unambiguous and you know before the trainer gets to you, know the way you know reads before plays develop, that this is not something you play through you've rolled ankles before this one has a different quality to it, something deeper, and you lie there for a moment just taking inventory.
the trainer reaches you coach johnson is on the floor. someone is saying your name. you look up at the lights and breathe, steady, the way niele ivey taught you. hurt is not the same as broken, take the inventory, report accurately — and you do you report ankle right side moderate probably not structural but definitely done for the night.
okay, you say to the trainer. okay, yeah. help me up.
you don't look for georgia immediately you're focused on getting upright, on not putting weight on it wrong, on the logistics of exit.
the trainer and one of the assistant coaches get you to your feet and you hop once and establish that the ankle will bear partial weight and the crowd does the thing crowds do a wave of acknowledgement, the sound of a building releasing its held breath you look up then.
georgia is standing at half court she has the ball in her hands from when play stopped and she is not moving her face is the composed face, the one she wears in film sessions and post-game press conferences, the one that gives nothing away. she is looking at you and her face is doing exactly nothing and you know her well enough now to know that this means the opposite of nothing.
sonia is beside her saying something georgia nods once looks back at you, you raise your chin slightly. i'm okay and she nods again, and then play is called to resume and she turns back to the court and that is the last you see of her before the tunnel.
the training room under the united center is fluorescent and cold and smells like every other training room you've been in your entire career.
the mystics' athletic trainer, dominique, runs through the assessment with efficient hands while you sit on the table and stare at the ceiling and listen to the muffled sound of the game continuing above you. ligament? you say.
i don't think so, dominique says. feels like a high ankle sprain. significant but not structural. she wraps it with practiced efficiency. we'll get imaging tomorrow to confirm. you're done tonight.
i know, you say.
you're going to want to stay off it —
i know, you say she gives you the look trainers give athletes who say i know in that tone, which is the look of someone who knows that you know and also knows that knowing doesn't always translate.
you sit in the training room for the rest of the third quarter and most of the fourth, your phone filling up. cotie, a row of prayer hands angela, how bad. kiki, staying or going to hospital? sonia, tell me immediately if you need anything i'm watching the medical staff like a hawk.
georgia, nothing which is fine she's playing she doesn't have her phone this is normal and expected and you are not reading anything into it.
the buzzer sounds above you the mystics win you gather this from the sound, the particular quality of noise that is visiting team celebration, and dominique confirms it when she comes back through. 88-79. amoore had a triple double.
of course she did, you say.
the locker room is where you see it georgia comes in with the rest of them, sweat-damp and still running the elevated energy of a road win, and sonia is talking at her about something and cotie has her arm around angela and the room has the warmth of a good game in it.
georgia peels off her warm-up jacket and reaches for her water bottle and then she looks up and finds you on the bench by the lockers, boot on your ankle, and the room keeps going around her but she goes very still.
three seconds five then she crosses the room and sits down beside you not too close, not away-game-we-are-professional close, somewhere in the middle. dominique's assessment? she says her voice is composed. high ankle sprain. imaging tomorrow.
timeline?
two weeks minimum. maybe three.
she nods, her hands are in her lap and she is looking at the boot and her jaw is doing the thing where she's working something out the locker room goes on around you both, loud and warm. georgia.
yeah.
look at me.
she looks at you there it is what the composed face was covering not panic, not quite, but something adjacent to it.
something raw sitting just below the surface of the controlled expression you recognize because you know what her face does when she's actually fine versus when she is managing. i'm okay, you say. high ankle sprain. i've had worse.
i know, she says.
you don't look like you know.
she exhales, slow. when you went down— she stops and starts again. i was right there. i saw the angle and i — her hand tightens in her lap. i know you're okay. i knew on the floor when you raised your chin that you were okay. i kept playing because you were okay. a beat. it just didn't stop the — she gestures, vague, at her own chest. whatever that was.
the thing, you say. yeah, she says. the thing.
the locker room goes on around you someone's playing music from a bluetooth speaker cotie is doing a bit with her water bottle that angela finds funnier than it probably is. georgia, you say. mm.
i need you to help me to the bus.
she looks at the boot then at you the composed face shifts into something that is still composed but has a different quality to it the kind of composed that comes after, not before. yeah, she says. obviously.
and then, you say, i need you to tell me what was actually in your chest when it happened. in the room tonight. when it's just us.
she's quiet for a moment the locker room hums the bluetooth speaker. okay, she says. yeah. i can do that.
the hotel room is quieter than last night the lamp on the far side is on and everything else is off and you are on the bed with your ankle up on two pillows and georgia is sitting at the end of the bed with her knees pulled up, and the window shows chicago at night, the lake somewhere out there in the dark.
she's been quiet since the bus, not the eleven-word quiet, something more internal than that, something she's working through you wait you are learning her rhythms.
when you went down, she says finally, the first thing i thought was — not what you'd think. not ligament, not timeline, not anything practical. she looks at her hands. *the first thing was just — her. just your name. just — * she stops. and i've spent my whole career being the person who doesn't do that. who keeps the game in the game. i've had teammates get hurt and i've stayed level because that's what you do, that's what the team needs. a pause. and then it was you and i felt the floor go out from under me a little bit. on the inside. just for a second.
and you kept playing, you say. you were okay, she says. you told me you were okay.
i did.
and i kept playing. she looks up. but the whole fourth quarter i was — it was different. the way i was playing was different. i don't know if anyone clocked it.
triple double, you say. i know what i do when i'm — when i need to put something somewhere, she says. i put it in the game. i always have.
you look at her at georgia amoore at the end of the hotel bed, hair down, chicago light on her face, telling you what she does with the things she can't say out loud. you put it in the triple double, you say.
yeah, she says. and then i came in here and you're — you're fine. you're fine, you're on the pillows, you look fine, and i sat down and my hands wouldn't — she looks at them again. they were shaking a little. for about a minute. i didn't want you to see.
i saw, you say.
i know you saw.
georgia. she looks at you. come here, you say she moves up the bed, carefully, mindful of the ankle, and settles beside you and you pull her in and she goes, and this, this is different from last night, less charged and more essential, the kind of close that isn't about want so much as about need, about reassurance moving in both directions at once.
her hand finds your sternum same as the training room same as last night like she's taking inventory. i'm here, you say.
i know, she says, muffled against your shoulder. that's the thing. you're here and i can feel that you're fine and i'm still — it's still doing something.
that's allowed, you say.
is it.
yes, you say. georgia. that's allowed.
she's quiet for a moment outside chicago somewhere below, the city going about its friday night, indifferent and continuous.
i had a plan, she says, eventually. for how this would go. between us. i was going to be — measured. i was going to take my time. not come on too strong. a breath. and then you went down on that floor and my first thought was just your name and i think the plan is — i think it's probably —
gone, you say. yeah, she says. pretty thoroughly.
she presses her mouth to the top of your head you makes a sound that is very small and very real and nothing like the composed face at all. the february game, you say, quiet. both halves.
you feel her exhale against your shoulder. both halves, she says. the whole season before that. your junior highlights. i have a folder. a pause. don't say anything.
i'm not saying anything, you say.
you're smiling.
you can't see my face.
i know you, she says. you're smiling. you are smiling, you don't bother denying it. a folder, you say.
i will leave, she says.
you won't.
she won't put her hand on your sternum and doesn't move her breathing slowly, gradually, the way it did last night, from the elevated thing it's been since the game into something even and settling. the imaging tomorrow, she says. i'm coming.
georgia —
i'm coming, she says. that's not a question. you think about arguing on principle you decide against it. okay, you say.
and if it's not structural —
it's not.
if it's confirmed not structural, she says, then i'm getting you the good food after. not the hotel food. actual food from somewhere that isn't the team caterer.
what if i want hotel food?
you don't.
i might.
you don't, she says, and you can hear the smile in it, and something in your chest does the thing it has been doing since the training room months ago, since the corridor, since fourth overall and welcome to washington with the tips of her ears going pink.
georgia, you say.
mm.
say something else from the folder.
a long pause in the chicago dark outside her hand on your chest.
in the notre dame-uconn game, she says, quiet, there was a play in the second half where they ran the same set three possessions in a row and the third time you read it before it developed and you went under the screen instead of over and it shouldn't have worked because you were giving up the corner three and it worked anyway because you knew she wasn't going to shoot it.
a breath. nobody else in that game read that. i watched it four times. another breath. i thought — i thought, whoever she ends up playing with is going to be so lucky. the way she sees things. she pauses. and then seven months later it was me. and i thought —
she stops. what, you say. i thought, she says, oh. of course it's her.
the lamp on the far side of the room, the dark chicago her breathing going slow and even against your shoulder while your ankle throbs dully against the pillows and the night settles around you both like something that was always going to happen. of course, you say.
yeah, she says.
okay, you say and she says. yeah. okay. and that is enough, that is, in fact, more than enough you lie there in the dark with georgia amoore's hand on your chest and her words still in the room, all the ones she saved, all the ones she counted out so carefully and is now spending freely and you think. fourth overall. washington mystics. georgia amoore.
cw // sports injury, acl tear, injury recovery, emotional withdrawal, relationship deterioration, fear of abandonment,
word count // 9-10k~
pairing: sonia citron x reader
The apartment always smelled like eucalyptus after Sonia showered.
You used to think it was ridiculous how long the scent lingered. Hours, sometimes. It settled into couch cushions and blankets and the hoodies she kept leaving behind like little flags marking territory.
Now, sitting cross-legged on the floor of your off-campus apartment with game film paused on your laptop and an untouched protein shake sweating beside you, you thought maybe you’d miss the smell more than anything else when all of this ended.
Not the cameras.
Not college basketball.
Not even the arena.
Just Sonia.
“Are you studying or staring blankly at spreadsheets again?”
Her voice came muffled from beneath the blanket cocoon she’d created on your couch.
You glanced over.
Only her eyes were visible.
“I’m literally watching film.”
“You paused it seven minutes ago.”
“You timed me?”
“I know you.”
That was the thing about Sonia. She always said it gently. Never possessive. Never sharp, like she just knew.
The room glowed gold from the kitchen light left on behind you. Outside your apartment windows, campus had gone mostly quiet. It was almost two in the morning and you had practice at eight, but Sonia had shown up after her own late workout looking exhausted and needy in the specific way she only ever got around you.
She stretched one arm toward you from the couch.
“Come here.”
“I have to finish this.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been rewinding the same possession for twenty minutes.”
You stared at her.
Then sighed dramatically, shutting your laptop.
“Happy?”
“Extremely.”
She grinned as you crossed the apartment and collapsed half on top of her. Sonia immediately pulled you closer, warm from her shower, hair still damp against your neck.
The TV continued playing silent game footage no one was watching anymore.
“You smell like a spa,” you mumbled.
“You smell like Tiger Balm.”
“That’s because I’m an athlete.”
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but you’re terrifyingly moisturized.”
Her laugh vibrated against your shoulder.
God.
You loved her laugh.
Not because it was pretty, though it was. Not because it was rare, because it wasn’t. Sonia laughed often. Easily.
You loved it because every time she laughed around you, it sounded surprised. Like happiness kept catching her off guard.
“You nervous?” she asked quietly after a minute.
“For?”
“The draft stuff.”
You shrugged against her.
“A little.”
“That’s normal.”
“Easy for you to say. Everyone already knows where you’re going.”
“They don’t know anything.”
“You’re literally projected top three.”
She made a face. “Projected. Which means nothing.”
You tilted your head enough to look at her. “You know you’re allowed to admit you’re good, right?”
“I admit it privately.”
“That’s annoying.”
“That’s humility.”
“That’s Catholic school trauma.”
Sonia snorted loudly.
“There she is,” you said. “The real Sonia Citron.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“That too.”
The words settled between you softly.
Not heavy.
Never heavy.
Loving Sonia had always felt strangely uncomplicated despite everything around you being hard. Practices. Expectations. Media. Classes. Scouts sitting courtside pretending not to stare.
With Sonia, there was no performance.
You could exist half-finished around her.
Some nights you thought that scared you more than anything.
“You know what I think?” Sonia murmured.
“What?”
“I think when you get drafted, you’re gonna pretend you’re cool about it and then cry immediately after.”
“I will not cry.”
“You cried watching that dog movie.”
“He died.”
“The dog survived.”
“…Oh.”
Sonia laughed again, quieter this time.
You buried your face into her shoulder to hide your embarrassment and she instinctively wrapped herself around you tighter.
Outside, rain tapped lightly against the windows.
Inside, Sonia’s fingers traced absentminded circles against your spine while your breathing slowly synced with hers.
Sometimes you wondered if people understood how dangerous happiness could be.
You were getting a little too used to this.
That thought arrived quietly sometimes.
Not enough to ruin anything. Not enough to make you pull away completely. Just a flicker of panic beneath all the good parts.
It happened in small moments.
In the middle of brushing your teeth beside Sonia while she complained about one of her teammates stealing her protein bars again.
During late-night drives when her hand stayed warm on your thigh at red lights.
When she showed up to your apartment without knocking anymore because your roommates had started treating her like she already lived there.
You were getting too used to someone staying.
And some instinct deep inside you kept waiting for something to go wrong.
The scary part was that Sonia never gave you a reason to feel that way.
She was patient in a way that almost felt unfair.
Never pushing too hard. Never making your silences feel ugly. If you disappeared for a few hours after a bad practice or a rough game, Sonia would just text:
thinking about you. call me when you wanna be perceived again.
Like she understood you without needing explanations.
Maybe that was what frightened you most.
The fact that she kept learning you anyway.
—
“You’re doing it again.”
You blinked up from the passenger seat.
“Hm?”
Sonia kept one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming absentmindedly against your knee. The city blurred gold outside the windows, streetlights stretching across the windshield in long sleepy streaks.
“You get quiet when you’re overwhelmed.”
“I’m literally talking to you.”
“You haven’t spoken in like six minutes.”
“Some of us don’t yap constantly.”
Sonia smiled a little.
“You had three scouts at practice today.”
You groaned immediately, leaning your head back against the seat.
“Don’t remind me.”
“You looked good.”
“I missed like four shots.”
“You still looked good.”
“That’s because you’re in love with me.”
“I fear that’s exactly the problem.”
You turned to look at her then.
Sonia drove with this calmness that always fascinated you. One arm relaxed. Jaw soft. Music low enough to hear the sound of her tapping her fingers against the wheel.
Everything about her felt steady.
Like the kind of person who knew how to stay.
“You ever think about how weird this all is?” you asked suddenly.
“What part?”
“All of it.”
She glanced at you briefly. “You’ll have to narrow that down.”
You watched the city pass outside for a second before speaking again.
“I don’t know. Just… us.”
Sonia’s expression softened instantly.
“What about us?”
You almost said too much right there.
That sometimes loving her felt less like falling and more like standing very still at the edge of something enormous.
That every time she looked at you like you were permanent, your chest tightened with equal parts happiness and fear.
Instead, you shrugged.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Can you keep your eyes on the road?”
“My eyes are on the road.”
“You’re staring at me spiritually.”
That made her laugh.
God.
There it was again.
That awful feeling.
Like your life had started arranging itself around her without your permission.
You reached over and turned the music up before she could ask more questions.
Sonia hummed along under her breath.
You stared out the window and tried not to think about how badly you wanted this to last.
—
The first time Sonia said “come home safe” after hanging up the phone, you nearly cried.
Which was ridiculous.
It wasn’t even emotional.
You’d been half-asleep after a road game, mumbling through exhaustion while digging through your bag for your room key.
“Text me when you get inside,” Sonia had said.
“Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“Debatable.”
A pause.
Then softer:
“Come home safe, okay?”
Home.
Not the hotel.
Not campus.
Home.
The word lodged somewhere beneath your ribs and stayed there.
After that, she said it constantly.
After practices.
After games.
After late-night grocery runs.
Come home safe.
Like she genuinely believed there was a future where you kept returning to each other.
And every single time, something nervous twisted inside your chest.
—
“You know,” your teammate muttered one afternoon while watching Sonia sit beside you on the training room table, carefully rewrapping your ankle after practice, “you guys are disgustingly married.”
“We’re not married,” you said immediately.
Sonia didn’t even look up.
“She’d cry if I proposed publicly.”
“That’s because public proposals are manipulative.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“I think about escaping constantly.”
Your teammate snorted.
Sonia finally glanced up then, fingers still gentle against your ankle.
“You know you’re impossible, right?”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” she echoed quietly.
The trainer walked past muttering something about getting a room.
You rolled your eyes, but Sonia only smiled faintly before pressing one last strip of tape into place.
Her hands lingered for a second too long.
Not dramatic.
Just familiar.
Like touching you had become instinct.
Something about that realization made your stomach turn unexpectedly.
You pulled your leg back too quickly.
Sonia noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She noticed everything.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Too fast.
A tiny crease appeared between her brows.
You hated that crease. Hated what it meant. Sonia only looked at you like that when she thought you were slipping away somewhere she couldn’t follow.
So before she could ask another question, you stood abruptly.
“I’m starving. You wanna get food?”
The concern on her face softened immediately.
“Always.”
And just like that, the moment disappeared.
But later that night, long after Sonia fell asleep with one arm heavy across your waist, you stayed awake staring at the ceiling.
Listening to her breathe.
~
By March, Sonia had become part of your life in ways neither of you acknowledged out loud anymore.
Her toothbrush sat beside yours in the bathroom cup.
There was a charger permanently plugged into the left side of your bed because she always forgot hers.
Your teammates stopped asking where you were after practice if Sonia wasn’t around because the answer was obvious.
With Sonia.
Always Sonia.
The thing was, none of it happened intentionally.
There was never some dramatic conversation where you decided to intertwine your lives. It just… happened. Quietly. Organically. Like water slowly wearing down stone.
You hated how much you loved that.
One Thursday afternoon, you came back from lifting to find Sonia in your apartment kitchen wearing one of your old practice shirts and arguing with your roommate over whether strawberries belonged on salads.
“They absolutely do,” Sonia insisted, pointing a wooden spoon threateningly. “You people just hate joy.”
“You’re from New York,” your roommate said flatly. “Your opinions don’t count.”
Sonia looked up as soon as she heard you walk in.
And there it was again.
That unbearable softness that crossed her face every time she saw you.
Like arriving somewhere familiar.
Your chest tightened strangely.
“You look dead,” Sonia said immediately.
“Thank you.”
“You need food.”
“I need twelve uninterrupted hours of sleep.”
“Not possible,” she replied, already moving around the kitchen again. “I made pasta.”
Your roommate snorted. “She bullied me out of the kitchen thirty minutes ago.”
“I did not bully you.”
“You called my seasoning technique emotionally upsetting.”
Sonia gasped. “Because it was.”
You laughed despite yourself, dropping your bag near the couch.
For a moment you just stood there watching her move around your kitchen like she belonged there.
And maybe that was the problem.
Not Sonia herself.
The fact that she was becoming woven into every ordinary part of your life so deeply you couldn’t picture your days without her anymore.
That thought made panic rise hot and sudden in your throat.
You looked away immediately.
“Hey,” Sonia said softly.
You blinked.
She was watching you now, expression gentler than before.
“You disappeared again.”
“I’m literally standing here.”
“You know what I mean.”
Your roommate glanced between you both once before muttering something about homework and escaping down the hallway.
Coward.
Sonia set the spoon down carefully. “What’s going on in that head?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
You forced a shrug. “Just tired.”
She didn’t fully believe you. You could tell by the way her eyes searched your face for another few seconds.
But Sonia had this habit of giving you room when you started retreating emotionally, like she understood pushing too hard would only make you pull further away.
Sometimes you loved her for that.
Sometimes you wished she’d force you to explain yourself anyway.
“C’mere,” she murmured.
You crossed the kitchen before you could think too hard about it.
Sonia immediately slid her arms around your waist, warm and solid and familiar. You let your forehead fall against her shoulder, breathing in eucalyptus and detergent and something unmistakably her.
“You’re warm,” you mumbled.
“You say that every time.”
“Because you run at concerning temperatures.”
She laughed quietly, fingers rubbing absentmindedly against your back beneath your hoodie.
The apartment was loud around you — pots clanging, traffic outside, your roommate yelling at someone through a headset down the hall — but standing there with Sonia somehow still felt strangely private.
Like the world softened around her.
“You know what your problem is?” Sonia asked after a minute.
“I have several.”
“You spend so much time waiting for bad things to happen that you don’t notice when good things are already happening.”
Your stomach dropped a little.
Because she said it casually.
Like an observation.
Not realizing she’d accidentally reached directly into the center of you.
You pulled back just enough to look at her. “That sounded made up.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You rehearsed that.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely practiced saying that in the mirror.”
Sonia rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “You’re annoying.”
“And yet you’re deeply obsessed with me.”
“That part’s unfortunately true.”
There was that word again.
Unfortunately.
Sonia used it jokingly whenever she talked about loving you too much, but every single time she said it, something in your chest squeezed painfully.
Because she said it like she couldn’t help it.
Like loving you had already become involuntary.
And maybe that should’ve comforted you.
Instead, it terrified you.
—
The first mock draft placing Sonia top three came out two weeks later.
ESPN graphics.
Highlight reels.
Interview clips.
Everywhere you looked, there she was.
You were proud of her. God, you were.
But pride sat strangely beside grief.
Because suddenly everything felt temporary.
Your college season.
Your routines.
The apartment.
Her showing up after practice.
Late-night drives.
Falling asleep tangled together while game film played in the background.
There was a clock on all of it now.
You started noticing it constantly.
Sonia leaving sweatshirts behind because she assumed she’d come back for them.
The way she talked about future apartments in cities she might get drafted to.
How excited your teammates got whenever draft conversations came up.
Everyone talked about the future like it was exciting.
You mostly thought it sounded like losing things.
One night after a game, Sonia found you sitting alone in the empty practice gym with all the lights off except one.
“You scared the hell out of me,” she said, stepping inside.
“Sorry.”
“You okay?”
You nodded automatically.
Then, because it was Sonia:
“I don’t know.”
She walked toward you slowly, sneakers squeaking softly against the hardwood.
You sat cross-legged near center court, still sweaty from the game, ice wrapped around one knee.
Sonia lowered herself beside you with a tired groan.
“Old age,” you muttered.
“We are literally twenty-two.”
“Speak for yourself, grandmother.”
Sonia bumped her shoulder lightly against yours.
For a few minutes neither of you spoke.
The arena hummed quietly around you. Distant staff voices echoed somewhere in the halls. A basketball rolled faintly in another court nearby.
Eventually Sonia leaned her head against your shoulder.
“You’ve been weird lately.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Weird how?”
“Like you’re somewhere else.”
You stared down at your taped fingers.
“I’m here.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But not fully.”
That hurt more than you expected.
Because the worst part was she was right.
You didn’t know how to explain that happiness made you nervous sometimes. That every time your future started feeling real and tangible and close enough to touch, some part of you instinctively wanted to run before it could disappear on its own.
Sonia tilted her head slightly to look at you.
“Talk to me.”
You almost did.
You almost told her everything right there in the half-dark of the empty gym.
That sometimes loving her felt so good it scared you sick.
That she’d become the first person you unconsciously searched for in every room.
That somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling temporary.
Instead, you leaned your head back against the bleachers and exhaled slowly.
“I think I’m just tired.”
Sonia studied your face for another second like she was deciding whether to push.
Then she sighed softly and rested her head against your shoulder again.
“Tired I can work with.”
Relief and guilt tangled together unpleasantly in your stomach.
You hated lying to her.
You hated even more how easily she accepted half-truths when they came from you.
The gym stayed quiet around you for a while after that. Sonia absentmindedly tracing shapes against your wrist while you watched the overhead lights blur faintly out of focus.
“You know,” she murmured eventually, “my coach asked me today if I was nervous about the draft.”
You glanced down at her. “And?”
“And I said yes.”
“You? Honest emotional vulnerability? Growth.”
She snorted. “Shut up.”
“What’re you nervous about?”
Sonia was quiet for a second.
Then, very softly:
“Leaving.”
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
You tried to make your voice light. “You’re acting like you’re being shipped off to war.”
“It kind of feels like it.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I know I’ll be fine basketball-wise.”
The way she said it made you look at her properly.
Sonia stared out at the empty court, jaw slightly tense now.
“I just…” She hesitated. “I don’t know what all this looks like after.”
“All this?”
Her eyes flicked toward you briefly.
Us.
She didn’t say it out loud, but the word settled between you anyway.
You swallowed.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Sonia searched your face like she was trying to see whether you believed that yourself.
Then slowly, she reached over and laced your fingers together.
The familiar pressure of her hand against yours should’ve comforted you.
Instead, panic flared sharp and irrational beneath your ribs.
Not because you wanted to let go.
Because you didn’t.
That was the problem.
—
The rest of the season passed too quickly after that.
Suddenly everything became “last.”
Last rivalry game.
Last senior night.
Last conference tournament.
People cried constantly. Coaches gave sentimental speeches. Your teammates took pictures of everything.
Sonia handled it better than you did.
Or maybe she just hid it better.
She started sleeping at your apartment more often near the end of the season, both of you pretending it was convenience instead of avoidance. Every conversation about the draft felt like standing too close to an edge neither of you wanted to acknowledge yet.
One night, a few weeks before conference playoffs, you woke up around three in the morning to find Sonia sitting awake beside you.
The room was dark except for the faint blue light from outside filtering through the curtains.
You blinked sleepily. “Why are you awake?”
She looked over immediately, startled out of thought.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No.”
Your voice came out rough with sleep as you pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
You stared at her flatly.
“That’s my line.”
A tiny smile appeared on her face before disappearing again.
She looked tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
“You ever wish things would just stay the same for a little longer?” she asked quietly.
The question settled heavily in the dark.
You looked at her for a second before answering.
“All the time.”
Sonia nodded once, eyes dropping to her hands.
“We’ve spent our whole lives working for this,” she murmured. “And now that it’s actually happening, I keep feeling like I’m about to lose something.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
Because you knew exactly what she meant.
And because some terrible part of you had already started pulling away in preparation for it.
You reached for her before you could stop yourself, fingers curling around her wrist gently.
“You’re not losing me.”
The words came automatically.
Instinctive.
Sonia looked at you then with an expression so open it almost hurt to see.
“You promise?”
And there it was.
That awful squeezing feeling again.
Because Sonia asked questions like she expected honesty.
You forced yourself to nod anyway.
“I promise.”
She leaned down after that and kissed you softly, one hand cupping your jaw with so much care it made your chest ache.
You kissed her back immediately.
Desperately, almost.
Like trying to convince yourself of something.
Afterward, Sonia settled back beside you again, her arm wrapping automatically around your waist.
Within minutes her breathing evened out.
She fell asleep quickly after emotional conversations. You’d noticed that months ago.
You stayed awake much longer.
Staring at the ceiling.
Listening to rain tap softly against the windows.
And somewhere deep down, beneath all the love and warmth and certainty between you both—
something inside you still whispered:
nothing this good ever stays.
~
The ACL tear happened six days before Sonia’s final home game.
Six days before senior night.
Six days before the carefully planned future both of you had been building all year split open without warning.
It happened late in the fourth quarter during a game that should’ve been forgettable.
You barely even remembered the score afterward.
Only the feeling.
Your body already exhausted, legs heavy from playing nearly the entire game. The crowd loud but unfocused in that ordinary mid-season way. Sweat cooling against the back of your neck as you pushed the ball up the court one last time.
Everything happened fast after that.
A defender shifted left.
You planted instinctively to change direction.
Then—
wrong.
Not pain at first.
Just wrong.
Your knee buckled inward violently beneath you and suddenly the floor slammed into your side hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.j
The whistle blew almost immediately.
For one disorienting second, the arena went strangely quiet in your head.
Muted.
Like the world had been shoved underwater.
Then pain hit.
Sharp. Blinding. Immediate.
“Oh, fuck—”
Your hands grabbed for your knee before you even fully understood what happened. Panic surged through you so quickly it made your vision blur.
No no no no—
Teammates crowded around instantly.
Someone yelling for the trainer.
Someone else grabbing your hand.
You tried to sit up too fast and pain shot up your leg so violently you nearly threw up on the court.
That was when fear really settled in.
Not normal fear.
Athlete fear.
The kind that arrived before doctors or scans or confirmation because somewhere deep in your body, you already knew.
Across the country, Sonia was in the middle of media training for draft prep when her phone started vibrating nonstop across the table.
At first she ignored it.
Then your teammate called.
Then another.
Then another.
One of the assistants frowned. “Sonia?”
She picked up her phone finally, confusion flickering briefly across her face before draining instantly.
A clip had already been posted online.
The replay autoplayed before she could stop it.
Your knee twisting inward.
Your scream.
The way you grabbed your leg immediately afterward.
Sonia stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped backward.
You heard every word and somehow none of them at all.
Your season was over.
Your draft plans suddenly uncertain.
Your fifth year—which had once felt strategic and exciting—now felt humiliating somehow.
You sat there staring blankly at the floor while your coach asked questions for you because you physically couldn’t make your mouth work properly.
The worst part wasn’t even the pain.
It was how quickly everything changed.
People started looking at you differently almost immediately.
Too carefully.
Teammates hovering constantly. Staff members lowering their voices around you. Reporters suddenly using words like devastating and unfortunate.
You hated all of it.
Most of all, you hated feeling breakable.
Sonia booked the first flight she could find.
You knew she was coming before she texted because your roommate started panic-cleaning the apartment the second she got the notification.
“She lands in twenty minutes,” she said gently.
You nodded without looking up from the couch.
Your brace felt too heavy.
Everything felt too heavy.
The apartment stayed quiet after that except for the sound of your roommate moving around the kitchen pretending not to watch you spiral silently.
You hadn’t cried again since the court.
Not because you were okay.
Because crying made this real.
When the apartment door finally opened, your chest tightened so painfully you almost stopped breathing for a second.
Sonia stepped inside looking exhausted and terrified all at once.
Like she’d spent the entire flight trying to convince herself you’d be okay and failed halfway through.
The second her eyes landed on the brace, something in her expression cracked.
“Oh,” she breathed softly.
You looked away immediately.
Some awful embarrassed feeling crawled up your throat.
You didn’t want her seeing you like this already.
“Hey,” you said quietly.
Sonia crossed the apartment in three quick strides and dropped beside you on the couch so fast it almost startled you.
Her hands hovered uncertainly near your face first.
Like she didn’t know where you hurt most.
And somehow that undid you completely.
Your eyes burned instantly.
“Oh, baby,” Sonia whispered.
That was it.
You broke.
Not graceful crying either.
Humiliating crying.
The kind that stole oxygen from your lungs and made your chest ache violently with every breath.
Sonia pulled you into her immediately, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurt.
“I know,” she kept murmuring softly into your hair. “I know, I know.”
You buried your face against her shoulder, shaking hard enough to make your knee throb painfully inside the brace.
Everything spilled out all at once after that.
Fear.
Anger.
Grief.
You’d spent your whole life building toward basketball.
And now your body had betrayed you in less than three seconds.
“It’s not fair,” you choked out eventually.
“I know.”
“I was supposed to—”
Your voice cracked apart.
Sonia pulled back just enough to look at you properly, both hands cradling your face carefully.
“You’re gonna come back from this.”
The certainty in her voice almost made you cry harder.
Because Sonia said things like she believed them completely.
Like your future still existed untouched somewhere ahead of you.
You wanted desperately to believe her too.
For a second, you almost did.
—
You almost didn’t go to Sonia’s senior night six days later.
Your surgery still hadn’t been scheduled yet, but the brace sat heavy against your leg everywhere you went now, a constant reminder that your body no longer felt fully yours.
You hated being seen in it.
Hated the pity most of all.
Every conversation suddenly sounded softer around you. Coaches. Teammates. Staff.
Like everyone had collectively decided you were fragile.
So you sat on the edge of your bed for nearly an hour staring at the jersey your roommate had laid out for you earlier, anxiety curling steadily tighter beneath your ribs.
You didn’t want cameras on you.
Didn’t want reporters asking about rehab timelines or recovery projections or your fifth year.
Mostly, you didn’t want to stand beside Sonia while everyone celebrated her future knowing yours suddenly felt uncertain.
Your phone buzzed beside you.
Sonia:
are you coming tonight or do i need to commit a crime
Despite everything, you smiled faintly.
you:
depends. what kind of crime
Sonia:
something theatrical. maybe arson
you:
dramatic
Sonia:
please come
Three words.
Simple.
But something inside your chest softened anyway.
~
The arena felt too loud from the second you walked in.
Not normal game-night loud.
Celebratory loud.
Bands playing too long between warmups. Fans crowding closer to the tunnels than usual. Handmade signs everywhere with glitter peeling off the edges:
THANK YOU SONIA
ND LEGEND
FOREVER #11
You kept your hood up as you moved carefully down the stairs toward the family section, one hand gripping the railing tighter than necessary while your brace pressed stiffly against your knee.
Every few steps someone recognized you.
You could feel it happen before they even said anything.
The glance downward at the brace.
The flicker of recognition.
The sympathy.
You hated sympathy.
“Over here,” Sonia’s mom called gently once she spotted you lingering awkwardly near the aisle.
You forced a smile and slipped into the empty seat beside her.
“You doing okay?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
The lie came automatically now.
She didn’t push, just squeezed your hand briefly before turning back toward the court.
Warmups had already started.
Sonia jogged onto the floor a second later, and despite everything twisting painfully inside your chest lately, your body still reacted to her instantly.
Like instinct.
She looked good tonight.
Focused.
Loose.
A little emotional around the edges in the way she always got before big moments.
The second she spotted you near the baseline, her entire face changed.
Not dramatically.
That was the thing about Sonia.
She never loved you loudly in ways that felt performative.
It was always small shifts.
Her shoulders relaxing.
Her eyes softening.
That unconscious little smile she only ever wore around you.
She pointed toward you briefly during layup lines.
You rolled your eyes.
Sonia grinned immediately.
One of her teammates noticed and nearly gagged theatrically beside her.
You could tell exactly what she said by the way Sonia shoved her shoulder afterward.
Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.
The game blurred after that, The ceremony ended in noise.
Too much of it.
Music blaring through the speakers, fans leaning over railings trying to take pictures, families flooding the court with flowers and signs and tears. The whole arena had dissolved into celebration so quickly it barely felt real anymore.
You stayed near the baseline.
Not hiding exactly.
Just… lingering at the edge of things.
Your knee had started throbbing halfway through the fourth quarter from sitting too long, the brace stiff beneath your jeans as you shifted your weight carefully from one leg to the other.
Across the court, Sonia was being pulled in every direction at once.
Teammates hugging her.
Coaches stopping her for pictures.
Little kids asking for autographs.
And through all of it, you kept catching her looking for you.
Not intentionally, maybe.
But every few seconds her eyes drifted back toward the baseline like instinct.
The giant screen above the court replayed highlights from the game:
her last three-pointer,
the standing ovation,
Sonia laughing into her coach’s shoulder while the crowd screamed loud enough to shake the building.
You watched her standing in the middle of all of it and suddenly felt strangely emotional.
Because this was it.
The ending of something.
Not your relationship.
Just this version of your lives.
College.
Late-night campus drives.
Sneaking into empty gyms after hours.
Knowing exactly where to find each other every day.
You wondered if Sonia felt it too.
Then suddenly—
she broke away from the crowd.
You noticed it immediately.
One second she was smiling through another picture with her family, and the next she was turning away before the camera flash even faded properly.
Looking for you.
Your stomach tightened.
People kept trying to stop her on the way over.
Fans reaching for high-fives.
Teammates grabbing at her shoulders.
Someone from media calling her name.
Sonia ignored all of them.
Actually ignored them.
Her eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time she crossed the court.
The closer she got, the more overwhelming the noise around you became somehow. The crowd realizing where she was heading. Phones already lifting toward the two of you before anything even happened.
You barely had time to smile before Sonia reached you.
And kissed you immediately.
No warning.
No hesitation.
One hand cupped your face so gently it almost hurt while the other grabbed instinctively at your waist, pulling you toward her hard enough to make the flowers tucked beneath her arm crumple slightly.
The crowd lost its mind.
Actually screamed.
But Sonia kissed you like she couldn’t hear any of it.
Slow.
Certain.
Like she’d been trying to get back to you the entire night.
Your hand gripped the front of her jersey automatically, balance wavering for a second beneath your bad knee before Sonia steadied you closer against her without even thinking about it.
That tiny movement—
careful and protective and so familiar—
made something ache sharply inside your chest.
When she finally pulled back, the whole arena was still roaring around you.
Sonia stayed close enough that her nose brushed yours slightly, breathing hard from adrenaline and emotion and probably the fact that thousands of people had just watched her kiss you on national television.
Neither of you spoke for a second.
Then Sonia laughed softly under her breath like she couldn’t believe herself.
“There you are,” she murmured.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Like she’d been searching for you all night.
Like finding you had been the important part.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You’re insane,” you whispered.
“Probably.”
Cameras flashed nonstop around you both now.
Somewhere behind Sonia, her teammates were screaming and fake-collapsing dramatically against each other while the jumbotron replayed the kiss in delayed slow motion above the court.
The crowd got louder seeing it again.
You immediately groaned. “Oh my god.”
Sonia finally glanced up at the screen and physically winced laughing.
“We’re never escaping this.”
And she was right.
By the time you got back to your apartment later that night, clips of the moment were already everywhere online.
The way Sonia crossed the entire court just to get to you.
The kiss.
The crowd reaction afterward.
Someone slowed the footage down and edited it to Legendary Love before midnight.
By morning, the video had millions of views.
People called it cinematic.
Iconic.
Proof soulmates were real.
Neither of you realized then that months later strangers would still repost that same clip with captions about love lasting forever while the two of you could barely look at each other anymore.
~
The draft happened three weeks after your surgery.
You watched most of it from your apartment couch with your leg elevated on pillows and a half-melted ice pack sliding dangerously close to the floor.
Everything still smelled faintly sterile lately.
Bandages.
Disinfectant.
Pain medication.
Your whole life had narrowed into recovery schedules and physical therapy timelines so quickly it barely felt recognizable anymore.
Meanwhile Sonia sat in a glittering dress beneath arena lights with cameras pointed at her from every angle.
You stared at the TV quietly while analysts talked about her defense, her versatility, her composure under pressure.
They loved using words like polished for Sonia.
Like she’d been born already prepared for all of this.
Your phone buzzed constantly throughout the night.
Teammates.
Friends.
Former coaches.
Everyone asking if you were watching.
As if there was anywhere else you could possibly look.
When the commissioner finally announced Sonia as the third overall pick to the Washington Mystics, your entire apartment erupted.
Your roommate screamed loud enough to scare the neighbors.
Your teammates started spamming the groupchat instantly.
The TV replayed Sonia’s reaction from six different angles.
And there she was.
Crying.
Laughing.
Covering her mouth in disbelief while cameras flashed around her endlessly.
Beautiful.
You felt so overwhelmingly proud of her it almost hurt.
The camera cut briefly toward the crowd while Sonia hugged her family.
Then suddenly she looked directly into one of the sideline cameras and smiled softly.
Your phone vibrated immediately.
Sonia:
i know you’re crying btw
Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.
you:
literally nobody cried
Sonia:
liar
A second later:
Sonia:
wish you were here
That one hurt.
Not because she meant to hurt you.
Because she didn’t.
That was always the problem with Sonia.
She loved you honestly.
Even when honesty made things ache.
—
At first, you really did try.
That was the worst part later.
People always acted like relationships fell apart in obvious dramatic ways, but yours didn’t.
It eroded slowly.
Quietly.
Like water damage hidden inside walls.
The first few weeks after the draft, Sonia called constantly.
From airports.
From training camp.
From media days.
Sometimes she’d stay on FaceTime while getting ready for practice just because she said your apartment felt too quiet without background noise now.
“You know what’s evil?” she complained one night while aggressively brushing mascara off her eyelid in a hotel bathroom mirror.
“You?”
“These interviewers keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”
“What a difficult burden.”
Sonia rolled her eyes a little. “I literally just said yes.”
You looked up from where you sat on the couch, ice wrapped loosely around your knee.
“Just like that?”
“…Yes?”
She sounded confused by the question.
Like there genuinely hadn’t been another option.
“You know people are insane about us now, right?” you said.
“That happened the second I kissed you at senior night in front of an entire arena.”
“Still your fault.”
“You kissed me back.”
“You ambushed me publicly.”
Sonia grinned faintly. “And I’d do it again.”
Your chest tightened in that familiar dangerous way.
Ever since senior night, the two of you had accidentally become a thing online.
Not intentionally curated. Not influencer-couple annoying. People just… liked you together.
You stared at the screen too long without answering.
Sonia noticed instantly, of course.
“You okay?”
“Mhmm.”
“You made that sound with two m’s. That means you’re lying.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You love me.”
The words came easy to her.
Natural.
Like breathing.
Something in your chest tightened painfully.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
Sonia smiled immediately, distracted moments later by someone knocking at her hotel room door.
You watched her move through the room while talking to a teammate offscreen, completely at ease already in this new life.
New city.
New teammates.
New routines.
Everything about her seemed to be expanding outward while your own world stayed painfully small.
Physical therapy.
Pain.
Recovery.
Repeat.
Some days you barely left the apartment unless your trainer forced you to.
The worst part wasn’t even your knee.
It was how invisible you suddenly felt.
Basketball moved on quickly.
There was always another game.
Another rising player.
Another headline.
At first sports pages still mentioned you regularly:
promising return timelines,
draft speculation for next year,
injury updates.
Then slowly—
less.
Sonia’s name kept climbing higher while yours started disappearing entirely.
One afternoon during rehab, the TV mounted in the training room played one of Sonia’s preseason interviews.
You tried not to pay attention.
Failed immediately.
“She’s adjusting incredibly well,” the analyst said. “Honestly, she looks like she belongs here already.”
Your physical therapist glanced toward the screen.
“She’s killing it.”
You smiled tightly. “Yeah.”
“You guys still together?”
The question hit strangely.
“Obviously,” you answered too fast.
He nodded casually, not noticing the way your stomach twisted afterward.
Like even hearing Sonia’s name now came with this awful undercurrent of distance.
—
The first missed call happened accidentally.
Sonia called during one of your post-op appointments while your phone sat buried in your bag.
By the time you saw it an hour later, she’d already texted:
alive?
You smiled faintly.
you:
unfortunately
Sonia:
thank god. thought you died
you:
dramatic
Sonia:
call me later?
You meant to.
Really.
But rehab ran long.
Your knee hurt.
You fell asleep early from pain medication.
When you woke up the next morning, Sonia had already posted practice pictures with her teammates.
You stared at them too long.
Everyone in the comments looked obsessed with her already.
Mystics fans.
Basketball pages.
People making edits before she’d even played an official game.
You felt strangely disconnected looking at it.
Like watching someone you loved slowly move further away through glass.
You called her later that afternoon.
Sonia answered immediately.
“There she is.”
Warmth flooded your chest so suddenly it almost made you angry.
“Hi.”
“How’s your knee?”
“Still attached.”
“Good. I’d miss it.”
You laughed quietly.
For a while, things felt normal again.
Sonia talking about rookie camp.
You complaining about rehab exercises.
Both of you falling back into familiar rhythms so naturally it almost erased the distance temporarily.
Then her teammate yelled something in the background.
Sonia turned away from the camera laughing.
And suddenly you noticed it.
How easily she already fit there.
Like her life was beginning to reshape itself somewhere you no longer belonged.
The thought sat ugly in your stomach long after the call ended.
—
After that, the withdrawal started small.
So small neither of you fully noticed at first.
You replied a little slower.
Called back a little less.
Started saying you were tired even when you weren’t.
Sonia still texted constantly.
Pictures from airports.
Locker room selfies.
Videos of her teammates bullying her.
You reacted to most of them with hearts instead of actual responses.
It felt easier.
Safer somehow.
One night, Sonia called after her first preseason win practically vibrating with excitement.
“We won.”
“I saw.”
“And I scored twelve.”
“I saw that too.”
“You sound sad about it.”
“I’m literally proud of you.”
“I know,” Sonia said softly. “I just wish I could see your face right now.”
Something in your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Because six months ago that wouldn’t have been complicated.
Now the idea of Sonia seeing you at all filled you with panic you couldn’t explain properly.
Your scar still looked angry and swollen.
Some days you couldn’t recognize your own body anymore.
Meanwhile Sonia existed under arena lights looking more beautiful every time she appeared on television.
“You will eventually,” you said quietly.
Sonia was silent for a second too long.
“Yeah,” she answered eventually.
But something about her voice sounded uncertain now too.
—
The first time someone casually mentioned Sonia to you like she belonged more to the public than to you, it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.
It happened in a grocery store.
You were limping slightly beside the cart while your roommate argued over cereal choices when two girls near the freezer section suddenly recognized you.
“Oh my god,” one whispered loudly.
You immediately tensed.
Not because of recognition.
Because of what came next.
“That’s y/n!, Sonia Citron’s girlfriend.”
Girlfriend.
still a bitter reminder for what u guys were known for.
The girls smiled politely when you glanced over.
One of them said, “Tell her she’s insane for that game-winning shot.”
she said it like you guys saw and talked to each other everyday. that’s what hurt.
You forced a smile automatically. “I will.”
Then you turned down the next aisle so quickly your roommate had to jog to catch up.
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You’ve noticed her long before she ever notices you.
The girl in the corner. Always with the same oversized navy hoodie pulled halfway down her face, earbuds tucked in snug, one AirPod sometimes dangling lazily on her chest like it’s holding on for dear life. The same drink in front of her, iced matcha, never touched till the ice melts. A plain black notebook open on the table, pen resting on the spine like it’s been abandoned mid-thought.
She’s the quiet kind of fascinating. Not the type you can figure out in one sitting or with a few glances from across the café. No. Sonia Citron is slow-burn intrigue. The kind of person you watch with the volume off, hoping to catch the rhythm of her silence.
You’re new in town. New job. New apartment. Same habits. Coffee before work. Noise before silence. People before isolation. So when your teammates at the rec center gym mention the café near the practice facility, you start coming. And when you see her for the third day in a row, same seat, same hoodie, same silence, you decide to finally speak.
You don’t ask for permission when you sit. Just drop your gym bag down with a thud and plant yourself across from her like you’ve been doing it for years.
She doesn’t even flinch.
“You always sit here?” you ask, voice casual, like this is the most normal interaction in the world.
She doesn't look up. Doesn’t pause her music. Doesn’t blink. “You’re in my spot.”
There’s a beat of silence where you almost feel bad. Almost. But she’s still writing, or pretending to, and you’re more curious than polite.
“Good,” you grin, sliding your drink closer to the edge. “I’ll see you here tomorrow.”
She finally looks up, and the look she gives you is flat, unimpressed, unreadable. Not annoyed. Not amused. Just... uninterested.
You’re not discouraged.
Because for someone who doesn’t talk to anyone, her eyes linger on you a moment too long before dropping back to her page.
The next morning, you’re there before she is.
Same seat. Same coffee. Same grin waiting on your lips like muscle memory. You don’t bring anything to do. Just your drink and your stupid curiosity.
When Sonia walks in, hoodie up, hair messy in a way that feels intentional, she stops three steps from the table. Looks at you, at your cup, at her usual seat. You half expect her to walk out.
She doesn’t. She sits down across from you again. Doesn’t say a word.
You don’t ask her name. You already know it. Everyone in town does, even if she acts like she isn’t a local legend. She doesn’t ask for yours either. Just keeps showing up. Every day. Same time. Same table. Sometimes she writes. Sometimes she stares out the window. Sometimes she wears both earbuds. Sometimes just one.
You learn to take your victories in degrees.
The first time she doesn’t wear her hood indoors, you count it as progress.
The first time she takes a sip of her drink before the ice melts, you consider it a miracle.
And the first time she glances at your phone screen while you scroll mindlessly beside her, mumbles, “That’s not funny,” under her breath when you laugh at a meme, you swear your heart does something strange.
Not romantic. Not yet.
Just the kind of flutter reserved for people you’re not supposed to get close to.
One morning, you show up late. Real late.
You overslept. Missed your alarm. Showed up in a panic expecting the seat across from her to be taken by some stranger who didn’t know the unspoken rule.
But when you walk in, breathless, she’s sitting alone.
Your coffee’s already on the table.
You blink. “Did you—?”
She doesn’t look up. “You always sit here.”
And this time, it’s her who doesn’t smile, but her tone is different.
Like maybe... she’s glad you do.
—
You don’t tell her you’re coming.
Because that’s not the kind of friendship you have. If you can even call it that. She still never uses your name. Just gives you a look when you sit across from her. Her eyes soften now when you place your drink between you. Sometimes she leans her notebook toward your side of the table, like she doesn’t mind if you see. Sometimes she steals a sip from your coffee like it’s hers.
It’s been months since that first morning.
She has a game today.
You didn’t even know until the barista, who figured out your quiet fascination weeks ago, pointed to the flatscreen mounted in the corner and said, “Hey, your girl’s got a game later.”
You watched a replay of an old game in silence as Sonia checked in during the second quarter, pulled her hoodie off on the bench, and jogged onto the court with the same blank, guarded expression she always wore at the café.
You felt it then. Not pride. Not awe.
Just... certainty.
Like yeah, of course she made it. Of course she’s a star. Of course she’s still quiet, still efficient, still the kind of person who never needs anyone, but still made space for you anyway.
You don’t tell her you're coming to the game. You just buy the ticket. Show up an hour early. Keep your hoodie up and your head down like you’re the one with a secret.
It’s a Tuesday night in D.C., mid-season. The arena’s packed with fans in red and navy. You sit in the fourth row, right behind the bench, just far enough that she won’t spot you in the chaos.
She doesn’t look at the crowd once.
Sonia’s checked in mid-second again, just like last game. You can’t tell she’s still adjusting to the pace, defense is sharp, she doesn’t hesitate on offense. She bites her lip after every missed opportunity. Still so young. Still so tightly wound.
You don’t cheer or clap. You don’t yell when she forces a steal near the end of the third quarter. You just watch her in the same way you always did. Quietly and patiently.
And when the buzzer sounds, and the Mystics take the win by six, you stand. You wait near the tunnel. Everyone else is shouting, reaching, recording. You just stand there. Hands in your pockets. Head slightly tilted.
She jogs past the crowd, high fiving some fans on instinct. Her face is unreadable again. Tired. Focused. Withdrawn.
And then she sees you.
Stops mid-step. Pauses like the air knocked out of her. Your hands are still in your pockets. You just nod.
That same nod you used to give her in the café. The one that meant “I see you.”
She doesn’t smile. But her shoulders drop, almost imperceptibly.
Like breathing gets easier when you’re near.
And without a word, without looking away, she changes direction and walks toward you.
Doesn’t stop until she’s close enough for her voice to be heard over the arena noise.
“You came.”
You shrug. “You always sit there. Figured I’d return the favor.”
There’s a flicker of something on her face. Not quite a smile. Not quite shock. Just... softness.
She reaches up and adjusts her jersey. “You didn’t tell me.”
You lift a brow. “Would you have let me?”
She doesn’t answer. Just looks at you for a long moment, like she’s trying to memorize the way you look in this light, in this setting, in this moment where the world feels a little louder but she doesn’t mind.
And then she says, quiet but clear, “You’ll be at the next one?”
You nod again. “You want me to be?”
Sonia finally smiles.
A real one. Small, close lipped and careful. But real.
Court side. Right next to the scorer’s table. Inches from the Dallas Wings bench. Close enough to hear the squeak of sneakers, the soft smack of high-fives, the clipped shouts from the coaches. But none of that mattered—none of it registered—because Paige Bueckers was on the court.
And you? You were in her line of sight.
She’s in warmups, bouncing from side to side, her hoodie half-zipped and draped loose over her practice jersey. She’s focused, kind of. Talking to teammates, stretching, shooting.
But every few seconds—without fail—her eyes flick to the sideline.
To you.
You pretend not to notice the first time. The second time, you wonder if you imagined it. By the third, you’re smiling to yourself. And by the fifth, you’re already leaning your cheek against your knuckles, elbow perched on the scorer’s table, your eyes following her like they belong there.
You’re not here by accident. You know what she can do. You’ve watched the highlight reels, the draft night interview, the pressers. But nothing—not the ESPN features or social media clips—prepared you for her in person. Not like this. Not from this close.
And maybe… maybe she wasn’t prepared for you either.
Toward the end of warmups, Paige glances at you again—longer this time. Her lips curve into something between a smile and a dare.
Then she jogs over.
“Hey,” she says, voice casual but breath catching on the edges.
You look up, pretending to be surprised. “Oh, hey. You talking to me?”
She grins. “Yeah. Unless someone else is sitting next to the scorer’s table looking like that.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Looking like what?”
She opens her mouth, closes it again, rubs the back of her neck. “You know. Just… like that.”
“Ah,” you tease. “That clears it up.”
She lets out a breath of laughter, almost shy, and points to the court. “I’ve got, like, two minutes before the buzzer. But I figured if I didn’t come over and say something now, I’d spend the whole game trying to work up the courage.”
“And what made you work it up now?” you ask.
She shrugs. “You kept looking at me like you were trying to memorize me. Kind of gave me confidence.”
Your smile falters just slightly, stunned by how direct she is. “Maybe I was,” you say softly.
The horn sounds. The crowd starts cheering. Paige steps back.
“I’ll be back,” she says with a wink, jogging off to join the huddle.
When the game starts, you think that’s it. A moment. A good story to tell.
But then the first timeout is called.
And she comes straight to you.
She plops down on the empty seat to your left—the bench already crowded, but apparently not too crowded for her to make room. A towel around her neck, sweat glistening at her temples.
“You impressed yet?” she asks, turning to you with that same bold smile, but her cheeks are flushed for a different reason this time.
You lean in just enough to make her breath hitch. “Maybe a little.”
She grins, nudging your shoulder with hers. “A little? I hit two threes and stole the ball. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know,” you muse. “Eye contact while you do it?”
Paige laughs, loud and bright, and a couple fans behind you gasp—not from the game, but from watching her. Someone shouts her name, camera out. Another yells, “Who’s she talking to?!”
But Paige doesn’t look away. Not once.
“You’ll get it,” she says.
By the third quarter, it’s a pattern.
She plays. She scores. She checks out. She sits next to you. And every time, she starts where you left off.
“I made eye contact that time. Did you catch it?”
“I did. You bit your lip after. That part intentional?”
“What—are you studying me?”
“Should I not be?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You sip your drink, and Paige watches your mouth like it’s the game.
Between minutes on the court, she becomes a different kind of player—less basketball, more charm. It’s effortless and clumsy at the same time. She tries to be cool but stumbles every time you respond without flinching. Your confidence knocks her off rhythm in ways a full-court press never could.
“Okay, I need to know something,” she says during the next timeout, twisting to face you.
You raise a brow. “Yeah?”
“Are you, like, doing this on purpose? The whole… cool, calm, collected mystery girl thing?”
You grin. “Is it working?”
Paige blinks at you. “Unfairly.”
By the time the fourth quarter rolls around, you can feel the phones pointed your way. The row behind you is buzzing with whispers. “Who is she?” “Are they together?” “She hasn’t stopped smiling at her this whole game.”
A clip of Paige sitting next to you—grinning like she’s at brunch, not in the middle of a WNBA game—is already circulating on TikTok. “Paige Bueckers sitting with her WHO? Mid-game??” The comments are ruthless and unhinged.
“she’s sitting there like it’s DATE NIGHT”
“somebody find this girl NOW”
“if i was next to paige i’d pass out”
“this is why she’s my favorite. she RIZZES mid timeout”
You don’t know any of that yet, but Paige’s teammates clearly do.
“Paige,” one of them hisses under her breath as she returns to the bench. “You’re trending.”
“So?” she mutters.
“You’re blushing.”
She is. But she just shrugs and glances back at you. “Can you blame me?”
You’re still smiling.
After the game—after her final three-pointer, after the confetti of applause—she jogs off the court and right back to you, towel around her neck again, ponytail swinging behind her.
You’re already standing.
“So?” she asks, breathless and beaming.
You nod once, like you’re giving her an award. “Color me impressed.”
She laughs, cheeks flushed, sweat still drying on her skin. “I’m Paige.”
You tilt your head. “I know.”
“And you are?”
You offer your name, softly, watching the way it lands on her lips.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Cool. Um—are you doing anything after this?”
You blink. “Are you asking me out?”
Paige scratches her neck, eyes hopeful. “Asking you to dinner. Just… as a celebration. Of me. And my incredible skills. And maybe you, for looking so good court side.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “I’d be honored.”
Fans around you shriek. Someone yells, “Oh My God!”
Paige grins. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before someone tries to follow us.”
And just like that, she takes your hand—not caring who’s watching anymore—and walks off the court.
Still blushing. Still smiling.
And still utterly, hopelessly impressed.
Paige disappears into the locker room with a final wink and a promise—“Don’t go anywhere”—and for a moment, you just stand there in the chaos of the post-game crowd. Fans swarm, ushers start corralling people toward exits, the jumbotron flashes game highlights overhead. But your world feels oddly quiet. Still. Like you’re waiting for something that already knows how to find you.
You make your way to the tunnel wall and lean there, hands in your pockets, legs crossed at the ankle. The corridor is mostly empty now, save for a few media stragglers and arena staff sweeping the court. You ignore the curious glances. A few more phones raise in your direction. One girl mouths “Are you Paige’s girlfriend?” and you just smile without answering.
A security guard gives you a small nod as you lean back against a wall, trying to look casual. You scroll through your phone, pretending not to notice the flood of notifications already piling up from the viral moment—clips, screenshots, tweets.
“Y’ALL PAIGE HAS A COURT SIDE GIRLFRIEND???”
“I don’t know who she is but I want to be her.”
“the way she LOOKS at her. I’m crying.”
“someone find this mystery woman NOW.”
You look up when you hear footsteps.
A little while later, the locker room door opens with a soft metallic clank.
Paige steps out in fresh clothes—oversized graphic tee, cargo pants, curls damp and pulled into a low bun. She’s clutching her phone in one hand and something in her other—a folded towel, maybe—but her eyes find yours immediately. And she lights up like she just won a second game.
“You waited.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
She jogs the few feet over and leans against the wall beside you, nudging your arm with her elbow. “I was afraid you’d get swept up by the internet.”
“Oh, I’ve definitely been recorded. You’re probably already being shipped with five different usernames.”
Paige groans, hiding her face in her hands. “God. I forgot the fans.”
You smile at her flushed cheeks, her bashful grin. “They love you.”
“I’m more worried about you,” she murmurs, eyes peeking up at you through her fingers. “All those videos… might be a lot.”
“Let them talk,” you say simply. “They saw what they saw.”
“And what did they see?”
You take a beat to look at her—really look. She’s all height and folded nerves, caught somewhere between confident and terrified, trying not to let the moment slip between her fingers. So you offer her a soft smile.
“They saw someone falling for you in real time.”
Paige blinks. Once. Twice. Her mouth parts but no words come. She just stares at you like you’ve knocked the breath from her chest.
Then, finally, she says, “You wanna go?”
She leads you out a side entrance, past media doors and a few lingering fans hoping for autographs. When one of them spots her and yells her name, Paige just waves politely and quickens her pace, making sure to stay close.
“You drove?” she asks.
“Nope. Wasn’t expecting to be swept off my feet post-game though.”
She chuckles, unlocking her car with a chirp. It’s clean inside—new car smell, mint gum in the console, a Wings baseball cap in the passenger seat. She tosses it in the back and opens your door for you.
“M’lady,” she gestures to the seat with a small, awkward flourish.
You laugh as you climb in. “You always this smooth?”
She shrugs. “Depends who I’m with.”
When she gets in on the driver’s side, you can feel a shift. The tension softens but doesn’t disappear—it stretches. Becomes something slower, warmer. Like curiosity and nerves, tangled into something unfamiliar and thrilling.
She starts the car, music humming low. The windows fog slightly with the contrast of your breath and the night air.
“I know a place,” she says, turning the wheel. “It’s, like, twenty minutes outside the city. Small diner, barely anyone goes. But they’ve got pancakes at midnight and extra thick milkshakes, which is basically a love language.”
You smile. “Sounds perfect.”
For a while, the drive is quiet. Not awkward. Just peaceful.
You glance sideways. She’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Her right hand lifts slightly from the wheel once… hovers near the center console… inches toward you—closer, closer—
Then pulls back at the last second.
You watch it. Watch her. Her jaw clenched just slightly, eyes glued to the road, like she’s mad at herself for not doing it.
So you take the initiative.
You reach out and gently take her hand, guiding it to your lap. Her breath catches audibly, but she doesn’t stop you. When you intertwine your fingers with hers, she exhales slowly, her grip tightening just enough to say thank you without words.
She glances over at you once—quick, like it hurts not to look longer—and you see it. The blush, high on her cheeks. The shy bite of her bottom lip. The twitch of a smile she can’t hold back.
“I wasn’t sure if I could,” she says softly.
“So I did it for you,” you reply.
She nods, eyes flicking to the road again, then to your hands in your lap. “I really like holding your hand.”
You grin. “You say that like you’ve been doing it for hours.”
“It kind of feels like I have.”
You let the silence stretch again, but now it’s charged. Every finger she squeezes, every thumb stroke over your knuckles—it’s all speaking louder than anything else in the car.
The city lights thin out behind you, and the road opens into dark stretches of highway dotted with gas stations and flickering signs.
Finally, she pulls off an old exit and rolls into a narrow parking lot. A small diner glows at the corner, neon sign buzzing softly. Open 24 Hours.
Inside, it looks like it hasn’t changed since the ‘80s—vinyl booths, checkered floor, a jukebox in the corner. You already love it.
She puts the car in park but doesn’t move.
You turn to her. “You okay?”
She nods. “Yeah. Just…” She squeezes your hand. “You make me nervous in a really good way.”
You lean in, letting your forehead rest against hers for just a moment. “Good. You do the same to me.”
And that’s all it takes for her to finally move.
She opens her door. Walks around. Opens yours too, even though you beat her to it. Holds your hand again the second you’re out of the car, thumb brushing along the back.
You walk inside together.
And she doesn’t let go.
The diner is quiet, with only two other tables occupied—an elderly couple sharing a plate of fries and a trucker hunched over his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
You and Paige slip into a booth near the window. She lets you slide in first and then settles across from you, but her hand doesn't leave yours. She just shifts it onto the table, her fingers still tangled with yours like she’s afraid if she lets go, you’ll vanish.
The waitress walks over—name tag says Lucy, pen tucked behind her ear, eyes crinkling at the sight of Paige.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Bueckers,” she says, tapping her notepad. “Back already?”
Paige grins. “Can’t stay away from the pancakes, Lucy.”
“And who’s this pretty thing?” the woman asks, glancing at you with a warm smile.
Before Paige can answer, you lift an eyebrow. “Just the girl she couldn’t stop staring at during her game.”
Paige lets out a laugh that makes her whole body shake, her eyes crinkling in that way that only happens when she’s caught off guard in the best possible way. Her grip on your hand tightens. She’s blushing again.
“Damn,” Lucy mutters with a chuckle. “Good luck, sweetheart. This one’s already head over heels.”
Paige covers her face with her free hand. “Please stop,” she mumbles, but she’s smiling so wide it looks like it hurts.
You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “So. You bring all your girls here, or am I special?”
Her eyes peek over her hand. “You’re definitely special.”
You pretend to think it over. “Hmm. I guess I’ll let that answer slide… if the pancakes are as good as you promised.”
Paige smirks. “They won’t disappoint. Trust me.”
You both order—her the usual and two chocolate milkshakes. Lucy winks and disappears to the kitchen, leaving the two of you in the dim hush of diner lighting and the low croon of an old country song from the jukebox.
Paige rests her arms on the table, leaning closer to you.
“I wasn’t kidding, by the way,” she says softly.
“About what?”
She bites her lip. “You. Sitting court side tonight. It really… threw me.”
You tilt your head, watching her.
“I’ve had good games,” she continues. “I’ve had great games. But I’ve never felt like I had something—or someone—I was playing for. Not until tonight.”
You let her words settle in your chest for a moment before reaching out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.
“I watched every second,” you whisper. “And not because I was trying to be impressed. You didn’t need to do anything for that. I was already impressed the second you walked out.”
Her breath catches again. You swear she does that a lot around you. It’s endearing. Almost addicting.
“You make me want to be smooth,” she admits. “Like Azzi or Nika level smooth. But every time I try, my brain short-circuits.”
You laugh. “You’re doing fine.”
“Fine?” she teases. “Not great?”
“I’ll let you earn great.”
Her eyes spark. “What does that take?”
You shrug. “We’ll see. Could be a few more games. Could be one very excellent grilled cheese.”
“Now that,” she says, laughing, “I can definitely deliver on.”
Lucy returns with the food, sets it all down, and watches the two of you for a moment before patting Paige on the shoulder. “Good pick, hon.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Paige says, eyes still locked on you.
You talk for hours.
About basketball. About life in Dallas. About her rookie year and the pressure of being the face of something bigger than herself. About how she doesn’t sleep the night before games and always orders breakfast food after wins. About your job, your own dreams, the way you never thought this would happen but now you can’t imagine it not.
She tells you about her family. Her brother. Minnesota winters. Her guilty pleasure being romcoms that she watches alone with a blanket pulled to her chin.
You tell her you’re not surprised.
“You seem like the type to cry at the airport reunion scene.”
“Shut up,” she mumbles. “It’s emotional, okay?”
You reach across the table again and squeeze her hand. “It’s sweet.”
When you finally step back out into the night, the stars are bright overhead, the air cooler than before. Paige walks you back to her car, her hand brushing yours again until you catch it and hold on like it’s second nature.
The ride back is quieter, but not uncomfortable. Her playlist hums low in the background. One of your hands still rests on your lap—hers folded neatly within it.
When she pulls up in front of your apartment, she doesn’t move to unlock the doors right away.
You look over.
She’s staring at you again.
“What?” you whisper.
“I don’t want to say goodnight.”
“So don’t,” you murmur back. “Say something else.”
She leans in slowly. Her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
You nod once. “Please.”
And when she kisses you, it’s nothing like how she plays—there’s no adrenaline, no charge. It’s slow. Gentle. Like something she’s thought about a hundred times but didn’t dare try until now.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours again.
“Still impressed?” she whispers.
You smile against her lips. “Paige?”
“Yeah?”
“I was impressed the second you said hey.”
And in the passenger seat of her car, just outside your apartment, the world softens into silence. Just you. Her. The beginning of something new.
synopsis: Paige only threw this party for you but you didn’t come.
anon req
Inspired by the song Party4u
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
You didn’t come.
The thought lands like a gut punch as she weaves through a mess of balloons and bodies, her smile still pasted on like it means something.
She had picked this date for you. Not her birthday. Not a win. Not even a holiday.
Just a random Friday where she thought: maybe if there’s music and lights and just enough Red Bull to pass for alcohol, you’ll show up.
Because you like parties. You like people. And you liked her once—maybe. Or maybe she just hoped too hard.
“Paige! Flip cup rematch!” someone calls, grabbing her wrist. She shrugs them off with a laugh, but her eyes flick back to the door again, searching.
She hasn’t texted. Doesn’t want to. She already said “you should come” three different ways in the hallway this week. That was enough. Too much, maybe.
She turns toward the speaker blasting something bass-heavy and forces herself to move. To pretend. But she’s not dancing. Not really.
She’s waiting.
You saw the invite.
Twice, actually—once when someone retweeted it and again when Paige slid it across your locker, barely meeting your eyes as she mumbled something about “no pressure.”
So you didn’t go.
Because it felt like pressure.
Because you still don’t know what that moment under the bleachers meant—the one where her knee brushed yours and she didn’t pull away. The one where you stayed long after the gym emptied just to listen to her talk about dreams that were too big for this city.
You liked her. Maybe still do. But it scared you. The way she looked at you like she saw everything and didn’t flinch.
And if you go tonight, you know exactly what will happen. You’ll get close. She’ll say something quiet. She’ll mean it. And then what?
You don’t want to be a footnote in her future. And you don’t want to be the reason she stays when the whole world’s about to open up for her.
So you don’t go.
You sit in your room with a book you aren’t reading and a phone you keep unlocking, hoping the notifications will stop being from apps and start being from her.
They don’t.
The party is loud, but Paige is quiet.
She has that look on her face again—the one she gets when the score’s tied and the clock is ticking down. Except this time, there’s no basket to make. No crowd to impress. Just a girl who didn’t show up and a heart that won’t settle.
One of her friends leans against the kitchen counter, sipping Sprite and watching Paige fall apart in slow motion.
“She’s not coming,” her friend says gently, no malice behind it.
Paige nods once, jaw tight. “I know.”
She doesn’t ask how her friend knows who she is. That’s the thing about best friends. They always know.
“You gonna text her?” her friend asks.
“No point.”
There’s silence between them, filled only by muffled laughter from the living room and the low thud of music on its fourth loop. Paige stares at her cup, then pours it out in the sink.
“I think I like her too much,” she mutters.
Her friend doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Just puts a hand on her shoulder. “Yeah. I figured.”
It’s 12:47 a.m. when you cave.
You put on a hoodie. Leave your house. Walk three blocks to where you know Paige lives because you memorized it from that one night she offered you a ride and you said no, like an idiot.
There are still cars on the street. Still faint music drifting through open windows.
You almost don’t knock.
But your hand moves before your brain can catch up.
It takes a minute. Then the door opens.
She’s in sweats and an old UConn tee. Her hair’s down and her eyes are tired.
She stares.
“You came late,” she says.
You shrug. “I was scared.”
Paige’s expression softens, even though she’s trying not to show it. “Of me?”
“No,” you say. “Of how much I want this.”
It hangs between you, vulnerable and sharp.
She steps aside. You walk in.
Neither of you says anything for a second. Then Paige turns to you, voice barely above a whisper.
“I only that party for you.”
You blink. “I know.”
“And you didn’t come.”
“I’m here now.”
She looks at you—really looks—and for the first time all night, the storm behind her eyes quiets.
“Stay?” she asks.
You nod.
And you do.
The party’s over.
But you’re here.
And maybe that’s what she really wanted all along.
Not the streamers or the playlist or the people trying too hard to be remembered. Just this. Just you.
She lets you sit on her bed while she brushes confetti out of her hair, then joins you without a word, your knees bumping like they did under the bleachers all those weeks ago.
“It’s stupid,” she says. “How much I like you.”
You shake your head. “It’s not.”
Paige watches your fingers where they fidget with the sleeve of your hoodie. Then, slowly, carefully, she takes your hand.
“Next time,” she says, “just come.”
You squeeze her fingers.
“I will.”
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶
author’s note: i got carried away… i was debating on whether i should write angst for this or not (maybe next time i will😝) this idea is so cute thank u anon for requesting it!!! thanks for reading!!
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