lyricii

"mhm." she reaches over without looking, laces her fingers through yours, pulls your hand off your stomach and into her lap instead. "you okay?"

you are not okay you are eleven weeks pregnant and about to spend christmas in edwardsville, illinois, in a house full of martins who hug too hard and ask too many questions, and you have not told a single one of them that there's a person growing inside you who will, eventually, call this town home too. "i'm fine," you say.

kate glances at you just once just long enough for you to feel it. "you've been fine for like four days straight," she says. "that's never a good sign with you."

you don't answer outside the window, illinois goes by flat and brown and bare, fields stripped down to stubble, the sky the color of a bruise healing you think about telling her right now, in the car, just the two of you, before you're swallowed up by her mom's kitchen and her dad's terrible christmas sweaters and her sisters' twenty questions. you think about it and you don't do it.

"i love you," kate says instead, like she's decided to let it go for now. "whatever's going on in your head."

"i love you too."

the martin house smells like cinnamon and pine and something baking that you can't name, and the second you're through the door you're swarmed kate's mom first, then her dad, then a sister, then brother, voices stacking on top of voices, you made it, the roads weren't bad were they, oh my god you look so good, kate did you tell them about the—

you stand in the middle of it with your coat still on and your hand wants to go to your stomach again you don't let it kate finds your eyes over her mother's shoulder holds them. you're okay, she mouths, or maybe you imagine it, but either way it helps.

dinner is loud dinner is always loud at the martins' you sit between kate and her older sister and you do the math in your head before every dish gets passed to you is there wine in this, is this the soft cheese kate's cousin mentioned was unpasteurized, can you eat this, should you eat this and you push food around your plate more than you eat it, and you think no one notices.

kate's mom notices you catch her watching you from across the table, just for a second, her eyes narrowing the way kate's doing when she's working something out you look down at your plate fast. "you're not drinking," kate's youngest sister says later, holding the bottle of wine over your glass. "you always drink at christmas."

"i'm just tired," you say. "long flight." kate, beside you, goes very still for half a second you feel it more than see it. "leave her alone, she's allowed to not want wine," kate says, light, easy, covering for you before you even ask her to but her hand finds your knee under the table and stays there, and you know she's doing math of her own now.

it's after eleven when you finally get a minute alone with her, upstairs in the room that used to be hers, posters still half up on the walls from when she was seventeen and dreaming about a future that looked a lot like the one she actually got. "okay," kate says, closing the door behind her. "talk to me."

"about what?"

"y/n." just your name, that's all it takes, the way she says it, low and certain, like she already knows and she's just waiting for you to catch up to her. "you haven't had a drink in four days. you wouldn't eat the brie. you keep putting your hand on your stomach like you're trying to keep something in and you've been anxious since o'hare."

you sit down on the edge of the bed that's too small for the both of you and you feel your throat go tight. "i'm pregnant," you say just like that, no buildup, no soft landing, just the words out into the room before you can stop them.

kate doesn't move for a second then she crosses the room in three steps and drops to her knees in front of you, hands finding yours, eyes already wet. "you're—" she stops. starts again. "since when?"

"i found out six weeks ago. i didn't tell you because i wanted to be sure, and then i didn't tell anyone because i didn't know how to do it here, with everyone, and i kept thinking i'd find the right moment and the moment never came and—" you're crying now, you realize, somewhere between embarrassed and relieved. "i'm sorry. i should've told you the second i knew."

"hey." kate's hands come up to your face, thumbs swiping under your eyes. "hey, don't be sorry. don't you dare be sorry." she's smiling so hard it looks like it hurts. "we're having a baby."

"we're having a baby," you repeat, and saying it out loud, finally, to her, undoes something in your chest that's been wound tight for six weeks straight.

"this is why you've been weird the whole trip," kate says, half laughing, half crying. "you've been carrying this around the whole time and you didn't say anything?"

"i was scared," you admit. "of telling your family. of what they'd say, or — i don't know. i just wanted it to be ours for a little longer before it belonged to everyone else too." kate kisses your forehead, then your temple, then settles beside you with her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into her like she can absorb some of the nerves through sheer proximity.

"they're going to be so happy," she says. "my mom's gonna cry for a week."

"that's what i'm scared of."

"the crying?"

"all of it. being enough. doing this right, with your whole family watching." you press your face into her shoulder. "i don't know how to explain it. it's not that i don't want them to know. i just — i want to be good at this. i want your family to look at me and think i can do this."

kate pulls back enough to look at you properly. "y/n. they already think that. they've thought that since the first christmas you came here and helped my mom do dishes without being asked, and the time you remembered my dad's birthday before i did." 

she presses her hand flat against your stomach, gentle, like she's testing whether it's real. "they're going to love this baby before it's even born. and they already love you. this doesn't change that it just gives them one more reason." you laugh, wet and a little shaky. "you're very good at this."

"i've had practice talking you down for like six years." she kisses you, slow, soft, smiling against your mouth. "merry christmas, by the way. we're having a baby."

"merry christmas," you say back. "we're having a baby."

you don't plan the reveal that's the thing nobody tells you about secrets like this you can carry them carefully for six weeks and then lose your grip on them in about four seconds flat.

it's christmas morning, gifts half-unwrapped across the living room floor, kate's older sister halfway through a story about something that happened at practice, when kate's mom holds up a mug world's okayest grandma, a joke gift from kate's sister and laughs and says, "i guess i'll have to wait a while longer for an upgrade on this one." and kate, sitting cross-legged on the floor with wrapping paper in her lap, just says it with no buildup, no speech.

"actually," she says, "you might wanna start looking for a new mug." the room goes silent in that specific way rooms go silent right before they explode.

"kate marie martin," her mother says, very slowly, mug still held aloft like a held breath. "what did you just say to me." you feel every eye in the room swing to you, and your hand goes to your stomach on instinct, and that's it that's the confirmation, before either of you says another word then the room does explode. 

kate's mom is crying before she's even fully out of her chair her dad says something that might be a swear word and might be a prayer kate sister as well as her brother is screaming, actually screaming, the kind of sound that makes the dog start barking somewhere in the kitchen.

you're pulled into the middle of it before you can brace for it kate's mom's arms around you so tight you can barely breathe, her voice thick and broken saying thank you, thank you, oh my god, thank you into your hair like you've given her something she didn't know how badly she wanted. 

kate's dad hugs you next, quieter, just holds on a beat too long and says, "we're real glad you're family," in a voice that cracks at the end and through all of it kate doesn't let go of your hand once. 

not when her sister and her brother tackle her onto the floor, not when her mom makes everyone sit back down so she can ask forty questions in the span of ninety seconds, not when the whole room turns warm and loud and full in a way you didn't know you'd been bracing yourself against until it didn't hurt at all.

"you good?" kate murmurs against your ear, in the one quiet second the room allows you.

you look around at her mom wiping her eyes and already reaching for her phone to call someone, at her dad grinning like christmas came twice, at her siblings arguing over who gets to be the favorite aunt or uncle and something in your chest finally, finally settles.

"yeah," you say, and mean it completely. "i'm good." kate smiles like she knew you would be, all along.

the questions don't stop for the rest of the morning kate's mom wants to know everything how far along, when you're due, whether you've picked names, whether you've started the nursery, whether you know if it's a boy or a girl yet, and you answer as much as you can between the hugging and the crying and the second round of coffee someone makes because the first pot got forgotten in all the commotion.

"june," you tell her, for the third time, because she keeps asking like she's hoping the answer will change to something sooner. "we're due in june."

"june," she repeats, pressing a hand to her chest. "a summer baby. oh, that's good, that's a good month for a baby." she looks at kate like she's seeing her for the first time in years. "my baby's having a baby."

"mom." kate's voice goes soft and embarrassed in the way it only does around her own mother.

"i'm allowed," her mom says, dabbing at her eyes with a paper towel someone handed her in lieu of an actual tissue. "i get to be like this exactly one time per kid and you've used up your turn already, kate martin, this one's for y/n."

kate's dad, meanwhile, has gone quiet in the corner of the couch, and when you catch his eye he just shakes his head slowly, like he's trying to find words and not quite landing on any. "you alright over there?" you ask him.

"yeah." he clears his throat. "yeah, just my first grandbaby. gonna take a minute to feel real." he looks at kate, at you, at the spot where your hand has settled back over your stomach without you noticing. "you two are gonna be good at this. real good."

"we'll see," you say, but it comes out lighter than you expect, easier than the version of that sentence you'd been carrying around in your head for six weeks.

by the time the sun starts to go down, the house has settled into the particular kind of loud-quiet that happens after a big reveal, everyone still talking about it, but lower now, gentler, woven into the regular rhythm of the day instead of overtaking it. 

kate’s siblings have already started arguing about whether the baby will be tall, whether it'll play basketball, whether it's fair that they don't get to know the gender yet when they clearly have a right to know. "you don't have a right to know," kate tells the youngest one, lying back against the couch with your feet in her lap. "you have a right to wait, just like everybody else."

"i'm going to be the favorite aunt regardless," her sister says.

"absolutely not," says trevor. "i'm closer in age. i'm clearly the fun uncle."

"you're twenty-six, you're not 'the fun uncle,' you're just an uncle—"you laugh from your spot on the couch, and kate's hand finds your ankle, thumb tracing slow circles there, and when you look over she's just watching you, soft, like she's been doing it for a while.

"what?" you ask. "nothing. just — you look like you finally exhaled."

"i think i did," you admit. "somewhere around the mug thing."

"i wasn't planning that, by the way." kate winces a little. "it just came out. i saw the mug and i couldn't help it."

"i know. i felt it happen in real time." you nudge her with your foot. "it was perfect, though. i don't think i could've planned anything better."

"yeah?"

"yeah. i was so scared of doing it right that i forgot sometimes the right way is just — however it happens. however it's true." kate brings your foot up and kisses your ankle, easy, like it's nothing, like it's everything. "i love you and i love that you let me see you scared, even when you didn't want to be."

"i'm working on it."

"you're doing great at it."

later, after the dishes are done and kate's parents have gone up to bed and her sister and brother have disappeared into their old rooms with promises of texting you baby name ideas at ungodly hours, you and kate end up back in her childhood bedroom, the two of you crammed onto the twin bed with the lamp turned low.

"i keep thinking about today," kate says, her head on your chest, your fingers in her hair. "like, replaying it. my mom's face. my dad is not able to talk for a second."

"i was so scared of this exact day for six weeks," you say. "and now i don't even remember what i thought was going to happen instead."

"what did you think was gonna happen?" you think about it honestly. "i don't know. i think i was scared they'd think i wasn't ready or that i'd do something wrong, say it the wrong way, and it'd just be off. tainted, somehow. like there's a right version of this day and i'd miss it."

kate tilts her head up to look at you. "there's no right version. there's just the one that actually happens. and the one that actually happened today was about as good as it gets."

"yeah," you say, and you believe it now, fully, the fear finally loosened out of your chest after six weeks of carrying it tight. "yeah, it really was." kate's hand finds your stomach again, settles there, warm and steady, the same way it has all night, like she can't help checking, like she still doesn't quite believe it's real and wants proof every few minutes. "merry christmas," she says again, quieter this time, just for the two of you.

"merry christmas," you say back. "welcome to edwardsville, baby."

kate laughs, soft and surprised, and presses a kiss to the top of your head, and outside the window the snow starts up again, slow and steady, and for the first time in six weeks you fall asleep without a single knot left in your chest.

you almost forget about the picture it's kate who remembers, halfway through getting ready for bed, when she catches sight of your phone case and goes still for a second. "wait," she says. "did you bring it?"

"bring what?"

"the picture. from the appointment." she's already crossing the room toward your bag, like she can't wait for you to confirm. "you said you printed one."

you had you'd tucked it into the inside pocket of your bag almost as an afterthought, the morning you packed, half-convinced you'd never actually use it, that the moment would pass you by the way you'd let so many moments pass you by these last six weeks but it's there, folded once down the middle, soft at the crease from being carried around.

"i didn't know if i was gonna show anyone," you admit, handing it over. "i think i was scared of making it more real than it already felt." kate unfolds it carefully, like it might tear, and the second she sees the little gray smudge of it her whole face changes softer, slower, something private moving across it that you don't think you've ever quite seen on her before. "that's — that's them," she says, voice gone thick. "that's actually them."

"that's them."

"can i—" she stops herself, looks up at you. "can i show my mom in the morning? before we leave? i know we already told everyone, but i want her to see it. i want her to have something to hold."

"yeah," you say, throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety this time. "yeah, of course."

kate sits back down on the edge of the bed with the picture still in her hands, just looking at it, thumb tracing the curve of it like she's trying to memorize something that doesn't have edges yet. "i can't believe i get to be someone's mom," she says quietly. "i've thought about it before. but it's different now. it's a person. it's this person." you lean into her side, look down at the photo with her. "you're gonna be so good at it."

"yeah?"

"the best." you kiss her temple. "i've never seen anyone fall in love with a smudge on paper this fast." kate laughs, wet and a little embarrassed, and tucks the photo carefully into the nightstand drawer like it's something precious, which it is, and pulls you down into bed after it.

the morning you leave, the house is quiet in a different way than it's been the rest of the trip, softer, slower, everyone moving around in sweatpants and socked feet, nobody quite ready to let the visit end kate's mom finds you in the kitchen before anyone else is fully awake, two mugs of decaf already poured, one set down in front of you without a word. "i switched yours," she says. "figured you don't need the real stuff anymore."

"thank you." you wrap both hands around the mug, grateful for something warm to hold. "for everything. the way you all — i don't know. i was so nervous coming here."

"i know you were, sweetheart." she sits across from you, reaches over to squeeze your hand. "i could tell something was sitting on you the second you walked in the door. i didn't know what, but i knew you needed space to get there in your own time."

"i'm sorry i didn't tell you sooner."

"don't be sorry. you told us exactly when you were ready, and that was perfect." she glances toward the hallway, where you can hear kate's voice, low, showing the sonogram photo to her dad, his murmured response too quiet to make out. "you know, kate called me crying the night before you two started dating officially. did she ever tell you that?"

"no."

"said she'd never met anyone who made her feel like she could be soft and strong at the same time." kate's mom smiles, eyes glassy again already. "watching you with her and now this i just. i'm glad my daughter found someone who lets her be all of it and i'm glad that baby's gonna have you too." you don't trust your voice enough to answer right away, so you just squeeze her hand back, and she seems to understand that's answer enough.

kate finds you both like that a few minutes later, leaning in the kitchen doorway with the sonogram photo still in her hand, watching the two of you with an expression you'll think about on the whole drive to the airport. "you ready?" she asks eventually, voice soft.

"almost." you stand, pull her mom into one more hug, longer this time, both of you a little tearful and trying to pretend you're not. "thank you. really."

"june," her mom says into your shoulder, like a promise. "i'll see you and this baby in june."

the goodbyes at the door take twenty minutes longer than they need to kate's siblings fighting over who gets to hold the baby first once it's born, her dad pressing a folded twenty into your coat pocket "for gas" even though you flew, her mom standing on the porch in the cold with her robe pulled tight, waving until the car turns the corner and the house disappears behind the bare trees.

kate reaches for your hand the second you're back on the highway, the airport still forty minutes out, illinois going by gray and quiet around you. "so," she says. "edwardsville."

"edwardsville," you agree.

"better than you thought it'd be?"

you think about the six weeks of carrying it alone, the car ride in with your hand pressed to your stomach, the anxious math at the dinner table, the mug joke, the photo in the nightstand drawer, kate's mom's hand over yours in the quiet kitchen this morning. "so much better," you say. "i don't think i'll ever be scared of telling them anything again."

kate brings your hand up to her mouth, kisses your knuckles, smiles against them. "good. 'cause we've got about eighteen years of things to tell them."

"don't remind me."

"i'm just saying. get used to the crying. my mom's not gonna stop for a while." you laugh, and outside the window edwardsville disappears behind you, and ahead of you there's a whole year waiting june, and everything after it and for the first time since the plane landed, you let yourself actually look forward to it.

the nursery takes longer than either of you expects, mostly because kate refuses to let anyone help paint the walls. "i want to do it myself," she says, standing in the middle of the half-finished room with a roller in one hand and a streak of pale yellow across her cheekbone. "i don't know why. i just do."

"you've got paint on your face."

"i'm aware." she doesn't move to wipe it off. "i like it there."

you sit in the doorway on an upturned moving box, six months along now, too tired to do much more than direct from a safe distance, and watch her work she's meticulous about it in a way that surprises you taping every edge twice, going back over spots that already look even, like she's trying to get something exactly right for a person who won't be able to appreciate the effort for years.

"you don't have to be perfect about it," you tell her. "they're not gonna care if the corners are crisp."

"i know." kate steps back, surveys the wall like it owes her something. "i just want it to be good. like — really good. i want them to grow up in a room that somebody loved making." you don't have anything to say to that for a second. 

you just watch her, paint on her face, sleeves rolled up, the late afternoon light coming through the window she insisted on leaving uncovered "so they can see the sky," and you think, not for the first time, that you didn't know it was possible to fall in love with someone all over again in increments like this. "come here," you say.

"i've got paint on me."

"i don't care." she comes and sits on the box with you anyway, presses a yellow-streaked kiss to your cheek, and you both just look at the room together half-finished, smelling like primer, already more loved than most rooms ever get to be.

the shower is at kate's mom's house, because kate's mom insisted, and because by march the idea of you flying out to edwardsville again at seven months pregnant felt like more trouble than it was worth to fight her on it.

the whole martin family turns out for it, plus a handful of kate's old teammates from high school and teammates from college and the WNBA, plus your own mom flown in for the occasion, plus what feels like every woman within a thirty-mile radius of edwardsville who has ever met kate martin even once. 

there are too many decorations there is a cake shaped like a basketball that nobody can quite agree was kate's idea or her sister or maybe her brother there is a game involving guessing the circumference of your stomach that you lose spectacularly, off by almost six inches, to the delight of everyone in the room. "i can't believe you guessed smaller," kate laughs, watching you hold the string up against your belly for comparison. "you live in this body."

"i wasn't thinking clearly! i'm emotional today!"

"you're emotional every day."

"i'm pregnant, kate." kate kisses the top of your head, grinning, and doesn't argue further later, opening gifts on the living room floor with your back against kate's knees, you catch her mom watching you both from across the room with an expression you've started to recognize soft, a little overwhelmed, the look of someone watching something she prayed for arrive right on schedule. "you good, mom?" kate asks, noticing too.

"i'm wonderful." she dabs at her eyes, unembarrassed about it now in a way she wasn't even back at christmas. "i just keep thinking about how scared y/n looked walking in that door in december. and now look at this. look at all this."

you feel your throat tighten, surrounded by gifts and tissue paper and people who flew or drove hours just to be here for this. "i didn't know it could feel like this," you admit. "being this held. by people who aren't even technically my family yet."

"you've been family since the first christmas," kate's mom says, like it's the simplest fact in the world. "the paperwork's just catching up."

your water breaks at 4am on a tuesday, three weeks earlier than you'd planned for, and the next several hours blur together into something you'll only ever remember in fragments kate's hands shaking as she grabs the hospital bag you packed two months ago, the drive there too fast and too slow at the same time, kate narrating every red light like it's personally offended her.

"you're doing so good," kate says, over and over, through the worst of it, her hand a vice in yours, her forehead pressed to yours between contractions. "you're doing so good, i've got you, i'm right here."

"you said that already."

"i'm gonna keep saying it." somewhere around hour eleven, when you're exhausted in a way you didn't know a body could be exhausted and still function, kate leans down close to your ear and says, low, just for you, "edwardsville's already got a name picked out for them, you know. my mom's been texting me for weeks."

"kate—"

"i'm just saying. there's a whole town ready to love this kid and they haven't even shown up yet." it makes you laugh, which somehow helps more than it should, right in the middle of everything, and twenty minutes later, after the kind of effort you don't have words for yet and probably won't for a long time, there's a sound in the room that isn't yours or kate's small, furious, alive and kate's whole face breaks open in a way you've never seen before, not at christmas, not at the shower, not ever.

"you did it," she says, crying openly now, no attempt to hide it. "y/n, you did it, look—" and you look, and there's a person, a real actual person, red-faced and screaming and perfect, placed against your chest before you've even fully caught your breath, and kate's hand comes to rest over both of you like she still can't quite believe any of it is real.

"hi," you say, to the baby, voice wrecked. "hi, there you are."

"there you are," kate echoes, and presses her lips to your temple, then to the baby's tiny fist, then back to you, like she can't decide who to kiss first and has settled on everyone, repeatedly, for as long as it takes.

the drive to edwardsville is forty minutes from the airport, same as always, except this time there's a car seat in the back and a baby fast asleep in it, and kate keeps glancing back through the rearview mirror every few minutes like she still hasn't gotten over the fact that you're allowed to just take them places now. 

that they're a real, mobile, sleeping person who exists outside of a hospital room. "you're gonna get us in an accident," you tell her, "looking back there every ten seconds."

"i can't help it. they're so small."

"they were the same size five minutes ago."

"i know. i just keep checking." the martin house looks the same as it did at christmas, except the trees are full now instead of bare, and the porch is decorated with a single, slightly oversized "welcome baby" banner that somebody, probably kate's sister, by the handwriting clearly made themselves.

kate's mom is on the porch before the car's even fully stopped, practically running down the steps, and the second the car seat comes out of the back she's reaching for it with both hands, tears already starting.

"there she is," she says, voice breaking on the word, peering down at the sleeping baby like she's looking at something miraculous. "there's my girl."

"careful with her head," kate says automatically, and her mom just laughs through her tears. "i raised three of you, kate marie martin. i know how to hold a baby."

the whole family spills out onto the lawn after that kate's dad first, quiet and a little teary, then both sisters fighting immediately over who gets to hold her next, then a handful of neighbors who apparently got word and wandered over "just to see." 

it's loud and warm and a little overwhelming in the exact way edwardsville has always been, and you stand there on the lawn with kate's hand finding yours, watching your daughter get passed gently from arm to arm, getting introduced to a town that's loved her since before she could even hear them say her name.

"this is it," kate says quietly, just to you, watching her mom rock the baby slow and easy under the porch light. "this is the thing i promised her at christmas. june. here we are."

"here we are," you say back, leaning into her side, exhausted and full in a way you've never quite been before. "i don't think i've ever been less anxious about anything."

"yeah?"

she dropped her duffel beside the locker that had her name taped across the front and let out a quiet breath, taking in the room around her a few faces she already knew were scattered throughout the lockers, conversations overlapping as everyone caught up after the offseason. 

somewhere across the room someone laughed loud enough to turn a few heads before another voice immediately cut in to tell them to keep it down, it felt normal, comfortable exactly how the first day was supposed to feel as her phone buzzed in the front pocket of her bag.

emily ❤️

made it to the gym. figured you’d already be there too.

a small smile found its way onto veronica’s face before she even opened the message.

good luck today. don’t overthink everything like you always do.

another message appeared before she could answer.

love you.

she stared at it for a second longer than she meant to distance was strange there wasn’t one moment where everything suddenly became difficult it happened slowly, almost quietly. calls became shorter because one of them had an early lift the next morning.

facetime dates turned into quick check-ins between practices. “i miss you” became something they said every day because they had to instead of because it surprised either of them she still loved emily she knew she did she just missed when loving each other had felt easier.

love you too, she typed back before slipping the phone into her bag. “burton.” she looked up one of the assistant coaches pointed toward the court. “we’re about to get started.”

“coming.”

she grabbed her water bottle and headed out with the rest of the group, the familiar sound of sneakers against hardwood settling something inside her chest this was the part she didn’t have to think about.

conditioning started exactly the way conditioning always did: too much running, too many whistles, not enough water, everyone looked a little slower than they wanted to admit after the offseason, and the coaches looked entirely too pleased about it.

by the time the first drill ended, veronica’s legs were already burning. “first day?” someone asked beside her as she glanced over kate martin stood there with her hands on her hips, breathing just hard enough to prove she’d been feeling the same sprints.

veronica recognized her immediately they’d never actually known each other, but they’d played against one another enough in college that she would’ve recognized her anywhere kate offered an easy smile. “i’m kate.” like she didn’t already know.  “veronica.”

“i know.” there was something almost sheepish about the way kate admitted it. “we played against each other enough.”

“yeah.”

“i always hated guarding you.” veronica let out a quiet laugh before she could stop herself. “thanks… i think.” kate laughed too. “meant it as a compliment.”

before veronica could think of anything else to say, another whistle echoed through the gym. “guess we’re not done suffering,” kate said then she jogged back toward the next drill without waiting for an answer.

veronica watched her for exactly one second before forcing herself to look somewhere else she wasn’t sure why it had been a completely normal conversation nothing about it should’ve stayed with her for the rest of practice and yet every so often, without meaning to, she’d catch herself noticing where kate was on the floor.

she talked a lot encouraged everyone high-fived people after good reps laughed when drills went wrong instead of getting frustrated.

she had this annoying habit of making everyone around her relax veronica decided she probably just had one of those personalities.

that was all it had to be because anything more than that would be ridiculous.

she had emily she loved emily and kate martin was just another teammate.

practice settled into a rhythm over the next few days the first morning was all introductions and nerves, the second was about remembering names, and by the third everyone had already started slipping into routines without realizing it. 

people sat in the same seats during film and they gravitated toward the same racks in the weight room whereas the same groups lingered after practice, stretching a little longer just to keep talking.

veronica noticed all of it she always noticed things it was part of what made her a good point guard she noticed who looked tired before they admitted it who was frustrated after a missed rotation. 

who needed the ball to settle into practice and who preferred to disappear into the background until they found their rhythm.

she also noticed that kate seemed incapable of standing in silence for more than thirty seconds it wasn’t in an annoying way she just…talked to everyone.

she complimented the practice players after good possessions, thanked the equipment staff every afternoon when they wheeled fresh towels into the locker room, asked the interns how college finals were going, somehow remembered every coach’s name by the second day and greeted them every morning like she’d known them for years.

it was strange that most veterans spent training camp trying not to be noticed kate somehow managed to make herself memorable without making herself the center of attention.

veronica caught herself watching her once during a water break kate was standing near the opposite baseline, laughing so hard she had one hand on her stomach while kayla dramatically acted out something that had happened during the last drill.

“that’s not what happened,” kate managed between laughs. “that’s exactly what happened.”

“you are literally making things up.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

“prove it.” kate shook her head. “i can’t believe i have to share a locker room with you.”

“you love me.”

“that’s a strong word.”

“you tolerate me?”

“…barely.”

they both laughed again veronica looked away before either of them noticed she’d been staring as she bent down to retie a shoe that didn’t need to be tied. “you good?”

she looked up to find one of the assistant coaches standing nearby. “yeah.”

“thought you rolled your ankle.”

“no.” he nodded once before walking away veronica stayed crouched for another few seconds anyway she wasn’t staring she’d just…looked over.

everyone looked around during practice that was normal, it didn't mean anything. “booty cheeks!”

the nickname echoed across the gym veronica looked up before she could stop herself kate threw her head back with an exaggerated groan. “if you call me that one more time, i’m telling coach.”

kayla looked completely unfazed. “booty cheeks is a beautiful nickname.”

“it’s a terrible nickname.”

“it’s iconic.”

“it’s embarrassing.”

“same thing.”a couple of teammates laughed as kate walked over and lightly shoved kalya’s shoulder. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet here you are.”

“unfortunately.” they dissolved into another round of laughter before jogging back into the drill as the whistle blew.

veronica frowned, it was…easy that was the word that kept coming back everything between them looked easy they hadn’t known each other very long, but you’d never guess it watching them joke around.

it looked effortless, like they’d been teammates for years instead of days she tried not to think about why that bothered her because it didn’t it couldn’t.

later that afternoon, everyone filtered back into the locker room, exhausted from nearly three hours on the floor.

music drifted softly through the speakers while players packed their bags veronica had just finished changing when she heard footsteps stop beside her locker. “hey.”

she glanced up; it was kate close enough now that veronica noticed the loose strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail and the faint flush still lingering across her cheeks from practice. “hey.”

kate smiled. “i was gonna grab coffee before heading back.” veronica blinked. “oh.”

“you wanna come?” the question was so casual, so harmless, just teammates grabbing coffee veronica knew that still…her phone buzzed inside her bag almost instinctively, she reached for it.

emily ❤️

call me whenever you’re free.

guilt hit her so quickly it almost took her breath away she looked back at kate. “sorry.”

kate’s smile faltered just enough to notice. “i actually…i have to call my girlfriend.” there was only a second of silence then kate smiled again.

the same easy smile she’d walked in with on the first day. “oh.” she nodded. “yeah, of course.”

“maybe another time.”

“definitely.” kate gave her a quick wave before turning toward the exit.

“hey, kayla,” she called as she walked away. “you still getting coffee?”

“always.”

“let’s go before i pass out.” the two of them disappeared through the locker room doors together, still arguing over whose turn it was to pay.

veronica watched them leave then looked back down at the screen in her hand. “call me whenever you’re free.” she pressed the call button emily answered on the second ring. “there she is.” veronica smiled. “hey.”

“how was practice?” she leaned back against the locker. “good.”

“just good?”

“hard.”

“that’s more like it.” emily laughed, and for a moment everything felt normal again.

they talked about practice, about travel, about who looked good in camp and about how sore they both were already the conversation flowed the way it always had: comfortable, familiar, safe and yet.

halfway through the call, veronica caught herself looking toward the locker room doors, wondering if kate and kayla were still at the coffee shop across the street or if they’d already made it back to the hotel.

the thought came and went so quickly she almost didn’t register it almost she frowned at herself.

what was that? “ronnie?” she blinked. “what?” emily laughed softly.“i asked if you’re still there.”

“sorry.”

“you okay?”

“…yeah.” she answered a little too quickly. “just tired.” she hated how easy the lie came because she wasn’t tired, she was distracted and she had absolutely no idea why.

the next week passed quicker than veronica expected, conditioning slowly gave way to more basketball, practices stretching longer as coaches began installing offensive sets and defensive coverages, stopping drills every few possessions to correct spacing or rotations before blowing the whistle again. 

the soreness in everyone’s legs became easier to ignore, conversations in the locker room growing louder as the awkwardness of the first few days disappeared.

somewhere along the way, kate became part of the noise as if someone made a shot from half court, she was the first one celebrating and if someone looked frustrated after a bad rep, she’d clap her hands and tell them to get the next one.

if practice dragged, she’d find a way to make somebody laugh before the next whistle she had an energy that somehow never felt forced.

it was just there veronica told herself she barely noticed which would’ve been a lot more believable if her eyes didn’t instinctively search for kate the second she walked into the gym every morning.

it became a habit before she realized she’d formed one she’d step through the doors look toward the court to find kate then immediately pretend she hadn’t.

it annoyed her mostly because she couldn’t explain it but she wasn’t doing anything wrong, she wasn’t flirting wasn’t texting her hell, half the time they barely exchanged more than a “morning.”

so why did she keep looking?

“burton.” she turned at the sound of her name kate was standing a few feet away with a basketball tucked under one arm. “you mind?”

she tossed the ball over veronica caught it without thinking. “coach said you were first.” they were splitting into groups for a shooting drill. “thanks.” kate shrugged. “figured i’d save you the walk.”

“appreciate it.”

“don’t mention it.” there it was again that tiny pause like kate expected the conversation to keep going veronica could almost see the moment she realized it wasn’t going to.

“well…” kate rocked back on her heels. “guess i’ll see you in a minute.”

“yeah.” 

kate smiled politely before jogging over to the other basket where kayla immediately yelled, “booty cheeks! hurry up!” kate groaned loud enough for half the gym to hear. “i’m never answering you again.”

“you say that every day.”

“one day i’ll mean it.”

“can’t wait.” veronica bounced the ball once twice as she thought “why did she always sound so…different around kayla?”

not different comfortable that was the word comfortable she hated that she’d started categorizing the way kate spoke to different people.

she talked one way with the coaches, another with the rookies, another with the veterans and then there was kayla.

they had already developed that strange teammate language where half their conversations didn’t make sense to anyone else.

it had happened so quickly veronica wondered what it would’ve been like if she’d actually accepted that coffee invitation the thought hit her out of nowhere.

she froze and accepted it? she could’ve it was just coffee teammates got coffee together all the time except…she hadn’t said no because of coffee she’d said no because she’d panicked because emily had texted.

because somewhere in the back of her mind she’d worried that saying yes would’ve meant something it absolutely didn’t and now kate hadn’t asked again good that was probably for the best. “earth to veronica.” veronica blinked coach was looking at her. “you planning on shooting?”

a few teammates laughed and heat crept up the back of her neck. “sorry.”

she stepped into the drill, grateful to have something else to focus on basketball and never judged you for thinking too much.

it simply demanded your attention until there wasn’t room for anything else practice ended with a full-court scrimmage.

teams were thrown together almost at random, players rotating every few minutes while coaches scribbled notes onto clipboards.

veronica found herself matched up against kate more than once; it felt familiar, college, competitive and comfortable.

kate caught the ball on the wing and immediately looked for a cutter veronica slid into the passing lane, forcing her to reset. “nice.” kate nodded.

“good read.” the possession continued a minute later, veronica drove into the paint before kicking the ball to the corner.

“great pass,” kate called from the opposite end as everyone ran back on defense. veronica glanced over as kate wasn’t being sarcastic; she said it the same way she’d compliment anyone else simple genuine veronica nodded once.

“thanks.”

it should’ve ended there instead, as they lined up for the next possession, kate leaned over just enough to speak quietly. “you see the floor really well.” veronica looked at her. “what?”

“your passing.” kate just shrugs. “it’s fun to watch.” before veronica could respond, coach blew the whistle.

“switch!” kate peeled off to guard someone else the moment was over still those five words followed veronica all the way back to the locker room.

it’s fun to watch.

they shouldn’t have mattered, people complimented each other all the time teammates encouraged teammates, it wasn't special so why did she remember the exact way kate had smiled when she said it?

that night, emily called while veronica was lying in bed they talked about everything and nothing, what they’d eaten, how camp was going, who looked sharp, who looked exhausted.

emily laughed as she told a story about one of her teammates, and veronica laughed too, closing her eyes as she listened.

this was home, this was familiar, this was the person she’d chosen when the conversation finally slowed, emily’s voice softened. “i miss you.” veronica swallowed. “i miss you too.”

she meant it she really did but after they hung up, she lay awake staring at the ceiling long after the screen on her phone went dark.

without meaning to, her mind drifted back to practice to kate smiling after complimenting her pass to the way she’d waited half a second, almost like she’d expected veronica to say something back.

veronica rolled onto her side with a frustrated sigh, pulling the blanket over her shoulder this was ridiculous she was thinking about a five-second conversation she’d had with a teammate, nothing more she closed her eyes for once, she wished she could convince herself as easily as she kept trying to.

by the second week of camp, nobody really thought about introductions anymore whereas the locker room had found its rhythm music was louder in the mornings, someone always seemed to be stealing somebody else’s snacks, and every day kayla managed to come up with a new variation of the same nickname. “morning, booty cheeks.”

kate looked up from tying her shoes. “good morning, pain in my ass.” kayla grinned. “see? she’s learning.”

“i’m evolving.”

“into what?” kate shrugged. “a bigger problem.” the locker room erupted into laughter even one of the coaches walking past the doorway shook her head. “save it for after practice.”

“yes, coach,” kate called back, though the smile on her face said she wasn’t sorry in the slightest veronica rolled athletic tape around her fingers, keeping her eyes on the bench in front of her.

she wasn’t listening, she couldn’t have been except she knew exactly who was talking without looking she’d started recognizing kate’s laugh that realization hit her sometime during warmups not because she’d been paying attention because it had become impossible not to.

there were dozens of voices echoing through the gym every day hers somehow always stood out she hated that she’d noticed. “you good?” veronica looked up as one of the trainers was passing by. “yeah.”

“you’ve been staring at that tape for like a minute.” she blinked before realizing she’d completely stopped wrapping it around her fingers. “…guess i have.” as the trainer chuckled. “long week?”

“something like that.” practice started with shell drill before moving into live action coach stopped them every few possessions, pulling players into little groups to talk through spacing and defensive communication.

during one of the breaks, veronica found herself standing near half court waiting for the whistle. “hey.” kate stepped up beside her, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. “hey.”

“your pass yesterday.” veronica frowned. “…what about it?”

“i’ve been trying it all morning.” kate motioned toward the opposite basket. “still can’t throw it.” veronica couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at her lips. “it’s not that hard.” kate looked dramatically offended. “wow.”

“what?”

“i come over here looking for help and you humble me immediately.”

“i didn’t—” kate laughed before she could finish. “i’m kidding.” of course she was as she always seemed to know exactly when someone was taking her seriously. “seriously though,” she continued, “if you get bored later, show me?” veronica hesitated.

“…sure.”

“thanks.” the whistle blew kate jogged backward toward her spot. “don’t forget.” veronica watched her go. “burton!” she snapped her attention toward the coach. “eyes here.”

“sorry.” practice resumed and she forgot about the conversation almost immediately or at least she tried to after practice, a handful of players stayed behind getting extra shots up veronica usually did.

today was no different she’d made it through two shooting spots before hearing footsteps behind her. “you forgot.” she turned kate was spinning a basketball on one finger. “what?”

“the pass.”

“right.”

“unless you were lying.” veronica rolled her eyes. “i wasn’t lying.”

“good.” kate tossed her the ball. “teach me.” it was supposed to take five minutes to show her the angle and the timing where to look before making the pass instead, forty minutes disappeared.

kate messed it up a lot every time the ball sailed too high or bounced off the wrong spot, she’d throw both hands in the air like the pass had personally offended her. “there is absolutely no way you people can make this look so easy.” veronica laughed. “a little lower.”

“i am throwing it lower.”

“you’re not.”

“i feel like i am.”

“that’s the problem.” kate groaned dramatically before trying again the ball finally hit exactly where it needed to. “there!” veronica pointed. “that’s it.” kate stared at the pass she’d just made before looking back at her. “i did that.”

“you did.”

“…i’m amazing.”

“let’s not get carried away.” kate laughed so hard she nearly dropped the ball. “you know…” she said between breaths, “i honestly thought you didn’t like me.” the words landed harder than veronica expected. “what?”

“the first week.” kate shrugged. “every time i tried talking to you, you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else.” veronica’s stomach dropped. “i didn’t.”

“i know that now.”

“you do?”

“yeah.” kate smiled. “you’re just quiet.”

quiet if only it were that simple veronica wasn’t quiet around everyone just kate because talking to kate meant thinking about kate thinking about kate meant feeling guilty and guilt was exhausting.

“anyway,” kate continued, completely unaware of the war happening inside veronica’s head, “i’m glad i was wrong.” before veronica could answer, kayla’s voice echoed from across the gym.

“booty cheeks!” kate sighed toward the ceiling. “i swear she has radar.”

“booty cheeks! we’re leaving!” kate looked back at veronica. “duty calls.” veronica smiled despite herself. “apparently.”

“thanks for the help.”

“anytime.” the word slipped out before she could stop it. kate smiled a little wider. “careful.”

“what?”

“you’re making me think we’re friends now.” veronica felt her heartbeat stumble, friends right that’s all, this was friends as she forced herself to smile. “maybe.” kate pointed at her. “i’ll take maybe.” then she turned, jogging toward the exit where kayla was already waiting with two coffees balanced in one hand. “what took so long?” kayla asked.

“private coaching.” kayla looked between the two of them. “without me?” kate gasped. “are you jealous?”

“absolutely.” kate bumped her shoulder as they walked through the doors together. “you’ll survive.”

“debatable.”

their voices faded down the hallway veronica stood alone near the basket, absentmindedly spinning the ball in her hands.

friends.

that was good, friends were safe, friends didn’t make your heart race because they smiled at you friends didn’t stay on your mind the entire drive back to the hotel.

friends definitely didn’t make you replay a forty-minute shooting session over and over while you brushed your teeth that night she caught her own reflection in the mirror and frowned. “get it together,” she muttered quietly as her phone lit up on the bathroom counter.

emily ❤️

facetime?

guilt settled into her chest almost instantly she answered before the second ring because whatever this thing in her head was she was determined to make sure it stayed there.the facetime call lasted almost an hour long enough for emily to tell three different stories from practice, complain about the food she’d been eating all week, and somehow convince veronica that sleeping five hours a night was a perfectly reasonable life choice.

“you’re impossible,” veronica laughed, shaking her head. “i’m efficient.”

“you’re sleep deprived.”

“details.” veronica smiled, resting her chin against her hand as she watched emily grin through the screen as this was easy, this was what they did it reminded her why they’d worked in the first place.

emily could make her laugh without trying she knew exactly when veronica was overthinking because she’d been watching her do it for years. “what?” emily asked.

“nothing.”

“you’re doing the thing.”

“what thing?”

“where you stare at me instead of talking.” veronica laughed quietly. “i’m listening.”

“mm.” emily narrowed her eyes playfully. “you’re thinking.”

“maybe.”

“about?” veronica opened her mouth and closed it again as nothing came out she wasn’t thinking about anything she could actually explain, not without sounding ridiculous. “camp.”

it wasn’t a complete lie. “just trying to learn everything.” emily nodded knowingly. “don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”

“i know.”

“no, you don’t.” veronica smiled. “probably not.”

“ronnie.”

“yeah?”

“you’re there because you deserve to be.” the words settled over her more gently than she’d expected. “don’t spend every day trying to prove everyone else right.” emily smiled. “just play.” veronica swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat.

“i love you.” the words came naturally; they always had emily’s smile softened. “i love you too.”

when the call ended, veronica sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, staring at the now-black screen in her hand.

she loved emily she did so why did it feel like she was trying so hard to convince herself?

the next morning started with film, everyone shuffled into the dark room carrying coffees and breakfast sandwiches, the lights dimmed before the projector flickered to life.

veronica slipped into an empty chair near the middle; she'd barely opened her notebook when someone dropped into the seat beside her. “morning.”

she looked over kate holding two coffees. “morning.” kate held one out. “peace offering.” veronica blinked. “for what?”

“making you stay forty minutes after practice yesterday.”

“you didn’t make me.”

“still.” she nudged the cup a little closer. “take it.” veronica hesitated for half a second before accepting it. “thanks.”

“don’t mention it.” they sat in comfortable silence while players continued filing into the room veronica took a cautious sip. “this is actually good.” kate looked dramatically offended. “what did you expect?”

“i don’t know.”

“a terrible coffee order?”

“kind of.” kate placed a hand over her heart. “you wound me.” before veronica could answer, kayla walked into the room. “there you are, booty cheeks.” kate didn’t even look up. “good morning to you too.”

kayla stopped beside their row then looked down at the extra coffee in veronica’s hand. “hold on.” kate slowly looked up. “what?”

“you bought burton coffee?”

“yeah.” kayla frowned. “where’s mine?” kate stared for a beat before smiling innocently. “you’re capable of buying your own.”

the room around them erupted into scattered laughter as kayla gasped loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “betrayal booty checks.”

“you’ll survive.”

“i don’t think i will.” kate shrugged. “thought you were tough.”

“i am.”

“then act like it.” kayla pointed an accusing finger. “this changes things.”

“does it?”

“absolutely.” kate laughed, shaking her head as kayla wandered off toward another row, still muttering dramatically under her breath veronica found herself smiling into her coffee. “what?” kate caught her. “nothing.”

“you smiled.”

“did i?”

“you did.”

“must’ve been an accident.” kate grinned. “we’re making progress.” before veronica could ask what that meant, the lights dimmed completely and coach stepped to the front film began veronica tried to pay attention she really did she wrote notes circled actions listened to every correction.

yet every few minutes she’d become aware of the person sitting beside her, kate leaned forward whenever coach paused the film she scribbled furiously in her notebook every so often she’d quietly mutter, “that’s on me,” after a missed rotation appeared on the screen she wasn’t embarrassed she wasn’t making excuses she simply owned it.

veronica respected that more than she wanted to admit when film ended, everyone stood at once, conversations immediately filling the room again kate stretched her arms above her head. “Well.” veronica looked over. “well?”

“guess we survived.”

“barely.” kate laughed. “see?”

“what?”

“you joke.” veronica frowned. “occasionally.”

“i knew you had it in you.” she bumped veronica lightly with her shoulder as they walked out of the room it was quick and yet so harmless the kind of absentminded thing teammates did all the time still veronica felt it long after they reached the gym.

she hated herself for that because it meant something to her and it probably hadn’t even crossed kate’s mind across the court, kayla called out, “booty cheeks, quit flirting with burton and get over here.”

the entire gym seemed to go quiet for one impossible second veronica’s heart stopped, kate’s face twisted immediately into confusion. “what are you talking about?”

“you’ve been attached at the hip all morning.” kate rolled her eyes so hard it was almost impressive. “i bought her a coffee.”

“exactly.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“i know.” kate laughed, shaking her head as she jogged away. “you’re actually insane.”

veronica stood frozen where she was, it had been a joke everyone knew it was a joke everyone except the tiny, traitorous part of her brain that couldn’t stop replaying kayla’s words.

quit flirting with burton.

she wasn’t kate wasn’t they weren’t doing anything so why had hearing it made her chest feel so impossibly light…right before the guilt came crashing back down?

after that, veronica became painfully aware of how often she and kate ended up around each other it wasn’t intentional at least, she didn’t think it was.

the coaches constantly mixed up practice groups, rotated partners through drills, and switched defensive assignments every few possessions. 

if she ended up next to kate during shell drill one day, she’d probably spend the next guarding someone else. there wasn’t any pattern to it and yet somehow, kate always found something to say. “nice read.”

“good help.”

“that’s my bad.”

little things but never enough to keep a conversation going if veronica didn’t want one she appreciated that kate never pushed.

if veronica answered with a smile and one word, kate accepted it if she answered with two, kate grinned like she’d won something it was…easy which only made veronica feel worse because she found herself wanting to answer with three. “burton.”

she looked up from stretching kate was spinning a ball on her fingertip. “question.”

“…okay.”

“be honest.” veronica already didn’t like where this was going. “am i actually getting better at that pass, or are you just being nice?” veronica watched kate bounce the ball before catching it again. “you’re getting better.”

“see?” kate pointed at her triumphantly. “i knew it.”

“i also said you still rush it.” kate’s shoulders slumped dramatically. “you couldn’t let me have that?”

“no.” kate sighed. “that’s fair.” before either of them could say anything else, kayla walked by carrying two water bottles. “booty cheeks.” kate didn’t even bother looking. “yes?”

“you’re needed.”

“for?”

“moral support.”

“that’s not a real reason.”

“it is if i’m asking.” kate laughed. “give me thirty seconds.” kayla’s eyes shifted toward veronica before a grin slowly spread across her face. “am i interrupting something?” veronica immediately looked away. “no.” kate looked genuinely confused. “we’re talking.”

“that’s what i said.” kayla wiggled her eyebrows kate blinked. “…you’re weird.”

“takes one to know one.”

“doesn’t even make sense.”

“doesn’t have to.”

kayla wandered off before kate could come up with another response veronica let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding kate noticed. “does she always do that?”

“pretty much.”

“good.” veronica frowned. “good?”

“means it’s not personal.” veronica laughed quietly. “definitely not.”

“i was starting to think she’d declared war on me.”

“give her time.” kate smiled. “see?”

“what?”

“that.”

“what?”

“you laughed again.” veronica rolled her eyes. “you’re keeping track?”

“a little.”

“that’s weird.”

“a little.” they looked at each other for half a second before laughing at the exact same time it wasn’t loud it wasn’t dramatic it just happened and for the first time since camp started, the conversation didn’t feel awkward.

it felt normal the realization lingered with veronica for the rest of practice, normal when had talking to kate started feeling normal? when practice ended, everyone slowly filtered toward the locker room.

coach reminded them they had a team dinner that evening before dismissing them, earning a mixture of cheers and exaggerated applause. “free food,” someone yelled.

“that’s the spirit,” another coach laughed, by seven o’clock, everyone had claimed seats around a long table in the private room of a restaurant a few minutes from the hotel.

veronica ended up between two veterans, halfway down one side of the table kate was across from her kayla was beside kate she told herself not to look over.

she failed almost immediately, conversation bounced around the room, stories from college bad flights, terrible roommates favorite arenas.

someone asked kate about her first week and she shrugged. “honestly?”

“honestly,” kayla repeated, kate smiled. “everybody’s been awesome.”

“awe,” kayla teased. “don’t.”

“she’s getting emotional.”

“i’m literally not.”

“look at her.” kate reached over and shoved kayla’s shoulder. “eat your fries.”

“yes, ma’am.”

the table laughed, veronica smiled despite herself before taking another sip of her drink she didn’t think that kate caught it. “veronica.” veronica looked up kate was already looking at her.

“what’s been the hardest adjustment for you?”

the question caught her off guard but everyone else had gone back to their own conversations for a moment, it almost felt like they were the only two people at the table. “probably…” she thought about it. “trying not to overthink.” kate nodded immediately. “same.”

“really?”

“all the time.” kate reached for another fry. “i’ll make one mistake and spend the next three possessions thinking about it.” veronica laughed. “…that sounds familiar.”

“it’s exhausting.”

“a little.”

“a lot.” they shared another smile, which was all small, easy and comfortable. “see?” kayla interrupted from beside kate. “look at you two.” both of them turned toward her. “what?”

kayla grinned around a mouthful of food. “you’re having your own little conversation.” kate looked at her like she’d grown another head. “…yes?”

“cute.”

“you’re impossible.”

“i’ve accepted that.” kate shook her head, laughing to herself before turning back toward veronica. “ignore her.”

“i usually do.”

“smart.” the conversation moved on as someone farther down the table started telling an embarrassing rookie story that immediately stole everyone’s attention. veronica laughed with everyone else she should’ve been focused on that instead, somewhere in the back of her mind, one thought quietly settled in.

this was the longest conversation she’d had with kate and she’d enjoyed every second of it the realization followed her all the way back to the hotel she was brushing her teeth when her phone lit up on the bathroom counter.

emily ❤️

how was team dinner?

veronica stared at the message as her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

it was good.

she hit send another message came almost instantly.

make any new friends?

veronica’s thumb stopped moving she looked at the blinking cursor then at her own reflection in the mirror after a long moment, she typed.

yeah. everyone’s been really nice.

it wasn’t a lie it just wasn’t the whole truth and somehow that felt even worse.

the next few days blurred together in the way only training camp could wake up practice, film, lift, eat, sleep and repeat.

every morning felt exactly like the one before it until veronica realized she had stopped checking the practice schedule taped inside her locker because she already knew what the day looked like the team was settling in.

coach had started talking less, stopping drills less trusting them more mistakes still happened, but they weren’t the frantic, first-day mistakes anymore. 

they were cleaner fixable people who had started relaxing that included veronica or at least everyone else seemed to think so. “look who’s smiling.” veronica looked over from where she was lacing her shoes. “i smile.” one of the veterans laughed. “not this much.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“sure.” the conversation died there, but it stayed with her longer than she wanted it to. was she smiling more? she didn’t think so she’d always smiled probably before she could think about it any longer, kate wandered into the locker room balancing a paper bag in one hand and two coffees in the other. “who ordered the giant breakfast?” kayla asked immediately.

kate held up the bag.

“me.”

“all of that?”

“don’t judge me.”

“i’m absolutely judging you.” kate reached into the bag before tossing something across the room kayla caught it one-handed. “you bought me breakfast?”

“don’t make it weird.” kayla looked genuinely touched for about half a second. “booty cheeks…”

“don’t.”

“i love you.” kate groaned. “i literally bought you a breakfast sandwich.”

“exactly.”

“eat your food.” kayla clutched the sandwich dramatically to her chest. “this means something.”

“it means i was already in line.” the room filled with laughter veronica smiled to herself as she finished tying her shoes she looked up just in time to catch kate’s eyes.

kate smiled, which was a small one the kind people exchanged when they were both in on the same joke without thinking, veronica smiled back.

it lasted maybe two seconds then kate looked away to answer something one of the coaches had asked that should’ve been the end of it instead, veronica found herself thinking about it all through warmups.

it was just a smile people smiled but normal people didn’t spend ten minutes replaying one in their head.

practice was lighter that afternoon coach split everyone into smaller groups for shooting competitions, the losing teams responsible for picking up basketballs afterward veronica ended up on the same team as two veterans.

kate landed with kayla. “you’re going down,” kayla announced from the opposite baseline kate looked at the scorekeeper. “are we allowed to switch teammates?”

“rude,” kayla said.

“honest.” the whistle blew, the gym instantly became louder, players cheered after every made shot, groaned after every miss, talking over one another until nobody could hear themselves think.

veronica was lining up another three when she heard kate yell from the other end of the court. “kayla!”

“what?”

“you were supposed to rebound!”

“i thought you were making it!”

“i would’ve if you rebounded!”

“that’s not how basketball works!”

“then explain why i missed!” veronica laughed before the ball had even left her hands it hit nothing but net. “nice shot!” someone yelled she turned automatically.

kate had been watching from across the court she pointed at the basket before giving veronica a quick thumbs up veronica lifted a hand in return.

it was nothing just teammates encouraging each other except when she turned back toward her own basket, one of the veterans beside her bumped her shoulder. “you two finally becoming friends?” the question came so casually that it caught her completely off guard. “what?”

“you and martin.” veronica frowned. “we’re teammates.”

“that’s not what i asked.” before she could answer, coach blew the whistle signaling the end of the drill, saved or so she thought as everyone bent down to collect basketballs, the veteran walked beside her. “she seems good for you.”

veronica almost dropped the ball she was holding. “what does that mean?”

“you laugh around her.” she stared, the veteran shrugged. “didn’t really happen the first week.” then she jogged ahead before veronica could ask what she meant veronica stood frozen near half court.

she laughs around her the words echoed louder than the whistles had all afternoon.

did she?

she didn’t think she stopped because she suddenly realized she could remember exactly how many times kate had made her laugh over the past week way too many her phone buzzed inside her bag while everyone headed back toward the locker room she smiled automatically.

emily.

call tonight?

veronica stared at the message then looked up across the hallway, kate and kayla were arguing over who had actually lost the shooting competition. “you missed three.”

“you missed four.”

“one rolled out.”

“a miss is a miss.”

“i reject that.”

“of course you do.” kate laughed, nudging kayla out of the doorway with her shoulder veronica looked back down at her phone. yeah. after dinner?

she hit send almost immediately, the guilt settled in again because for the first time since she’d gotten to camp she had answered emily’s text while thinking about someone else.

veronica called emily that night like she’d promised they would talk while veronica sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, the television muted in the background, nothing but the soft hum of the air conditioner filling the silence whenever one of them stopped talking.

emily was telling a story about one of her teammates when she suddenly laughed. “what?” veronica smiled. “nothing.”

“don’t ‘nothing’ me.”

“i’m listening.”

“you’re smiling.”

“is that a crime?”

“depends.” emily narrowed her eyes playfully through the screen. “is someone at camp making you laugh?” the question was innocent, completely harmless veronica answered a little too fast. “the team’s funny.”

it wasn’t a lie well not exactly emily nodded. “good.” she smiled. “i’m glad you’ve got good people around you.” good people just kept replaying as veronica swallowed. “yeah.”

they stayed on facetime for another half hour before both of them admitted they needed sleep. “love you,” emily said. “love you too.”

the words came automatically they always had but after the call ended, veronica stared at her own reflection in the now-black screen.

she didn’t know why she’d hesitated she’d meant it she knew she had so why had it suddenly felt heavier to say?

practice the next morning was louder than usual someone had connected their phone to the speakers before coaches walked in, music echoing through the gym while players stretched and shot around. kayla was dancing terribly on purpose probably. “you have absolutely no rhythm,” kate laughed.

“that’s a lie.”

“it’s actually impressive.”

“you’re jealous.”

“of what?”

“these moves.” kate looked toward the ceiling. “coach.” the coach looked over. “yes?”

“can you cut her?” the entire gym burst into laughter kayla placed a hand over her heart. “after everything we’ve been through.”

“it’s been two weeks.”

“exactly.”

“that’s not a long time.”

“it is emotionally.” kate shook her head, unable to stop laughing veronica was halfway through a layup line when she caught herself laughing too.

she missed the layup completely the ball hit the back of the rim and bounced away. “burton!” one of the assistants called. “finish.”

she jogged after the ball, cheeks warming, focus she needed to focus coach split them into teams for a scrimmage veronica and kate ended up together for the first time. “finally,” kayla said dramatically. “what?” kate asked.

“i don’t have to guard booty cheeks.” kate rolled her eyes. “you were barely guarding me anyway.”

“that’s because i’m saving my energy.”

“for what?”

“being funny.”

“debatable.” they lined up for the opening possession kate drifted toward veronica while everyone got set. “guess we’re teammates today.” veronica nodded. “looks like it.”

“try not to yell at me.” veronica blinked. “i don’t yell.” kate smiled. “exactly.”

the ball went up the scrimmage started fast as coach let them play through almost everything, only stopping the action to correct major mistakes.

late in the second quarter of the scrimmage, veronica drove into the lane before kicking the ball out to kate in the corner. kate caught it cleanly and didn't hesitate the shot splashed through the net. “good pass!” kate called immediately as they ran back on defense as veronica pointed toward her. “good shot.”

“keep doing that.”

“making shots?”

“passing me the ball.” veronica laughed. “i’ll think about it.”

“please do.” they settled into an easy rhythm kate cut veronica found her kate rotated early veronica trusted she would be there it felt surprisingly natural. “nice chemistry,” coach called after another possession.

neither of them thought much of it coach said things like that all the time, still the words lodged themselves somewhere in the back of veronica’s mind.

after practice, everyone slowly wandered toward the locker room, exhausted and dripping with sweat. veronica was digging through her bag for a clean shirt when she heard kate’s voice behind her. “hey.” she turned kate leaned against the locker beside hers. “thanks.”

“for?”

“today.” veronica frowned. “you made my job easy.”

“you made mine easier.” kate smiled. “see?”

“what?”

“we’re getting somewhere.” veronica couldn’t help smiling back. “apparently.” before either of them could say anything else, kayla appeared between them out of nowhere. “there you are, booty cheeks.” kate jumped. “how do you keep doing that?”

“talent.” kayla looked between the two of them before smirking. “am i interrupting?”

“yes,” kate deadpanned. “perfect.” kate laughed. “what do you want?”

“food.”

“okay?”

“you’re coming.” kate sighed dramatically. “do i have a choice?”

“absolutely not.” kate looked back at veronica. “you wanna come?”

the invitation hung in the air for just a second a week ago, veronica would’ve said no immediately today she almost said yes almost then her phone vibrated inside her bag.

she didn’t even have to look she already knew; emily, the tiny spark she’d felt disappeared as quickly as it had come. “i can’t.” kate nodded without a hint of disappointment. “another time.”

“yeah.”

“no worries.” she smiled. “a rain check.” before veronica could answer, kayla was already pulling on kate’s sleeve. “come on, booty cheeks.”

“i’m walking.”

“faster.” kate laughed, letting herself get dragged toward the door. “you’re so impatient.”

“because i’m hungry.” their voices faded down the hallway veronica slowly pulled her phone out.

emily ❤️

free to talk?

she looked toward the now-empty doorway then back at the screen for reasons she couldn’t explain she wished the timing had been different.

the rain check sat in the back of veronica’s mind longer than it should have, not because she’d wanted to go because she’d almost wanted to go there was a difference at least, that was what she kept telling herself.

she’d spent the rest of the evening on facetime with emily, listening to her talk about practice and travel plans, laughing at stories she’d heard a dozen different versions of before. 

it was comfortable and familiar it’s the kind of conversation that had always come naturally between them still, every now and then, there’d be a lull, not an awkward one just quiet and lately, veronica had started noticing them. “what are you thinking about?” emily asked, resting her chin on her hand veronica blinked. “nothing.” emily smiled knowingly. “that’s never true.”

“just tired.”

“you’ve been saying that a lot.”

“training camp.”

“yeah.” emily nodded. “i get it.” she did that was the thing emily always got it as she understood the pressure, the uncertainty, the constant feeling that one bad day could change everything she never asked veronica to explain what it felt like because she’d lived it too.

so why did veronica suddenly feel like she was the one holding something back? “Hey.” emily’s voice softened. “don’t disappear on me.” veronica smiled. “i’m here.”

“good.” they stayed on the phone another twenty minutes before finally saying goodnight when the call ended, veronica lay awake staring at the ceiling she wasn’t thinking about kate she wasn’t she was thinking about why she’d almost said yes that was different.

the next morning brought an announcement that immediately changed the mood around camp. “we’ve got an off day tomorrow,” coach said before practice a chorus of relieved cheers filled the gym. “don’t get too excited,” she continued. “you’re still expected back here the following morning ready to work.”

“yes, coach,” half the team answered in unison. kayla pumped a fist into the air. “i’m sleeping until noon.”

“you wish,” kate laughed. “don’t ruin this for me.”

“someone has to.” practice flew by without conditioning eating up the first hour, everyone looked lighter on their feet.

shots started falling passes were crisper the team was finally beginning to look like a team during a break between drills, veronica wandered toward the cooler to refill her water bottle. “perfect timing.”

she looked over kate was already there. “i’ve got another question.” veronica laughed quietly. “you always have questions.”

“it’s how i learn.”

“what is it?” kate leaned against the table. “how do you always know where everyone’s gonna be?” 

“what do you mean?”

“you’ll throw a pass before somebody’s even open.” she mimicked the motion with her hands. “then somehow they’re exactly where you thought they’d be.” veronica shrugged. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i just…” she searched for the right words. “…watch people.” kate tilted her head. “watch people.”

“their habits.”

“okay.”

“everyone moves differently.” kate listened without interrupting. “once you know how somebody likes to cut…” veronica gestured toward the court. “it gets easier.” kate smiled. “that’s really cool.” veronica looked down at her water bottle. “it’s just basketball.”

“maybe.” kate screwed the cap back onto her own bottle. “doesn’t make it any less cool.”

before veronica could respond, coach called everyone back in as kate jogged away, she glanced over her shoulder. “thanks, v.” veronica stopped walking.

v. it had slipped out so naturally that kate probably hadn’t even realized she’d shortened her name she watched kate rejoin the drill.

v.

no one on the team had called her that yet she wasn’t even sure why it made her smile. “burton!” she snapped out of it and coach pointed toward the opposite baseline. “let’s go.”

“coming.”

practice ended just before lunch everyone showered quickly, eager to start their first real afternoon off in weeks veronica was stuffing a hoodie into her backpack when she heard kayla from the other side of the locker room. “mall?”

someone answered yes another player suggested coffee instead within seconds, half the room was throwing out ideas. “booty cheeks.” kate looked up. “what?”

“you’re driving.”

“who made me the chauffeur?”

“your face.”

“that doesn’t even make sense.”

“none of this does.” kate sighed dramatically. “how many people?” hands shot up around the room. “absolutely not.” everyone laughed. “i have, like, four seats.”

“figure it out.”

“i’m leaving people behind.”

“survival of the fittest.” veronica zipped her bag closed, trying not to smile she almost made it to the door unnoticed almost. “hey, v.”

she froze it took her a second to realize kate was talking to her. “Yeah?” kate smiled. “a bunch of us are going to the mall.” kayla nodded enthusiastically. “come with.”

veronica glanced between them there were at least six or seven teammates standing nearby it wasn’t just kate it wasn’t one-on-one it was a team outing completely harmless. “i…”

before she could finish, her phone vibrated in her back pocket she already knew who it was. she didn’t have to look but she did anyway.

emily ❤️

good morning. call me when you get a chance?

her smile faded just enough for kate to notice. “everything okay?” veronica locked her phone. “yeah.” she forced a small smile. “i just promised emily i’d call her.” kate nodded immediately. “gotcha.” not disappointed, not offended just understanding. “next time.”

“yeah.”

“have fun talking to her.”

“thanks.” kate smiled one last time before turning back toward the group. “okay, who’s sitting in the trunk?”

“not it!” kayla yelled. “i called shotgun.”

“you call shotgun every time.”

“because i’m committed.” their voices slowly faded as they headed toward the parking lot veronica remained where she was for another moment, her phone still in her hand she pressed cal emily answered almost instantly. “hey, you.”

veronica smiled. “hey.” as emily started telling her about her morning, veronica walked toward her own car alone; she never looked back; she didn’t see kate glance over her shoulder as the group climbed into their cars didn’t see the brief flicker of confusion cross her face before she shrugged it off.

from kate’s point of view, veronica always seemed happy to talk during practice she just never seemed to stay once practice was over.

kate figured that was just who she was; she had no idea that every time veronica walked away it wasn’t because she wanted to, it was because staying was starting to feel a little too easy.

the off day came and went faster than anyone wanted it to by the following morning, everyone was back inside the practice facility before the sun had fully come up, coffees in hand, conversations noticeably louder after twenty-four hours away from the gym.

kayla was somehow already talking. “and then she tells me i can’t have dessert.” kate looked horrified. “that’s actually cruel.”

“right?”

“who says no to dessert?”

“a monster.”

“exactly.” veronica smiled to herself as she walked past them toward her locker; she'd gotten used to hearing their voices before she ever saw them.

it was becoming routine she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. “morning, v.” she looked over kate was already smiling at her. “morning.”

“good off day?”

“yeah.”

“do anything fun?” veronica shrugged. “mostly relaxed.”

“same.” kayla immediately cut in. “that’s a lie.” kate sighed. “here we go.”

“you spent forty-five minutes trying to convince me to buy a pair of shoes.”

“because they looked good.”

“they were orange.”

“they were stylish.”

“they looked like traffic cones.” kate laughed. “you have no vision.”

“i have functioning eyes.”

“debatable.” veronica couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped it was quiet barely more than a breath but both of them heard it but kayla pointed dramatically. “see?” kate turned toward veronica with an unnecessarily smug smile. “thank you.”

“for what?”

“validation.” veronica shook her head. “i wasn’t agreeing with you.”

“too late.”

“that’s not how that works.”

“it does today.” coach walked in before the conversation could continue, clapping her hands together. “let’s get to work.” everyone scattered.

practice was easily the most physical they’d had all camp coach let almost everything go.

hands, bumps, hard screens if someone hit the floor, they were expected to get back up by the end of the second scrimmage, everyone was breathing hard.

veronica wiped sweat from her forehead as they waited for the next possession to start kate lined up beside her. “you alive?”

“barely.”

“good.” veronica looked over. “good?”

“means i’m not the only one suffering.”

“that’s a terrible way to motivate people.” kate smiled. “it’s working though.” before veronica could answer, the ball was inbounded the possession moved quickly.

veronica brought the ball up the floor, calling out the set before driving toward the middle the defense collapsed without thinking, she fired the ball toward the weak side.

kate was already there she caught it in stride and laid it in before the help defender could rotate the whistle blew. “nice!” coach yelled.

kate immediately turned toward veronica. “that’s what i’m talking about!”

without thinking, she jogged over and reached out their hands slapped together in a quick high five.

it lasted less than a second just enough for kate to grin before jogging back on defense veronica stood there for half a heartbeat longer than she should have.

it was nothing, teammates high-fived each other all day still her palm felt strangely warm. “burton.” she looked over and one of the assistants smirked. “you planning on getting back on defense?”

heat rushed into her face. “right.” she hurried back as everyone laughed, focus just focus.

practice finally ended nearly three hours later the locker room was unusually quiet everyone looked exhausted kayla flopped dramatically onto the bench. “i think coach hates us.”

“probably,” kate answered. “did we do something?”

“exist.”

“rude.” kate chuckled as she pulled a hoodie over her head veronica was digging through her bag when she heard someone clear their throat beside her.

she looked up kate holding out a protein bar. “what’s this?”

“peace offering.” veronica laughed. “for what this time?”

“coach made us suffer.”

“you didn’t.”

“doesn’t matter.” she wiggled the protein bar. “take it.” veronica accepted it. “thanks.”

“you’re welcome.” there was that pause again only this time neither of them seemed in a hurry to fill it. “so…” kate said. “so?”

“i’ve been meaning to ask.” veronica looked at her. “how come you always leave right after practice?”

the question wasn’t accusing if anything, kate sounded genuinely curious, veronica’s fingers tightened slightly around the wrapper. “i…” she searched for an answer that didn’t feel dishonest.

“i usually call emily.”kate nodded almost immediately. “that makes sense.” she smiled. “long distance’s gotta be tough.” veronica felt something sink inside her chest. “yeah.”

“a friend of mine did it.” kate shrugged. “said it was harder than people realized.”

“…it is.” kate studied her for a second before smiling softly. “well…” she pushed herself away from the locker. “tell her i said she picked someone who throws really good passes.” veronica laughed. “i don’t think that’ll come up.”

“missed opportunity.” before kate could take another step, a voice echoed through the room. “martin.” everyone instinctively looked toward the doorway and one of the team’s staff members stood there. “coach wants to see you.” kate frowned. “right now?”

“yeah.”

“okay.” she looked back at veronica. “see you tomorrow.”

“see you.” kate disappeared down the hallway kayla watched her go before shrugging. “hope she’s not in trouble.”

“she probably forgot to fill out some paperwork,” another teammate guessed. “or she stole another towel,” someone else joked.

the room laughed, veronica smiled faintly before looking back down at the protein bar still sitting in her hands.

she turned it over once twice then slipped it into the front pocket of her backpack instead of leaving it in her locker.

she didn’t know why she only knew that when her phone buzzed a few seconds later with another message from emily for the first time since training camp had started she didn’t answer it right away.

the next morning, kate was quieter it wasn’t obvious, not unless you knew what she’d been like every day before she still smiled when people said good morning still thanked one of the trainers for taping her ankle. 

still laughed when kayla nearly dropped an entire tray of water bottles before practice but the laugh didn’t linger it disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

veronica noticed before she’d even finished putting her shoes on she frowned to herself maybe kate was just tired camp had a way of wearing everyone down eventually. “booty cheeks.” kayla nudged kate’s shoulder. “you alive?” kate looked over. “unfortunately.”

“that’s dramatic.”

“a little.”

“a lot.” kate smiled. “probably.” it was enough to satisfy kayla, who immediately launched into another story about getting lost on the way to the grocery store.

kate listened and she laughed in the right places she looked normal, almost.

practice started a few minutes later coach kept everyone moving, running through offensive sets before splitting the team into small groups for situational work veronica and kate barely crossed paths all morning.

when they did, kate still complimented a good pass still clapped after a defensive stop still looked exactly like herself except she seemed somewhere else during a water break, veronica filled her bottle beside one of the veterans. “you hear?” veronica looked up. “hear what?”

the veteran lowered her voice. “martin.” veronica’s stomach tightened. “what about her?”

“heard she and claire broke up.” the words landed so unexpectedly that for a second veronica wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “what?”

“one of the staff mentioned it this morning.” the veteran shrugged. “sounded pretty recent.” before veronica could ask anything else, coach blew the whistle from the middle of the court. “let’s go!” everyone immediately scattered but veronica stood still for half a second longer.

kate and claire broke up; she wasn’t sure why her chest suddenly felt so tight; she hated herself for noticing she hated herself even more for wondering if that was why kate had seemed quieter.

throughout the rest of practice, her eyes found kate more often than they should have kate missed a shot she normally made she shrugged it off.

she got beat on a backdoor cut she clapped for the teammate who scored instead of getting frustrated.

she smiled and she laughed she looked fine.

maybe the veteran had been wrong, maybe it wasn’t true or maybe kate was just really good at pretending.

practice ended just after noon.

players wandered toward the locker room, conversations picking back up now that coach wasn’t barking instructions every thirty seconds.

veronica was unlacing her shoes when kayla dropped onto the bench beside kate. “you wanna grab lunch?” kate was quiet for a second. “maybe later.” kayla glanced over. “everything okay?” there it was just four simple words; everything okay?

kate looked down at the floor before answering. “yeah.” kayla didn’t say anything, she just waited finally kate sighed. “claire and i ended things.”

the locker room suddenly felt much smaller it wasn’t silent people were still talking on the other side of the room music was still playing softly from someone’s speaker but the small circle around kate went still as kayla’s expression softened immediately. “oh.” kate nodded once. “yeah.”

“when?”

“a couple days ago.”

“why didn’t you say anything?” kate shrugged. “didn’t really wanna make it a thing.” kayla reached over and bumped their knees together. “you okay?”

kate smiled a real smile, this time small a little sad. “i will be.” kayla didn’t push, she just nodded. “okay.” after a second, she stood. “don’t move.” kate blinked. “why?”

“because i’m getting you food.”

“kayla—”

“that’s not a request.” kate laughed quietly. “you’re bossy.”

“and you’re sad.”

“i’m not—”

“don’t argue with me, booty cheeks.” kate rolled her eyes. “fine.”

“good.” kayla disappeared out the locker room doors before kate could protest anymore veronica looked down at the towel in her hands she shouldn’t have listened.

she hadn’t meant to the conversation had just happened a few lockers away she folded the towel once twice then, before she could stop herself, she looked up.

kate was sitting by herself now, elbows resting on her knees, absentmindedly turning a roll of athletic tape over in her hands. she looked nothing like the girl who’d been making everyone laugh an hour earlier.

she just looked heartbroken but something inside veronica ached, it wasn’t excitement, it wasn't relief if anything, it made her feel worse because the very first thought that crossed her mind wasn’t kate’s single but it was i hope she’s okay and somehow that scared her even more.

her phone buzzed she already knew who it was.

emily ❤️

thinking about you. hope practice went well ❤️

veronica stared at the message then looked back across the locker room kate was still sitting exactly where she’d been, staring down at the floor while she waited for kayla to come back.

veronica looked down at her phone again, her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

thinking about you too.

she typed it she read it and for the first time in a very long time she couldn’t bring herself to hit send.

after that afternoon, something shifted, not with kate with veronica because now every time she looked at kate, she couldn’t stop herself from remembering the expression on her face after everyone else had left the locker room.

the smile she’d forced the way she’d kept turning that roll of athletic tape over and over in her hands like she needed something to do besides think she’d looked lonely the thought lingered for days.

kate, meanwhile, did exactly what everyone expected her to do she showed up, she practiced, she laughed if anything, she leaned even harder into being around her teammates.

especially kayla it wasn’t difficult to understand why kayla refused to let her sit by herself for more than five minutes.

if kate was stretching alone, kayla somehow appeared beside her, if kate grabbed lunch, kayla was already pulling out the chair across from her if kate looked even remotely lost in thought, kayla immediately found something stupid to say until kate laughed.

veronica watched it happen over and over and she told herself she was glad kate had someone she meant that.

she really did, that didn’t stop the uncomfortable feeling settling in her chest every time she looked across the gym and found them together. “booty cheeks.” kate sighed dramatically.

“yes?” kayla pointed toward the shooting machine. “loser buys coffee.”

“didn’t you lose yesterday?”

“that’s irrelevant.”

“it’s literally the only relevant part.”

“are you scared?” kate laughed. “of you?”

“exactly.”

“not even a little.”

“wow.”

“truth hurts.” they spent the next twenty minutes talking trash while firing shots at the basket, neither of them keeping score correctly by the end because they’d gotten too busy arguing about whose math was worse.

veronica tried not to watch, she failed every single time it wasn’t even the jokes anymore it was how naturally kate smiled around kayla how comfortable she looked how easy everything seemed she hated that word now.

easy, because nothing about this felt easy. “burton.” coach’s voice pulled her back. “you’re up.” she blinked. “right.” she stepped into the drill, mentally scolding herself.

this had to stop it was becoming distracting she’d never been the type to lose focus during practice yet lately every time kate laughed, her eyes found her before her brain had a chance to stop them.

that evening, emily called just after dinner veronica answered from her hotel room, sitting cross-legged near the window. “hi.”

“hey.” emily smiled through the screen. “you look tired.”

“feel tired.”

“camp?”

“yeah.” they fell into another familiar conversation; practice, coaches travel, everything was exactly the same as every other call.

except veronica kept checking the clock not because she wanted to end the conversation but because she realized she was struggling to stay present. “ronnie?” she blinked. “sorry.” emily smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “you keep doing that.”

“doing what?”

“drifting.” veronica looked down. “i know.” a quiet silence settled between them but it wasn’t uncomfortable, it was honest emily broke it first. “is everything okay?”

the question hurt because it deserved the truth and veronica didn’t know what the truth was anymore. “yeah.” the word came out softer than she’d intended. “just a lot going on.” emily nodded slowly. “okay.”

she didn’t push she never pushed they finished the conversation a few minutes later, exchanging another “i love you” before hanging up.

this time, when the screen went black, veronica didn’t immediately set the phone down, instead she stared at her own reflection but she was starting to hate the person looking back at her.

the first preseason game crept closer and suddenly practices felt sharper rotations had tightened as coach spent more time talking about scouting reports than conditioning everything became intentional.

the locker room buzzed with a different kind of energy there was excitement now, anticipation players joked a little louder music played a little earlier everyone could feel the season inching closer. “tomorrow,” kayla announced while pulling on her practice jersey. “finally.” kate nodded. “can’t wait.”

“you nervous?”

“a little.”

“good.”

“why is that good?”

“means you care.” kate considered it. “Fair.” kayla bumped her shoulder. “you’re gonna be fine.” kate smiled. “thanks.”

“don’t get emotional.”

“i wasn’t going to.”

“looked like you were thinking about it.”

“i’ll cry just to make you uncomfortable.”

“please don’t.”

“tempting.” veronica laughed before she could stop herself, both of them looked over kayla pointed immediately. “see?” kate grinned. “told you she’s funny.” veronica’s cheeks warmed. “i didn’t say anything.”

“didn’t have to.” kayla nodded in agreement. “silent comedy.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

kate laughed again and god there it was that laugh veronica looked away before anyone noticed she’d been smiling too her phone vibrated against the wooden bench beside her.

emily ❤️

good luck tomorrow. i’ll be watching. proud of you. love you. ❤️

veronica’s smile faded she stared at the message for a long time long enough that the locker room around her faded into the background.

she loved emily she knew she did so why did reading those words make guilt hit before anything else? “v?”

she looked up kate was standing a few feet away, gym bag over one shoulder. “you coming?”

veronica glanced toward the doorway most of the team was already leaving together kayla was waiting just outside, bouncing impatiently on her heels. “booty cheeks!” kate laughed. “i’m coming.” then she looked back at veronica. “you good?”

veronica locked her phone. “yeah.” kate studied her for a second before smiling. “see you tomorrow.”

“see you.” veronica watched as kate caught up with kayla in the hallway she didn’t hear what kayla said.

she only saw kate throw her head back laughing before lightly bumping their shoulders together as they disappeared around the corner.

for reasons she couldn’t explain, the sight stayed with her long after they were gone tomorrow would only be a preseason game.

it didn’t count not really it was just another step before the season officially began veronica had no idea that by the time it ended…

everything she had spent weeks trying not to admit to herself would become impossible to ignore.

game day arrived before veronica felt ready for it the energy inside the practice facility was different, lighter, everyone moved a little quicker, music echoing through the locker room while players finished taping ankles and lacing shoes. 

coaches weren't barking quite as much there was still work to do, but today wasn't about drills today they finally got to play someone else kayla was already talking before she'd even sat down. "booty cheeks." kate looked up from tying her shoes. "good morning."

"you nervous?"

"a little."

"perfect."

"why is everyone happy? i'm nervous?"

"because it means you're human." kate smiled. "i would've preferred superhuman."

"too late."

"guess i'll settle."veronica couldn't help smiling as she pulled her jersey over her head and she caught herself almost immediately she needed to stop doing that. "v."

she looked over kate tossed something toward her, a small packet of fruit snacks veronica caught it. "what's this?"

"pregame fuel." veronica laughed quietly. "fruit snacks?" kate shrugged. "they work."

"according to who?"

"me."

"that's not exactly scientific."

"i've never claimed to be a scientist." kayla leaned across kate's shoulder. "don't encourage her." 

"too late," kate answered veronica tucked the fruit snacks into her warmup pocket. "thanks."

"good luck."

"you too."

it was a simple exchange completely ordinary still, it stayed with veronica as the team loaded onto the bus as her phone buzzed before they pulled away.

emily ❤️

good luck today. i'll be watching. you're going to be amazing.

veronica smiled.

thank you ❤️

another message appeared almost instantly.

call me after?

her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

of course.

she hit send then slid her phone back into her bag across the aisle, kate and kayla were arguing over music. "absolutely not."

"why?"

"because every playlist you make has the same ten songs."

"that's because they're good."

"it's because you refuse to listen to anything else."

"quality over quantity." kate laughed. "you're impossible."

"and yet you still sit next to me."

"i'm starting to question that decision." veronica looked out the window she didn't need to hear the rest she already knew kate would laugh again she was right.

the arena buzzed with the strange mix of excitement and nerves that only preseason could bring families filled the lower bowl.

kids leaned over railings hoping for autographs as everything felt just a little less serious than the regular season and yet for every player on the floor, it meant everything.

warmups flew by introductions and the national anthem, one last huddle as coach clapped her hands. "have fun."

the ball went up and the game started fast veronica settled in quicker than she'd expected she found teammates in transition knocked down an early jumper.

forced a turnover every good possession made the nerves fade a little more basketball had always been the easy part late in the second quarter, kate checked into the game.

the crowd gave a warm cheer kayla met her near half court. "you ready, booty cheeks?" kate laughed. "been ready."

the two of them immediately brought energy diving for loose balls talking on defense celebrating every stop like it was the playoffs.

veronica noticed of course she noticed she always noticed midway through the third quarter, kayla drove into the lane before kicking the ball out the possession swung around the perimeter until it found kate.

she let it fly nothing but net, the bench exploded, players jumped to their feet, kate turned toward the sideline, grinning so hard it looked like her face might hurt as kayla met her halfway.

"there you go!" without thinking, without hesitation kate reached out and gave kayla a quick, playful smack on the butt before pointing back down the floor. "good pass!"

it lasted less than a second just teammates celebrating the kind of thing that happened every single game kayla laughed. "you're welcome, booty cheeks." then both of them sprinted back on defense like nothing had happened but nobody reacted.

the coaches didn't, their teammates didn't the crowd certainly didn't because there was nothing to react to except veronica couldn't breathe.

the court suddenly felt too big, too loud, too bright she stared after them for one impossible second before forcing herself back into the next possession.

what was that? it was nothing.

it was literally nothing, teammates did things like that all the time she'd seen it a hundred times.

so why, why did something twist painfully inside her chest? she missed the next defensive rotation. "burton!" coach's voice snapped at her back. "wake up!"

"sorry."

she recovered just in time barely for the rest of the game, she couldn't stop replaying it.

kate laughing kayla smiling that quick little tap.

so casual, so natural, so… affectionate before she could stop herself, a thought slipped into her mind. i wish that had been me.

the realization hit like a punch her stomach dropped no absolutely not she'd imagined it.

she hadn't meant she didn't she had she wished kate had looked at her like that she wished kate joked with her like that.

she wished she made kate laugh that easily she wished, she wished she'd been the one standing there.

guilt crashed over her so hard she almost felt sick emily, oh god emily.

the final buzzer sounded before veronica even realized the fourth quarter had ended players exchanged handshakes.

families filtered toward the exits, teammates congratulated one another on little moments throughout the game kayla immediately wrapped an arm around kate's shoulders as they walked toward the tunnel. "told you you'd be fine." kate laughed. "you were right."

"obviously."

"don't let it go to your head."

"too late." they disappeared into the hallway together veronica looked away she couldn't watch anymore.

the locker room was loud after the game as coaches handed out quick feedback, players laughed over missed assignments, someone replayed a highlight on their phone and it all sounded distant like she was underwater.

she changed quietly packed her bag and avoided looking across the room. "v?" she froze kate was standing beside her locker, still smiling, still completely unaware. "good game." veronica forced herself to meet her eyes. "yeah you too."

"you okay?"

"just tired." kate nodded. "yeah." she smiled. "me too." then she walked away that was it, she had no idea she'd just shattered something.

the bus ride back was quieter, everyone was exhausted, some people slept others scrolled through their phones veronica stared out the window, the darkness outside reflecting her own face back at her, her phone buzzing.

emily ❤️

i'm so proud of you. you looked amazing tonight.

tears stung unexpectedly behind veronica's eyes because all she could think about was how undeserving those words suddenly felt she answered the facetime as soon as they got back to the hotel.

emily smiled the second the screen connected. "there she is." veronica smiled back or at least she tried to. "how'd it feel?" emily asked. "good."

"just good?"

"it was fun." emily talked excitedly about a pass veronica had made in the second quarter a defensive possession late in the game.

a jumper she'd hit from the wing she'd noticed everything she'd watched the entire game veronica listened, answered and smiled when she was supposed to but she wasn't really there. "ronnie."

she looked up. "yeah?" emily's smile had faded. "where'd you go?"

veronica's throat tightened and she wanted to tell her not about kate not yet but about this feeling about how something inside her had changed and she didn't know how to stop it but instead she lied. "i'm just exhausted." emily nodded slowly. "get some sleep."

"yeah." another quiet pause. "i love you."

veronica closed her eyes for the briefest second when she opened them again, emily was still looking at her with the same warmth she always had.

waiting, trusting and loving her. "i love you too."

the words came out but they didn't sound the way they used to after the call ended, veronica sat alone on the edge of her bed the hotel room was silent.

she thought about kate laughing with kayla about the effortless affection about the impossible thought she'd had in the middle of the game. i wish that had been me.

she covered her face with both hands for weeks; she'd convinced herself it was just a harmless crush, something that would disappear if she ignored it long enough. 

she couldn't tell herself that anymore because somewhere between coffee offers, passing drills, shared laughs, and one meaningless little celebration...

she had stopped wanting kate's attention as a teammate and started wanting it as something else.

tiff hayes is a vet, is someone who taught kate how to read a closeout her rookie year, who sat next to her on every bus for a season and called her “rookie” until she didn’t anymore, who covered for her on a switch in a playoff game two years ago and never once brought it up afterward like it was something kate owed her for.

so kate is there, crouched, hand on tip’s shoulder, before the whistle even finishes. “i’m fine,” tip says, which is what vets always say, flexing her wrist experimentally and wincing in a way that says she is not fine, actually, not even a little.

“you’re not fine, you’re making the face.” kate’s already waving toward the bench, toward the trainer, her own pulse ticking up in a way that has nothing to do with the run of play and everything to do with the particular flavor of helplessness that comes from watching someone you love get hurt in a way you can’t fix with your hands.

kate looks up finds the player who did it some forward with a number kate doesn’t bother to clock, doesn’t want to clock, because clocking it would mean admitting she’s going to remember it already walking away like nothing happened, like she didn’t just put her whole arm through a teammate’s wrist on a closeout that had no business being that hard.

there’s a looseness to the walk, a couldn’t-care-less set to her shoulders, and that’s the part that does it, more than the foul itself fouls happen that walk is a choice.

“hey.” kate’s voice doesn’t carry far it’s not built to but emily’s does as emily engstler gets there second, but loud enough that it doesn’t matter.

she’s got six inches and a different relationship to her own anger than kate does kate runs hot and quiet, the kind of mad that sits in her jaw and waits, but emily runs hot and immediate, the kind of mad that announces itself to the whole arena before it’s even finished deciding what it’s mad about.

“that’s a flagrant,” emily says, to no one and everyone, already squaring up toward the other team’s bench like she’s looking for someone to agree with her. “that’s a whole ass flagrant, somebody better—”

“emily.” kate, still crouched by tip, not even looking up.

“no, kate, that’s—” emily’s hands are doing something agitated, something kate recognizes from a dozen film sessions, a dozen times emily’s had to be talked down off a tech by a coach with a hand flat on her chest saying breathe, breathe, you’re better than this. “she can’t just do that and walk off like—”

the forward, the one with the number kate didn’t clock turns around says something kate doesn’t catch all of it over the noise of the arena, the buzz of nineteen thousand people simultaneously realizing something’s happening, but she catches enough. catches the shape of a word that isn’t about basketball at all, aimed at emily, low and ugly the way these things get when someone wants to make it personal instead of just physical.

the kind of word that’s designed to find the exact seam in a person and pull emily goes very still for half a second and kate knows that stillness.

has seen it before, has learned to read it the way you learn to read weather, the false calm before something breaks loose and she’s moving before she’s finished standing up, hand already out, already reaching for the back of emily’s jersey, already saying her name again, sharper this time, the way you’d say it to a dog at the edge of traffic

“emily, don’t—” and that’s when veronica gets there veronica doesn’t run onto a basketball court. veronica has never run onto anything in her life that wasn’t strictly necessary, conserves her energy the way she conserves everything else — words, emotion, the particular currency of herself that she doesn’t spend carelessly.

she’s a guard who reads situations before she enters them, who’s spent a career learning that the fastest way through chaos is to already know where it’s going before it gets there but she’s fast tonight, fast in a way that doesn’t feel like a choice so much as a fact of physics, because she looked over at the scrum near the baseline and found kate in the middle of it with her hand half-closed around the back of emily’s jersey and her whole body angled toward a fight that wasn’t hers, and something in veronica’s chest had gone cold and clear and very, very fast.

“hey — hey, both of you—” she’s already between them by the time she finishes the sentence, one hand flat against emily’s sternum, not shoving, just present, just a wall built out of will alone, the other hand finding kate’s wrist where it’s still fisted in emily’s jersey. “stand down. both of you, now.”

“she said—” emily starts. “i don’t care what she said.” veronica’s voice doesn’t rise it never does. it’s the thing kate loves about her, actually, in the moments when she has room to think about loving anything in the middle of an arena full of noise that veronica’s calm isn’t an absence of feeling, it’s a decision, made over and over, every single time, the way some people choose courage and veronica chooses stillness because she’s learned that stillness is its own kind of strength.

“you throw a punch right now, you’re out for six games and it doesn’t undo whatever she said to you. it just gives her something to feel good about. so stand down.”

emily’s jaw works she’s still looking past veronica’s shoulder at the forward, who’s being herded the other direction by two of her own teammates and a ref who finally, finally noticed there was a problem, hands up, whistle going, the whole machinery of de-escalation creaking into motion ten seconds too late to matter.

it’s kate who breaks first, like always kate whose anger burns fast and hot and then goes out all at once, leaves her shaky in the aftermath instead of fueled by it, hands trembling slightly with the comedown of adrenaline that has nowhere left to go.

“v—” she says, and veronica’s hand is already moving from her wrist to her shoulder, steadying, grounding, the kind of touch that says i’ve got you without needing the words, that’s had years of practice saying exactly that without a single syllable.

“i know,” veronica says, even though kate didn’t finish the sentence. she never needs kate to finish the sentence. “i know. tip okay?”

“i don’t know. she’s holding her wrist.”

“go check. i’ve got emily.” kate goes, casting one more look back over her shoulder as she does at veronica’s hand still flat against emily’s chest, at the particular steadiness of veronica’s spine, the way she’s standing like she could hold that line all night if she had to.

veronica turns the rest of her attention to emily, who’s still vibrating with something that hasn’t found anywhere to go yet, energy with no outlet, the worst kind. “she called me—” emily starts again.

“i heard.” veronica didn’t, not really, not the specific word, but she heard enough of the shape of it to know it was the kind of thing you don’t say to someone on a basketball court, the kind of thing built specifically to detonate. “and in about ten seconds a ref’s gonna ask you what happened, and you’re gonna say ‘she fouled my teammate hard and i had words about it.’ that’s it. that’s the whole story. you don’t get to give her the rest of it, emily. you don’t get to make this about what she said. you make this about tip’s wrist, and you let tip’s wrist be the only thing anybody remembers tomorrow.”

“that’s not fair.”

“no,” veronica agrees, and there’s something almost gentle in how readily she agrees, like she’s not interested in pretending the world is fairer than it is.

“it’s not fair. but it’s what happens next.” she doesn’t let go of emily’s arm until she feels the tension actually leave it, not just quiet down on the surface there’s a difference, and veronica’s spent enough years reading teammates’ bodies in huddles and locker rooms to know exactly where that difference lives. “you good?”

emily exhales long, through her nose, shoulders dropping half an inch. “i’m good.”

“good. go find your guy, get water, walk it off by the bench for two minutes before they sub you back in. you’re no good to us with a tech, and you’re no good to tip if you’re sitting next to her in the locker room still running hot instead of actually being there for her.”

emily looks at veronica for a second longer than necessary, something shifting in her face not quite gratitude, something more complicated than that, the specific look of someone who got talked off a ledge by a person who didn’t make her feel small for almost walking off it. “thanks, veronica.”

“go.”

it isn’t a fight that actually breaks not really, not the all-benches-clear kind that makes highlight reels for the wrong reasons, the kind that gets dissected on sports talk shows by men in suits who weren’t anywhere near the building.

it’s the kind that almost happens, the kind that exists for thirty adrenaline-soaked seconds and then gets walked back by exactly the right number of cooler heads, which tonight happens to be one veronica, planted between two people who needed someone to be the reason they didn’t do something they’d regret for the rest of the season.

tip’s wrist turns out to be a sprain, not a break she sits the rest of the game with ice on it and a look on her face like she’s already plotting what she’s going to say to that forward next time they play each other, vet-petty in the most affectionate way kate’s ever seen pettiness expressed already composing, out loud, to anyone who’ll listen, the exact tone of voice she’s going to use the next time she boxes that girl out.

the locker room after is loud in the particular way a win is loud, but underneath the noise there’s a current of something else kate can feel it, the way the rookies are a little quieter than usual, watching tip get her wrist wrapped like they’re cataloguing it for later, like this is the kind of thing that teaches you something about the league whether you wanted the lesson or not.

emily sits near to tip, well more so her respective bench but doesn’t say much, just keeps refilling her water bottle and handing it over without being asked, which is the closest emily ever comes to an apology for almost making things worse.

“you good?” kate asks her, low, while they’re both peeling tape off their ankles. “i’m good.” emily glances over at tip, then back at kate. “i wasn’t actually gonna swing.”

“i know.”

“i was gonna think real hard about it, though.” kate laughs despite herself, the tightness in her chest finally easing all the way out. “yeah. me too.”

the valkyries win by eleven it doesn’t feel like the headline of the night, not in the locker room, not with emily still a little keyed up and kate still replaying the half-second where she had her hand in emily’s jersey and every intention of getting in the middle of something stupid, of throwing away a clean six years of never once getting a technical for a fight that wasn’t even hers to throw.

veronica finds her after, in the hallway outside the locker room, both of them in the lull between media and the bus, the arena emptying out around them into something quieter, the kind of post-game hush that always feels a little unreal after the noise of the game itself like the building is exhaling.

“you okay?” veronica asks. she’s got her bag over one shoulder, hair still damp at the temples from the shower, and she’s looking at kate the way she looks at her sometimes not checking a box, actually looking, actually waiting for the real answer instead of the easy one, patient in a way that makes it impossible for kate to deflect for long. “i wasn’t gonna actually do anything,” kate says, which isn’t quite an answer.

“i know.”

“i just—” kate shrugs, looks down the hallway instead of at veronica, which is usually how she gets honest, sideways, like eye contact makes the truth too big to say out loud all at once. “tip’s been doing this for over fourteen years. she taught me how to play this game. and someone just put their whole arm through her wrist like it was nothing. and then walked off like it cost her nothing either.”

“i know,” veronica says again, softer, closing the last of the distance between them until her shoulder’s nearly against kate’s. “and emily’s right there yelling and i just—i didn’t even think. i was already moving before i decided to move. like my body made the call before my brain even got a vote.”

“that’s what protecting people looks like, kate. it’s not supposed to be a decision. it’s supposed to be a reflex.” veronica reaches out, tucks a piece of hair back behind kate’s ear, the gesture so small and so familiar it almost gets lost in the hallway noise, the hum of the building settling down around them. “i’m not mad you went. i was scared you were gonna actually swing on somebody, but i’m not mad you went.”

“would you have?”

veronica considers this with the kind of honesty she always gives kate, even when it’s inconvenient, even when the easy answer would serve her better. “if it was you on the floor instead of tiff? i wouldn’t have walked. i would’ve run.”

a beat, her hand settling at kate’s waist now, thumb finding the strip of skin where kate’s shirt has ridden up. “so i don’t really get to lecture you about reflexes. mine aren’t any better. they’re just quieter.”

kate laughs, finally, something in her chest unknotting that’s been tight since the whistle blew. “you’re the one who broke it up, though. you’re the reasonable one.”

“someone has to be.” veronica’s mouth curves, not quite a smile, something quieter than that, something kate’s spent two years learning to read in the dim light of locker room hallways and the backseats of cars and the three a.m. quiet of their own kitchen.

“doesn’t mean i wasn’t standing there with my heart going a thousand miles an hour, hoping nobody made me actually hold somebody back for real. hoping you weren’t gonna do something i’d have to watch you serve a suspension for.”

“thank you,” kate says, and means it more than the two words can really carry. “for getting between us. for — for emily, mostly. she would’ve thrown that punch if you hadn’t been there.”

“i know.” but veronica doesn’t let it go at that, lets her hand stay where it is, lets the moment stretch instead of cutting it short the way she usually does when the hallway’s too public for anything more than a hand at someone’s back. “and for you. i wasn’t just there for em, kate. i saw your hand on her jersey before i saw anything else.”

something in kate’s chest goes soft and unsteady at that, at being seen first, at being the reason veronica moved at all she finally turns, finds veronica’s eyes instead of the middle distance of the hallway, and whatever’s sitting in her face must be easy enough to read because veronica’s free hand comes up to her jaw, thumb tracing the line of it slow and certain.

“hi,” veronica says, like they haven’t been standing here for five minutes already, like this is the part of the night that’s actually starting.

“hi.” kate’s voice comes out smaller than she means it to.

veronica kisses her then unhurried, like there’s nowhere else either of them needs to be, like the whole arena could empty out around them and it wouldn’t matter and kate’s hand comes up to fist in the front of veronica’s jacket the same way it fisted in emily’s jersey twenty minutes ago, except this time there’s nothing to pull her back from, nothing to stand down from, just veronica’s mouth soft and sure against hers and the particular relief of an adrenaline spike finally finding somewhere safe to land.

“come on,” veronica murmurs against her mouth, eventually, reluctantly, when a door somewhere down the hall reminds them both that the building isn’t actually empty. “let’s get you home before you decide to relitigate it in the group chat.”

“that’s not — i wouldn’t—”

“you absolutely would. you already have a whole speech for emily’s defense lined up, i can see it on your face.”

kate doesn’t argue, because she’s not wrong she lets veronica’s hand find the small of her back as they walk toward the bus, the same steady weight as it was on the court not holding her back, exactly. just holding her.

it isn't a lie it's just not the whole truth the whole truth is that the golden state valkyries's locker room had started feeling like a minefield it's small things first kate and veronica sitting one seat further apart at film sessions than they used to.

veronica taking the back of the bus instead of the window seat next to kate that had been hers, unofficially, for one season the coaching staff noticing before either of them said a word, the way kate's passes started going just slightly behind where veronica was cutting, the way veronica stopped calling for the ball when kate had it.

nothing dramatic, just two people who used to move like one organism, slowly learning how to be strangers on a court that doesn't forgive strangers their teammates noticed too, you can't hide a fracture from people who watch film of you for a living but nobody said anything, because what is there to say, really, when two of your best players break each other's hearts quietly and then have to guard each other in practice the next morning.

so when the front office calls kate in and says we think a change might be good for everyone, she doesn't fight it, she packs her bags and she doesn't look back, not because she doesn't want to, but because she's not sure she'd survive looking back.

los angeles is loud in a different way than san francisco but the sun doesn't ask permission to be everywhere at once, and kate finds she doesn't hate it finds, actually, that she's good, at this good at being someone new.

the sparks take her in fast cam's already folded her into the group chat within forty-eight hours, sending memes at 1am with no context, treating kate like she's always been there rae's dragged her to three different brunch spots and one (1) extremely overpriced pilates class that kate complained about for a week straight but went back to anyway.

the rest of the roster is loud and young and a little chaotic in a way that never was practice is competitive but it isn't tense, and kate finds herself laughing at shootaround for the first time in months, surprised every time by how easy it is.

nobody on this team knows the weight she's carrying, nobody asks her to perform fine, because nobody knows there's anything to perform it's almost a relief, almost so when madison bailey's people reach out about the release event for her show, it's an easy yes.

madison's been a real friend since a charity thing two summers back, the kind of friendship that survives time zones because neither of them ever made it complicated. kate texts cam and rae — come with me, it'll be fun, free drinks — and they're in before she finishes the sentence.

she wears the green suit (mr green iykyk) rae picked out she laughs at madison's terrible jokes and means it, and at some point in the night someone's phone is up and madison's pulling her into frame and kate doesn't think twice about smiling for it.

cam's somewhere behind her doing something embarrassing with a mocktail rae's already exchanging numbers with someone from madison's cast it's a good night it's the first good night in a while that doesn't feel like she's faking it for an audience she should've thought twice about the photo.

by morning it's everywhere kate martin's los angeles era, somebody's stitched together a whole narrative out of one picture and a caption that just says love this woman 🤍 sports blogs run it next to trade analysis like the two things belong in the same sentence, like a girls' night out is a referendum on how a breakup is going.

it's nothing, it's a friend supporting a friend at an event but nothing travels fast when there's a breakup-shaped hole for people to pour it into, and this league's fans have never met a vacuum they didn't want to fill.

back in san francisco, the golden state valkyries are mid-trip, and veronica is sitting in a hotel room two cities away from anyone who knows her well enough to ask if she's okay her teammates have tried, in the careful, sideways way teammates try things.

someone leaves a protein bar on her stool without being asked, someone else starts boxing her out a little softer in practice, like her body's made of something more breakable than it used to be.

the coaching staff has noticed her shots aren't falling the way they did two months ago, noticed the half-second delay before she calls for a screen, the way she's started icing a knee that was never actually hurt.

nobody says we know this is about kate they don't have to know the whole locker room knows the whole locker room has known since before the trade was even official.

veronica tells herself she's not going to look she looks anyway kate, golden under event lighting, head tipped back laughing at something off-camera kate, looking like leaving was the easiest thing she ever did kate, surrounded by a team that gets the version of her that's easy and light and untouched, while veronica’s stuck here running the same plays in a gym that still smells like her.

she gets to do that, veronica thinks, and hates how much it sounds like an accusation. she gets to just be fine. she gets a whole new team and a whole new city and she gets to be fine.

it isn't fair, the math she's doing she knows that even as she does it — knows that one photo isn't a whole life, knows performance and presence aren't the same thing, knows all of this in the part of her brain that used to be a basketball player and is therefore unreasonably good at recognizing

when someone's playing through pain she knows it and she still lies awake hating the version of kate she's built out of a single instagram post, the one who left and got to keep all the light she doesn't see the part where kate sat in her car for twenty minutes outside the venue, hand on the ignition, not ready to go in.

doesn't see her in the bathroom at 2am wiping off the night like it's a costume that doesn't fit anymore doesn't see cam knocking on kate's hotel room door at 1am two nights later because she heard something through the wall and wanted to make sure kate was alright, doesn't see kate lying about being fine to the one person in la who might've actually believed her if she'd told the truth doesn't see the second phone, the one with no group chats, where kate types out i miss you into a draft she'll never send, four times, on four different nights since the trade.

veronica doesn't know any of that; she only knows the photo and the photo is winning.

the los angeles sparks lose that night, badly, and veronica plays the worst game of her season six points, four turnovers, a defensive lapse in the third quarter that the broadcast keeps replaying in slow motion like it's trying to teach a lesson nobody asked for.

her coach pulls her with four minutes left and doesn't say anything about it afterward, which is somehow worse than if he had been in the locker room, one of her teammates, the rookie, the one who hasn't learned yet when to leave things alone asks if she saw the kate martin thing going around.

veronica says no she's already seen it eleven times three thousand miles away, kate sits in her new apartment with the tv on for noise she isn't listening to, phone face-down on the counter because she knows what's on it if she turns it over cam texted an hour ago; u good? and kate typed yeah just tired and meant neither word the way cam probably hoped.

two women, two teams, two cities built around two completely different versions of the same person the one the internet decided to love, and the one nobody's checking on.

kate wakes up to fourteen texts and a missed call from her mom, who definitely saw the photo, and a single message from a number she still has saved as v 🤍 — heart and all, because she never got around to changing it, because changing it felt like admitting something she wasn't ready to admit.

the message just says; saw the pictures. looks like la's good for you, no punctuation that gives anything away, no real punctuation at all, actually, which is somehow the most veronica thing about it veronica has never once used a period like it owed her money.

kate reads it four times before she understands it isn't a compliment it's not quite an accusation either it's something flatter and sadder than both, a woman trying to sound fine while typing with her thumb shaking kate doesn't know that part she just knows the words.

she types it's just madison, she's a friend, you know that and deletes it. types i miss you too, if that's what you're actually asking and deletes that faster ends up sending nothing at all, because every version of the truth feels like it costs more than she has to spend before 9am.

cam finds her in the kitchen twenty minutes later, hair still damp from a shower, eyeing kate's untouched coffee like it's a crime scene. "you didn't sleep," cam says not a question. "i slept some."

"kate." cam pulls out the stool across from her, sits down with the specific patience of someone who has clearly decided this conversation is happening whether kate wants it to or not. "i heard you on the phone at one in the morning. you weren't talking to anyone. you were just sitting there."

kate doesn't have a good answer for that, so she doesn't give one she pushes the coffee mug an inch to the left like that fixes something. "you know we're not going to make you talk about it," cam says, gentler now.

"but you also gotta stop telling rae you're fine every time she asks, because rae's started asking me if you're fine, and i don't know what to tell her, because i don't actually know if you're fine."

"i'm—" kate starts, and even when she hears how automatic it sounds, the word loaded and ready before her brain's even caught up she stops tries again. "i don't know what i am. is that an acceptable answer?" cam reaches over and steals a sip of the coffee kate wasn't drinking anyway. "yeah," she says. "that one i believe."

four hundred miles away, give or take a road trip's worth of time zones, veronica is sitting in the golden state valkyries facility an hour before anyone else needs to be there, working through free throws nobody asked her to shoot.

she's not thinking about kate she's thinking about the rim, and the rotation of the ball, and the fact that her shoulder's been a half-second slow on the release for two weeks now and nobody's caught it yet because nobody's looking that closely she's thinking about anything except the message she sent at 7am that she's already regretted four separate times. looks like la's good for you.

she'd meant it to sound easy breezy, the kind of thing you text an ex when you've truly moved on and you're just, you know, making conversation instead it came out sounding exactly like what it was a woman standing outside a window watching someone else's party, asking permission to be hurt about it.

kate hasn't responded as it's been three hours, veronica checks her phone between every fifth free throw like that'll change anything.

her teammate, one of the vets, somebody who's been around long enough to know what a person looks like when they're unraveling quietly in a gym at 7am comes in early too, takes one look at veronica’s face, and doesn't ask.

just racks a second ball and starts rebounding for her without a word but sometimes that's the kindest thing a teammate can do as veronica makes eleven in a row after that, which doesn't fix anything but feels, briefly, like it might.

the call happens by accident, the way most honest conversations do kate means to text her thumb slips, or her heart does, and instead the phone's ringing and it's too late to hang up without making it weirder, so she just lets it ring.

veronica picks up on the third one. "hey," kate says. her voice comes out smaller than she means it to.

a pause on the other end kate can hear a gym somewhere behind veronica a ball bouncing, somebody laughing too loud, the particular echo of a facility before practice officially starts. "hey," veronica says back. "you butt-dial me or—"

"no. i meant to call." kate sits down on the edge of her counter, presses her palm flat against the marble like it'll hold her up if her legs decide not to. "i saw your text."

"it was just a text."

"veronica."

"it was just—" veronica stops herself kate hears her exhale, hears the specific frustration of someone losing an argument with themselves in real time. "it wasn't just a text. okay. it wasn't."

"i'm not — los angeles isn't good for me, like, in the way that makes it sound." kate's gripping the counter edge now, knuckles white, surprised by how much she needs veronica to understand this part.

"i went to one event. for a friend. i smiled in one photo. that's — that's not a whole life, v, that's not me being fine, that's just a tuesday that somebody decided to turn into a headline."

"i know." veronica's voice cracks on the word, just slightly, just enough that kate hears four years of practice in the way she catches it and smooths it back over almost immediately. "i know that. i just i see you laughing in a photo and i'm standing here playing the worst basketball of my career and missing you so much i can't see straight, and it felt like you got to leave and i got to fall apart, and that's not i know that's not fair to think. i know it isn't. i still think it."

kate closes her eyes. somewhere in la, the sun is doing the thing it does, golden and indifferent, completely unaware that this conversation is happening at all. “i have a second phone number saved in my notes app,” she says, quiet, like a confession. “no, that’s not — i mean i have a draft. i’ve had it for weeks. it just says i miss you. i’ve never sent it because i didn’t think i was allowed to still feel like that. you requested — i mean, i requested the trade, and i thought that meant i had to actually be okay with it, like, performatively okay, all the way through. i didn’t know i was allowed to still be falling apart on the inside while everyone thought i was thriving.”

silence on the line kate can hear veronica breathing, can hear the gym noise behind her fade out, like maybe veronica stepped into a hallway, away from teammates, away from witnesses. "you should've sent it," veronica finally says.

"i know."

"i would've told you i miss you back. probably immediately. probably embarrassingly fast." kate laughs, wet and surprised, the first real laugh she's let herself have in days that isn't performed for somebody else's camera. "we're so bad at this."

"we're so bad at this," veronica agrees.

neither of them says anything else for a moment, but neither of them hangs up either, and somehow that's the part that feels like the truth finally catching up to both of them not a grand declaration, not a fix, just two exhausted women sitting with the quiet instead of the performance of being fine, for the first time since the trade went through.

it isn't a reunion, it's not that easy, and the story knows it there's still a city between them, still a locker room each of them has to walk back into and pretend they're whole in front of teammates who already know better.

but it's a start the first honest five minutes either of them has had since this whole thing started. "i should go," veronica says eventually, soft. "practice."

"yeah. me too." kate doesn't move from the counter. "veronica?"

"yeah?"

"i'm glad you texted me this morning. even if it took us until now to actually say anything true." a small pause. then, quieter; "yeah. me too."

the schedule comes out on a wednesday, buried in a press release about national broadcast slots and primetime matchups, and kate finds the golden state valkyries-sparks game before she finds anything else on the page three weeks she reads the date four times like it might change if she stares hard enough.

she doesn't tell anyone she circles it on the calendar in her kitchen in pen, which feels significant somehow, like ink makes it more real than it already is.

the three weeks move strange some days drag, practice and treatment and film sessions stacking up slow, and some days she blinks and it's suddenly only ten days out, then five, then the team's boarding a charter to san francisco and kate's staring out the window at clouds doing absolutely nothing to calm her down as cam clocks it almost immediately. "you've been weird all week."

"i haven't."

"you organized the snack cart on the plane by color. you don't do that. nobody does that."

kate doesn't have a defense for the snack cart she also doesn't have a defense for the fact that she's checked her phone forty times since boarding, and veronica hasn't texted, and kate keeps telling herself that's fine, that's normal, that's just two professional athletes about to play each other and not two women who had an entire emotional reckoning over a phone call three weeks ago and then said almost nothing about it since.

they've talked a little careful texts, mostly; good luck thursday, saw your block on the highlight reel, show off, nothing that touches what actually got said that morning it's like they both agreed, without ever agreeing out loud, to let the real conversation sit untouched until they could have it somewhere that wasn't a phone line between two time zones.

rae notices the snack cart thing too, on the bus from the airport. "okay but for real," she says, sliding into the seat next to kate, "you're acting like we're playing the finals. it's february."

"i'm fine."

"you keep saying that word like it means something different than what it actually means." rae says it lightly, but there's something underneath it, the particular kindness of a teammate who's been watching you carefully for weeks without making a thing of it. "whoever's got you like this, i hope they're worth it."

kate doesn't answer but she also doesn't deny it, which rae seems to take as answer enough, because she just pats kate's knee once and goes back to her phone, leaving kate to sit with the fact that apparently her whole team has known for a while now, in the quiet way teams always know things before anybody says them out loud.

shootaround the morning of the game is its own kind of torture both teams use the same facility on back-to-back schedules, which kate forgot was a possibility until she's walking off the court and veronica's team is walking in, and there she is veronica burton, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair pulled back, looking exactly like she did the last year and also entirely unfamiliar, the way someone you love always looks slightly new after enough time apart.

their eyes catch across the court; neither of them says anything there isn't room to, not with eight teammates and two coaching staffs and a facility manager all moving through the same space, but v's mouth does something small and helpless that kate recognizes instantly as the exact same thing happening on her own face.

cam, beside her, follows her line of sight and goes very quiet. "oh," she says, soft, like several weeks of context just clicked into place at once. "oh. okay."

the game itself is chaos, in the way rivalry games always are physical, fast, both benches yelling, the kind of basketball that makes for a good highlight reel and a worse night's sleep.

kate and veronica guard each other for stretches at a time, and it's strange, how the body remembers things the heart's been trying to negotiate around the way veronica still goes left more than she goes right, the way kate still knows exactly which fake she'll bite on and which one she won't.

there's a moment in the third quarter where veronica drives baseline and kate cuts her off clean, and instead of the usual chirping that comes with a good defensive play, they just look at each other for half a second too long, breathing hard, something unspoken passing between them that has nothing to do with basketball at all.

the ref blows the whistle for a foul that probably wasn't one neither of them argues it but at the end the sparks win by six; it's not the part anyone in this story actually cares about.

after the game, kate showers fast, skips most of the media obligations she's allowed to skip, and finds herself standing outside the visiting locker room like a teenager waiting outside a school dance, hands jammed in her jacket pockets, heart doing something embarrassing.

veronica comes out twenty minutes later, hair still damp, and stops short when she sees kate leaning against the wall.

"hey," kate say same word from the phone call, three weeks and four hundred miles ago as it means something different in person, heavier, and somehow lighter too.

"hey." veronica doesn't move for a second then she does, crossing the hallway in four steps and kate's pulling her in before either of them really decides to, face pressed into veronica’s shoulder, breathing her in like she's been holding her breath for three weeks and just remembered how lungs work.

"i missed you so much it was embarrassing," kate mumbles into her shoulder. "i organized a snack cart by color today. cam staged an intervention."

veronica laughs like really laughs, the kind kate hasn't heard from her in months, not since before everything got complicated. "i benched myself emotionally for like a week and a half. my coach thought i had a knee thing. i didn't have a knee thing."

"we're so bad at this."

"we're so bad at this," veronica agrees again, the same words from the phone call, except now she's saying them with her forehead pressed against kate's, both of them still in arena clothes, both of them not caring even a little that anyone could walk by.

somebody does walk by, eventually rae, looking for kate to head to the bus, who takes one look at the scene in the hallway and very loudly says "oh thank GOD," to absolutely nobody, before turning around and walking the other direction to give them a minute, already pulling out her phone to text the group chat.

cam's response comes back almost instantly: FINALLY. i've been managing her feelings for a month, somebody else's turn.

it doesn't get fixed overnight, not really there's still a trade, still two cities, still a question of what this actually looks like long-term that neither of them has answered yet.

but that night, sitting in veronica's hotel room with takeout going cold between them because neither of them remembered to actually eat, kate finally opens the notes app and shows veronica the draft she never sent.

i miss you. four words, dated weeks ago, sitting there unsent the whole time like a wound that never got to close.

veronica reads it twice then she takes kate's phone, opens a new message thread, and types back: i miss you too. i would've said it the second you sent it. i'm saying it now instead.

she hits send to herself, which makes no sense and makes complete sense, and kate laughs until she's crying a little, the good kind of crying, the kind that comes after weeks of holding something in alone and finally getting to set it down in front of someone who actually wants to help carry it.

"so what now," kate asks, eventually, head on veronica's shoulder, both of them too tired and too relieved to move.

"now," veronica says, "we figure it out. for real this time. no performing fine for an audience that doesn't actually know either of us."

"i can do that."

"yeah?"

"yeah." kate closes her eyes. "i'm done being fine for cameras. i'd rather just be a mess with you, honestly."

veronica presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. "deal."

outside, two cities wait for two teams, two locker rooms full of people who'll be insufferable about this in the group chats for weeks, two schedules that don't line up nearly as often as either of them would like.

you guard her for three of those minutes before your coach mercifully switches you off, and even getting torched by her feels like getting let in on a secret nobody else on the floor understands yet.

after the game, in the handshake line, she does something nobody expects she doesn't just slap your hand and move on she stops. "you're tall," she says, like an observation, like a scouting note.

"i'm aware."

"you used your length wrong on that switch. you were trying to mirror my hips instead of just standing in the lane and making me go around you." she says it without any heat, like she's handing you something useful instead of rubbing it in. "you've got four inches on me. use them."

you don't know what to say to that but you say, "thanks, i guess," and she's already moving down the line, already gone, and you spend the bus ride home replaying it more than you replay the sixteen point loss.

you don't see her again until the regional all-star thing in march, some exhibition the conference throws together, mismatched jerseys, half the gym empty where you end up, by pure scheduling accident, on the same five-on-five squad. 

she runs the offense like she's been running it with you for years instead of forty minutes she finds you on a backdoor cut you didn't even know you'd set up correctly when you finish it, she points at you across the gym, no smile yet, just acknowledgment.

after, she finds you by the water table. "told you," she says. "the length. you used it."

"i had a good teacher for one possession."

"i'm efficient," she says already, even then, like it's a fact about her she's decided to state plainly instead of let you discover slowly and something about the dry certainty of it makes you laugh out loud, loud enough that a few heads turn.

you get her number that night, ostensibly to talk about basketball you do talk about basketball, for a while you also talk about everything else, for longer.

the draft takes her the following spring first round, no surprise to anyone who'd watched a single possession and you stay one more year at louisville to finish your degree, and the distance between your two lives stretches out long and inconvenient and entirely worth it. 

she calls after every wnba practice, still buzzing with whatever new thing she learned that day you call after every class still buzzing with whatever new thing she'd said the night before. 

it isn't simple you make it work anyway, the two of you, on facetime calls that run too late and flights you can't always afford and the dumb, stubborn certainty that this is worth being inconvenient for.

"i'm not waiting around for nothing," she tells you once, late, her face lit up small and blue on your screen. "i don't do anything i'm not all the way invested in. you know that about me by now."

"i know that about you."

"so don't go anywhere."

"i'm not going anywhere, amoore."

her rookie wnba season is the year you officially become hers, in whatever way two people separated by half the country can belong to each other phone calls at odd hours around her practice schedule, a drawer of her hoodies slowly migrating into your apartment despite the miles between you, your name showing up, more and more, in the post-game interviews she gives about adjusting to the league.

"who's helping you handle the transition," some reporter asks her in october, fairly innocently.

"my coaches. my teammates." a pause, the kind you'd come to recognize even through a phone screen as her deciding something. "my girlfriend, when i need someone to tell me i'm not actually bad at this, i'm just new at it."

you watch the clip nine times she calls you forty minutes later, half-laughing, half-bracing. "i didn't ask if that was okay to say first."

"it was okay to say first."

"yeah?"

"georgia. i would've put it on a billboard if you'd asked me to."

by the time her rookie season ends, she's an all-rookie selection and you've finished your degree and the question of what comes next stops being a question, because you'd both already answered it months earlier without saying so out loud you weren't going to keep doing this from two time zones away forever, not when one of you could simply walk on, eventually, to where the other already was.

the 2026 draft class is deep and loud and, for one terrifying green-room hour, you're convinced your name isn't going to come out of anyone's mouth at all and then it does, called early in the first round, and the noise in your ears drowns out everything except the four words that matter most: same team as georgia.

it isn't a fix, isn't a favor your college tape speaks for itself, your numbers your senior year at louisville speak for themselves but you'd be lying if you said you didn't immediately, the second your name was called, look for her face in the crowd of league staffers like she might somehow already be there.

she isn't there; she's three states away, watching the broadcast from her own apartment, and she calls you before you've even made it backstage for the jersey photo. "i didn't pull any strings," she says, before you've even said hello, already laughing, already defensive about something nobody's accused her of yet.

"georgia, i haven't even said anything."

"i know how this looks. i want it on record i made zero calls."

"i believe you. i also don't care if you did."

your draft class comes in deep at your position lauren, cotie, angela, a handful of others everyone's already comparing to past classes and the rookie group chat lights up within the hour, equal parts excitement and chaos, lauren sending nothing but exclamation points, cotie immediately asking who's got the worst rookie hazing duties this year. 

you end up, by the kind of luck that feels less like luck and more like something finally going right, on georgia’s roster the same city, same gym, same locker room you'd been picturing since a regional all-star game years ago.

"i made an introduction, once, a long time ago, unrelated to this," georgia tells you anyway, the night before your first team practice, like she still needs the record corrected. "you earned this. the draft board doesn't care whose girlfriend you are."

"i know."

"i need you to actually know it. not just say it."

"amoore." you say it soft, the way you've said it a hundred times by now. "i know."

it's georgia who's there at the end of your first practice as a professional, the way she was there at the end of that handshake line years ago, except now there's no league rule, no distance, nothing keeping either of you from doing what you actually want to do which is close the gap between you in front of an entire locker room that's known for exactly four days that the rookie is dating their starting point guard.

"rookie," she says, the way she did the very first time, except now it isn't a scouting note, it's something gentler, something with years built into it.

"vet," you say back, and she laughs short, surprised, the same sound from the handshake line and lets you kiss her right there with half the team pretending very hard not to watch.

the height thing follows you straight into the league, the way it followed you through every gym before this one georgia’s teammates, your teammates now, which still doesn't feel entirely real pick it up fast. 

she's five foot six and she's never once acted like it, and you're a rookie with four inches on her who, somehow, still ends up bending down at her insistence more often than not she hooks two fingers in your jersey to pull you down in the layup line and calls it efficient.

she stands on a folding chair in the locker room once just to make a point about something during film, and nobody on the team so much as blinks because this is, apparently, simply who she is. 

a veteran posts a photo of the two of you standing back to back after practice you a full five inches over her captioned new rookie's first lesson: georgia amoore does not believe in inches. your teammates throw a towel at both of you at the next team dinner when she makes you crouch so she can fix your collar like you're incapable of doing it yourself.

"you like this," you tell her one night, weeks into your rookie season, the two of you the last ones in the practice facility after film. "making me do things at your height."

"i don't know what you're talking about."

"you just made me crouch so you could point at something on the whiteboard you could've pointed at standing normally."

"it was for emphasis." she's not even trying to sell it, smiling at the floor, arms crossed when she finally looks up there's something steadier under the joke the same steadiness that's been there since a handshake line years ago. "is that a problem, rookie?"

"no," you say, honest, quiet, same as you said it back at louisville before any of this was official. "it's never been a problem."

she closes the gap herself, like she always has, has to go up on her toes to do it, palm flat on your chest like she's deciding something all over again even though she decided years ago and you bend without being asked, because some things you've known all the way down to instinct since the first time she told you to use your length.

by midseason, it isn't a bit anymore, hasn't been for a long time it's just true she likes being the small one, the one person in her whole life she gets to hand the lead to instead of carrying it herself she runs the offense for a team that would follow her into traffic, calls every late-game set, takes every big shot with a confidence that makes broadcasters reach for words like generational all over again, and comes home to you wanting, more than almost anything, to be the one who has to reach.

you like giving her that you like it more than you've liked almost anything, maybe more than you even like the league itself, which is saying something. "you're doing the hands thing again," she says, one night after a win, her cheek against your sternum because that's still, after all this time, exactly where it lands best.

"i don't know what you're talking about."

"you do. careful hands. i like the careful hands." she tips her head back to look at you bare-faced now, hair down from its game-day braid, swallowed in your hoodie instead of the other way around for once and there's nothing small about the way she's looking at you, there never has been. "don't make me say it twice."

"yeah?"

"amoore doesn't repeat herself."

"amoore is literally your last name."

"i'm aware," she says, and pulls you down by the collar to prove the point properly, the exact same way she's been proving it since a regional all-star game neither of you remember the score of anymore.

it's slow, after that her back finding the wall, you bending to meet her because the height difference stopped being a locker-room joke a long time ago and became, instead, just the shape the two of you fit into. 

she has to reach, has to ask, fingers fisting in your shirt, soft frustrated sounds when you take your time giving her what she's after. you like watching the most in-control person on the roster lose just enough control to need you, the same way you liked it at louisville, the same way you'll probably like it for as long as she lets you.

"amoore," you say low, just to feel her shiver at her own name in your mouth. "don't," she breathes, "don't use that voice unless you mean it."

"i've meant it since february of your sophomore year." that gets her a real laugh, breathless, half into your collarbone before she pulls you back in properly. 

it stays unhurried after that, her hand lacing through yours instead of grabbing at it, the two of you trading the lead back and forth the way you have for years now, on the court and off it, neither of you in a hurry to get anywhere else.

when it's over she goes quiet for a long minute against your collarbone, breathing slowing, your hand mapping absent lines down her spine. "what are you thinking," you ask, because she's gone uncharacteristically still.

"that the team's gonna ask how the game felt tomorrow and i'm gonna have to lie about which part i mean. again."

"you're unbelievable."

"i'm efficient," she says again, sleepy, smug even half-unconscious, the exact same two words from a gym in february all those years ago, and you hold her like that all five foot six of her, all the room she's somehow always taken up anyway and think, not for the first time, that she'd been right back then too. 

you'd just needed a few years to learn how to use the length she handed you.

the thing about away games is there's nothing to do for the first twenty minutes after shootaround but sit in the visitor's locker room and wait, and somewhere in your second month as a rookie this becomes, without either of you really deciding it on purpose, your time. 

georgia's and yours, the two of you on the end of the bench by the equipment bags, half-watching film clips on someone's tablet, talking about nothing in the specific way you've always talked about nothing half basketball, half everything else.

tonight it's quiet enough that you can hear the visiting crowd starting to file in three levels up. georgia’s got her ankles crossed, leaned back against the wall, and at some point you don't even notice when it starts, it's that natural her hand finds your thigh, resting there, thumb moving slow back and forth, not going anywhere, not trying to be anything except close. "you're nervous," she says, not a question, eyes still on the tablet.

"i'm not nervous."

"you're doing the thing with your jaw."

"i don't have a thing with my jaw."

"you do. it's cute. doesn't mean i'm not gonna mention it." her thumb keeps moving, slow, absent, the kind of touch that isn't for anyone but the two of you, that isn't performance, that's just comfort backcourt shorthand. "first real road environment as a starter. you're allowed to be a little in your head about it."

"i'm not in my head."

"you're a little in your head." you laugh, and lean into her shoulder, and her hand goes still on your thigh for a second just resting there, warm, grounding before it starts moving again, soft circles this time, absentminded the way you rub a bruise without thinking about it. 

somebody's tablet is playing a clip of last week's defensive rotations neither of you is really watching it anymore. "for what it's worth," she says, quieter now, "i was terrified my rookie year too. first real road game i didn't have anyone."

"you had nobody?"

"i had a phone and a girlfriend three states away who picked up every single time no matter what time zone she was supposed to be sleeping in." she tips her head, just enough to catch your eye. "you're not gonna have that problem tonight."

"no?"

"no. you've got me on the bench and in the locker room and at the hotel and in the backcourt for the next forty minutes, so. i'd say you're covered." it's such a simple thing to say and it undoes you a little anyway, the way she still manages to do after years of this and you don't even think about it, you just turn your head and kiss her, quick, soft, nothing dramatic, the kind of kiss that's more habit than event at this point.

what neither of you accounts for is the bench cam.

you don't find out until after the game a good one, your first real road win as a starter, marin running the offense like she's been doing it for a decade because she basically has, the two of you connecting on a backdoor cut in the third quarter that gets the broadcast booth saying things like that chemistry doesn't come from nowhere when you walk into the locker room and the entire team is already looking at you.

not upset, not even surprised, exactly just looking, in the specific way a locker room looks at two people who thought they were being subtle. "so," cotie says, holding up her phone, the in-arena broadcast clip already circulating in three group chats, "thigh rubs. on the bench. during shootaround prep."

"it was a supportive gesture," georgia says, completely unbothered, toweling off like this is a normal postgame conversation. "georgia, you were holding her thigh like a stress ball for four full minutes, the production truck literally cut to it twice."

lauren's already got the clip pulled up too, replaying it with the kind of glee reserved for exactly this situation. "i thought we were being professional about this."

"we are professional," you say, mortified, sitting down hard on the bench like it might swallow you. "we're extremely professional."

"you held her hand walking off the bus," angela points out, not even looking up from retying her shoes. "i saw it from the second row."

"that's just — that's logistics."

"it's not logistics," georgia says, unhelpfully, sitting down next to you anyway, shoulder against yours, not even trying to deny anything anymore. "it's not even new information. i don't know why everyone's acting shocked."

"because you two have been doing this silent eye-contact thing across the locker room for two months and pretending it's coaching feedback," cotie says. "we're not stupid. we just didn't have video evidence until tonight."

"the chemistry's good for the offense," georgia says, like that settles it, like that's the actual point. "you're welcome, by the way. that backdoor cut doesn't happen if i don't trust her."

"nobody's arguing with the basketball," lauren says. "we're talking about the thigh." you put your face in your hands georgia, beside you, laughs that same short surprised sound from a handshake line years ago, except now it's surrounded by a whole team instead of an empty gym and finds your hand again under the bench, lacing her fingers through yours in front of literally everyone, no more hiding left to bother with.

"so it's official, then," cotie says, already typing something into the group chat that you will absolutely regret tomorrow. "backcourt duo. on and off the court."

"it was already official," georgia says. "you all just didn't have the clip yet."

later, on the flight home the rookies clustered in the back, georgia in the row ahead of you because of some seating chart nobody questions, her hand reaching back between the seats to find yours somewhere over middle she turns around just enough to catch your eye. "you good?" she asks, soft, just for you, the team noise washing over both of you like static.

"i'm good." you squeeze her hand. "i think i liked it. the finding out part."

"yeah?"

"yeah. it's nice not hiding the easy parts anymore."

"told you," she says, smug, sleepy, already turning back around, already done with the conversation because she's said the thing she meant to say. "i'm efficient. i don't waste energy hiding things that don't need hiding."

you spend the rest of the flight with your hand in hers over the seatback, and somewhere behind you cotie is narrating the whole thing into her phone for posterity, and none of it not one second of it feels like something either of you needs to be careful about anymore.

your rookie season ends the way most rookie seasons do short of a title, longer on lessons than wins, but with your name on an all-rookie ballot and georgia's hand finding yours under the table at exit interviews like she's been waiting all year to stop pretending the two of you arrived separately.

"i told everyone in october you'd make the team," she says, at the end-of-season dinner the org throws, leaning into your side in a dress that makes you forget, briefly, how to use silverware. "nobody believed me."

"you told them i'd make the team, or you told them you were already dating me?"

"both. simultaneously. very efficient announcement." she says it with her chin tipped up at you, the exact angle she's used since a handshake line years ago, and you bend down without thinking about it, the way you always do, to kiss her at the angle that's always worked best for the two of you her on her toes just slightly, you meeting her the rest of the way.

cotie, three seats down, doesn't even look up from her dessert. "every single time. you'd think the two of them would get tired of doing that in public."

"we will never get tired of it," georgia says, completely unbothered, and goes back to her food like she hasn't just confirmed, out loud, in front of half the roster, exactly how unbothered she actually is.

the height bit never really dies, not all the way it just changes shape, season over season, the way everything between the two of you does there's a banner the team makes as a joke at the year-end party, a photoshopped image of the two of you standing back to back with a tape measure drawn in, captioned the gap that built an offense. 

there's lauren, every single road trip, narrating the seating chart out loud georgia's in 14a because she likes the window, rookie's in 14b because rookie does whatever georgia says. there's angela, deadpan, informing a reporter during a postgame scrum that the team's best defensive rotation is "whatever height difference exists between amoore and her girlfriend, scientifically unguardable."

you let it happen you've let it happen since february of georgia’s senior year, since a gym that smelled like rubber and gatorade, since four words from a stranger in a handshake line that turned out to mean a great deal more than a scouting note.

"you ever think about it," you ask her, much later, the two of you finally alone after the party, her shoes off, feet bare on the hotel carpet, somehow smaller than ever and exactly as unbothered as always. "the first thing you ever said to me."

"that you were tall?"

"that i used my length wrong."

"i think about it constantly," she says, not even joking, climbing up onto the bed to sit at your eye level the way she still likes to, the way she's liked to since the very beginning. "i think about how i almost didn't say anything. how i almost just slapped your hand in that line and moved on like everybody else."

"what stopped you?"

"you looked like you actually wanted to get better. most people just want to survive getting torched by a sophomore." she shrugs, like it's simple, like it's always been simple, even though you both know better by now. "i don't waste effort on people who don't want it. you wanted it. i could tell."

"i wanted you," you say, "if we're being honest. the basketball note was just a good excuse to keep talking to you."

"i know. i let you think the basketball note worked because i wanted an excuse too." she pulls you down by the collar, same as always, same as the very first time in a quiet gym after a film session, same as a kitchen counter, same as every single time since and you go, the way you've always gone, the way you'll probably keep going for as long as she keeps asking. "i'm efficient like that."

"amoore."

"i'm aware it's my last name." she's smiling against your mouth now, the kind of smile that's stopped being a punchline and just become the shape her face makes around you. "ask me something else."

"what comes next."

"more of this." she says it simply, the way she calls a play, the way she's never once doubted a read in her life. "more seasons. more height jokes the team refuses to retire. you, probably bending down to kiss me in a hundred more locker rooms i haven't seen yet."

"that's the whole plan?"

"that's the whole plan." she settles against you, head finding your sternum, exactly where it's landed since a gym in louisville years ago, exactly where it'll probably keep landing for as long as either of you has anything to say about it. "i don't lose on purpose, remember and i'm not planning on losing this."

you didn't put it on for anyone that's what you tell yourself, anyway, smoothing your palm down your hip for the fourth time in an hour, feeling the fabric cling and give the way it's supposed to you didn't put it on for anyone, but you knew exactly what it would do when you zipped it up in your mirror two hours ago, and you'd be lying if you said the knowing wasn't half the point.

across the room, grace knox is failing to have a conversation you've clocked her three times tonight already impossible not to, the way she takes up space even sitting still, all long limbs and restless hands, six-foot-something forward poured into a black tee that's doing its own kind of advertising.

you've seen her on campus everybody's seen her on campus lsu's worst-kept secret, the freshman who dunks in warmups and pretends she doesn't know cameras exist right now she's not looking at the girl talking to her she's looking at you has been, you realize, for embarrassingly long.

her friend, tall, mouth permanently arranged like she's in on a joke nobody else heard, follows the line of grace’s stare across the bar, finds you at the end of it, and grins like christmas came early.

you watch the whole thing happen in profile, the friend says something, grace shakes her head, the friend says something else, grace’s jaw goes tight in a way that makes you feel low in your stomach for no reason you'd admit out loud and then the friend just shoves her.

physically a palm flat between grace’s shoulder blades, propelling her two stumbling steps in your direction like she's tired of watching the staring and wants the talking to start.

grace catches herself on the bar an arm's length from you, straightens up slowly, tries visibly tries to look like she meant to walk over here the whole time, like this was always the plan and not a friend's patience running out.

"hey." her voice is lower than you expected rougher. "hey yourself." you don't bother hiding that you're amused. "your friend's subtle."

"my friend's a menace." grace glances back and the friend gives an exaggerated thumbs up from across the room, no shame whatsoever and when she looks at you again something in her face has eased, like she's decided to stop pretending this is an accident.

"but she's not wrong that i've been trying to figure out how to come over here for like twenty minutes."

"twenty minutes is a long time to think about walking ten feet."

"you're terrifying. that's why." she says it easy, a half-grin pulling at her mouth, but her eyes are doing something else entirely dragging down, slow, the kind of look that lingers exactly as long as it wants to and doesn't apologize for it. "that dress is not helping my case."

something low in the bar's speakers shifts into a new song sleeker, slinkier, the kind of groove that changes the temperature of a room without anyone deciding to let it.

you feel it more than hear it at first, just a shift in the air, people around you settling into the bassline.

grace's eyes flick toward the speaker overhead and then back to you, and you watch the exact moment the song registers for her the corner of her mouth twitching like she knows it, like it means something, like it's annoyingly perfect timing.

"what." you tip your head, daring her to say it. "nothing." but she's biting back a laugh now, stepping half a step closer, close enough that you catch the low note of her cologne under the bar smell of spilled liquor and air freshener. "just — this song is kind of insane timing, is all."

"yeah?"

"yeah." her voice drops, pitched for just you, the rest of the bar receding into noise. "it's basically about exactly what i'm thinking right now."

"and what's that." she doesn't answer right away, just looks at you really looks, the kind of look that makes you aware of your own pulse and lets a beat of the song fill the silence instead of words, like she's letting the track make the case she's too cocky to make outright.

you get the gist anyway you'd have to be deaf not to."you gonna keep being mysterious," you say, "or you gonna dance with me." that's all it takes as she doesn't need a second invitation.

her hand finds your waist like it already knew the way, warm through the fabric of your dress, and she pulls you in close enough that there's no pretending this is casual anymore.

you let her hand slides up to her shoulder, then the back of her neck, and you feel her exhale against your temple like she'd been holding her breath since you walked in.

she's an unfairly good dancer, hips finding the rhythm of the bassline like her body just understands music the same way it understands a basketball court instinctive, unbothered, a little showy.

her thigh brushes between yours on a turn and you feel the question in it, feel her gauge your reaction in the half-second before she does it again, slower. "you're not subtle either," you murmur.

"didn't say i was trying to be." her mouth is right at your ear now, low enough that it's just for you.

"you've had me losing my mind since you walked in. you know that, right?"

"i had a feeling."

"yeah?" her hand at your waist tightens, just slightly, fingers pressing into the curve of your hip like she's testing how much she's allowed. "what gave it away."

"the staring. the friend shoving you across the bar like you're a middle schooler at a dance."

she laughs actual laughter, surprised out of her and for a second the cocky front slips into something more real, something younger and warmer, and it does something to you that the staring alone hadn't managed. "okay, that's fair. that's — yeah, okay." she pulls back just enough to look at you properly. "can i be honest with you?"

"please."

"i don't actually wanna dance with you in a bar full of people who are not gonna remember this on monday." her thumb traces one slow line along your hip, deliberate.

"i wanna get you somewhere quiet and find out if you taste as good as you look in this dress." heat rushes up your neck, equal parts want and the thrill of being wanted this plainly, no games left in it. "that's forward."

"you want me to be slow about it?"

"i didn't say that." her grin turns wicked. "didn't think so."

her place is fifteen minutes and an entire conversation's worth of tension away her hand on your thigh in the backseat of the uber, fingers tracing slow idle patterns that have nothing idle about them, her mouth at your ear the whole ride telling you exactly what she'd been thinking watching you across that bar.

by the time the door shuts behind you in her apartment you're already breathless, already reaching for her, and she meets you halfway like she's been waiting all night for permission she didn't actually need.

she kisses like she does everything else confident, unhurried, like she already knows she has all the time in the world to take you apart properly.

her hands map you through the dress first, slow drags up your sides, over your ribs, thumbs grazing just beneath your chest like she's cataloguing every spot that makes your breath catch before she commits to anything else.

"this dress," she breathes against your jaw, walking you backward toward her bed, "has been killing me for two hours."

"you gonna do something about it?"

"oh, i'm gonna take real good care of you." the words land low and certain, more promise than flirtation, and she punctuates it by finding the zipper at your spine and dragging it down with agonizing slowness, baring you to her inch by inch. "gonna make sure you remember exactly who had you like this."

the dress falls away, her gaze drags over you like she's committing the sight to memory, and something in the way she looks at you reverent and hungry at once makes you feel more seen than you have in longer than you'd admit.

"lay back for me," she murmurs, and you do, sinking into the sheets while she follows you down, settling her weight between your thighs like she belongs exactly there.

her mouth finds your throat first, then lower, unhurried, mapping every inch of you with lips and teeth and the occasional graze of her tongue that has your hips already lifting toward her, chasing more.

she presses a broad palm flat against your stomach to still you, a quiet command you feel everywhere. "patient," she says against your skin, amused. "i'm not in a rush, baby. i want this to last."

she makes good on it takes her time working down your body, hands and mouth both, until she's settled fully between your thighs and you're a trembling, gasping mess above her, fingers tangled in the sheets, in her hair, anywhere you can find purchase.

when she finally puts her mouth on you it's unhurried at first, devastatingly slow, like she's savoring it, and the noise that tears out of you makes her hum in satisfaction against you.

"there she is," she murmurs, the vibration of it nearly undoing you on its own. "that's it. let me hear you."

she works you open with her tongue and then her fingers, two thick fingers curling deep with a precision that has your back arching off the bed, her name spilling out of you in broken pieces.

she doesn't let up, reads every twitch and gasps like she's studying game film, adjusting, chasing the exact angle that makes your thighs shake around her head.

"good girl," she breathes, the praise dragged low and rough against your skin, and it hits you somewhere that has nothing to do with logic, has you clenching tight around her fingers, chasing the edge she's building so carefully. "that's it, just like that you're doing so good for me."

the praise undoes you faster than anything else could you come apart around her with a cry you don't bother muffling, hips grinding against her mouth as she works you through every last wave of it, unrelenting, drawing it out until you're boneless and trembling and reaching blindly for her to pull her up to you.

she comes willingly, settling over you with a satisfied, lazy grin, lips wet, eyes dark. "you good?"

"barely," you manage, dragging her down into a kiss that tastes like yourself and her smugness in equal measure.

"good." her hand finds your thigh again, hooking it over her hip, settling herself back between your legs with the unmistakable intent of someone who has no plans of stopping there. "'cause i told you. i'm not in a rush tonight."

so when she leans in to kiss you again, slow and certain, you can still hear that bassline from the bar humming somewhere under your skin the song that started this, playing on a loop now in your head, every bit as true as it had sounded across a crowded room hours ago.

she's still catching her breath against your collarbone, mouth pressed lazy and unhurried to your skin, when you decide you're done letting her run the show.

it's not a complicated decision, it's the way she keeps looking at you even now, wrung out and grinning like she's pleased with herself like she thinks she's got you figured out already like the first round was the whole story.

you push at her shoulder, light but certain, and she goes easily, rolling onto her back with an easy laugh, hands coming up in mock surrender. "okay, okay what's that look?"

"you said you weren't in a rush." you swing a leg over her, settling yourself across her hips, and watch the laugh die in her throat, replaced by something hungrier. "didn't say anything about me taking a turn."

"didn't think i needed to." but her hands find your thighs anyway, thumbs pressing into the muscle there, like she can't help herself. "i was kind of hoping you would."

"yeah?" you brace your palms on her stomach, feel it tense under your hands, feel the way her breathing changes when you roll your hips slow against her. "you've been running this whole night like you've got something to prove."

"maybe i do."

"mm." you lean down, mouth at her ear the way hers had been at yours hours ago in that bar. "let me prove something instead."

you take your time with it more time than she gave herself patience for, dragging your mouth down her throat, her collarbone, finding every place that makes her breath catch and lingering there deliberately, watching her composure fray thread by thread.

she's not used to this, you can tell the stillness, the surrender, the not being the one in control of the pace and there's something deeply satisfying about watching a girl this confident go quiet and pliant underneath you.

"you're killing me," she breathes, hands fisting in the sheets instead of reaching for you, like she's making herself wait for permission. "that's the idea."

by the time you finally settle between her thighs she's already trembling, already saying your name like it's the only word she remembers, and you take your time there too slowly, deliberately, drawing every reaction out of her like you've got nowhere else to be tonight.

she's vocal in a way that surprises you, all that bravado dissolved into broken, honest sound, hips lifting toward your mouth before she catches herself and stills, like she's trying and failing to hold onto some shred of the control she walked in with.

"you don't have to be quiet," you murmur against her, feeling her shudder at just the vibration of it.

"wasn't planning on it," she manages, and then loses the rest of the sentence entirely when you prove her right.

you work her with the same patience she'd shown you reading her like she'd read you, adjusting, chasing the exact rhythm that has her thighs tightening around your head and her hand finally, helplessly finding the back of your neck, not guiding so much as holding on.

when she comes it's nothing like the easy, satisfied confidence from before it's a long, unraveling thing, her whole body going taut and then loose beneath you, your name breaking apart in her mouth like she didn't mean to say it that honestly.

you crawl back up her body slowly, pressing a kiss to her breasts, her throat, finally her mouth, and she meets you there dazed and grinning, breathless in a way you don't think happens to her often.

"okay," she says, when she's got enough air back to manage words. "okay. i stand corrected."

"about?"

"thinking i had the upper hand tonight." she pulls you down against her chest, arm settling heavy and warm across your back like she's not in any hurry to let you go anywhere. "you're not what i expected when my friend pushed me across that bar."

"good or bad?"

"the best kind of bad." she presses a lazy kiss to your hair, and you feel the rumble of her laugh against your cheek. "remind me to thank her."

the three of you have been trading the game back and forth all half like it's something only you can hear, some private language built out of screens and cuts and the half-second looks you throw at each other before the ball even moves.

dawn is having a moment on the sideline you don't even have to look to know it you can hear it in the way her voice cracks through the noise, sharp and short, the particular fury of a coach who knows her team is one bad possession away from blowing a ten-point lead. 

bree hall is having the game of her life on the other end, and for a second it feels like uconn's grip on this thing is loosening, finger by finger.

so when bree picks up her dribble too high at the top of the key, you don't think you just go your hand gets there first. 

the ball's in your fingers and you're already moving, already counting the steps in your head three, two, one and the rim is right there, close enough that you can already feel the shot leaving your hand before you've actually let it go.

it goes in you hear it go in you don't get the chance to feel good about it your knee buckles on the landing in a way knees aren't supposed to buckle, some wrong-feeling give in the joint, and then you're on the floor and the sound of the gym goes underwater distant, all the way at the bottom of something. 

you try to get up your leg has other plans azzi gets there before the trainers and do you remember that more than almost anything else from the next ten minutes her face above you, wide open in a way she never lets it be on camera, saying your name like it's the only word she has left.

her parents are courtside you find them in the crowd for one disoriented second before they wheel you out her mom's hand pressed flat against her own chest, her dad standing so still he could be a photograph as they don't know what you and azzi are to each other, not really, not out loud but they know enough to look like that.

uconn wins you hear it through a hospital hallway, a nurse's radio left on too loud, the final buzzer and then a roar that sounds like it's coming from somewhere very far away from your life.

you don't see the locker room you hear about it later that kk went live in the chaos right after, phone propped up somewhere, paige half in the shot looking like she hadn't fully exhaled yet. 

you've seen the clips since someone in the comments asking where's y/n over and over, the question multiplying every time the video gets reposted, no one in the frame quite knowing how to answer it. 

paige doesn't say much, paige never does, on camera but there's a beat small, almost nothing where she glances off to the side like she's listening for something that isn't there.

you don't think about any of that yet you're somewhere with too much white light, signing things, answering questions about pain levels on a scale you don't actually believe in, watching a doctor's mouth move through words like acl and surgery tonight like they're being read off a script you already know the ending to.

azzi gets there a few hours after you wake up still in something that isn't quite her game clothes anymore, hair pulled back too tight like she did it herself in a hurry, eyes swollen in the specific way that means she cried in the car and tried to fix it in a bathroom mirror before walking in.

she doesn't say anything about the net, the trophy, the banner that's probably already being ordered. 

she just gets into the chair beside your bed and takes your hand like she's checking it's still attached to you. "you scared me," she says just that like it costs her something to say it.

you don't have an answer for that yet, so you don't try to find one she goes and gets you chick-fil-a from somewhere you don't ask how, this late, this far from anything that should be open and you eat it slow, propped up against pillows that smell like a hospital and not like home, and for a little while it's almost normal. 

her hand finding yours between bites her laugh, small and real, when you complain about the ice in your drink being wrong somehow, too much, too loud against your teeth.

somewhere, a phone is still recording kk doing a postgame interview, fielding the same question in four different forms — is y/n okay, do we know anything, is there an update — and she keeps saying i think so in a voice that doesn't sound sure of anything. 

you don't watch it azzi tells you about it instead, quiet, like she's trying to keep the outside world a little further away from this room than it actually is it should feel like enough for a night, it almost does.

recovery doesn't look like the movies it looks like a couch where you start to know the shape of better than your own bed it looks like phone notifications you stop opening group chats moving on without you, highlight reels that don't have your name in them anymore, a season ending without you in the part of it that matters.

azzi comes by when she can less than either of you say out loud there's media, training, a life that kept moving the second the clock hit zero and never really looked back to check if you were still standing. 

you tell yourself you understand you tell yourself it a lot, actually, more than a person should have to tell themselves something true.

what you don't say not for weeks is the other thing the quieter, uglier thing, the one that doesn't show up until 2am: that you've started flinching a little every time she talks about next season.

that you watch her get brighter, faster, more her with every week you spend re-learning how to walk down a hallway without holding onto something, and some small, mean part of you has started keeping score like her getting better at this is a referendum on what you lost.

you don't tell her that you let it calcify instead it comes out wrong, the way these things always do not in some big cinematic blowout but in a kitchen, late, over something that shouldn't have mattered. 

she says something about a tournament next month, casual, hopeful, and you say something back that isn't about the tournament at all.

"you don't have to keep doing this," you tell her. "the visiting. the calling. you don't owe me a recovery."

"i'm not doing it because i owe you anything." her voice goes tight, fast. "what is that supposed to mean."

"it means i watch you get further away every week and i don't know how to stop being the reason you slow down to check on me." it comes out before you've fully decided to say it, and once it's out you can't take it back, can't soften the shape of it. "i don't want to be something you're managing."

"i'm not managing you, i'm with you—"

"i know." and you do you know it's true, and you say the next part anyway, because the truth and the right thing to do have stopped being the same sentence. 

"i think i need you to not be, for a while. i think i need to be the only one in the room when i figure out who i am on this leg. not — not someone watching, keeping tabs, feeling guilty every time you have a good practice."

she goes very still. "you're breaking up with me because i'm good at my job."

"i'm breaking up with you because i don't know how to watch you be incredible right now without it costing me something i can't afford to keep paying." your voice cracks somewhere in the middle of it and you let it. 

"and you don't deserve to be on the other end of that. you didn't do anything wrong, azzi. that's the whole problem. you didn't do a single thing wrong and i still can't be in this the way i need to be." 

she doesn't cry, not in front of you she just nods, slow, like she's filing it away somewhere she'll have to unpack later, alone. 

"okay," she says just that the same two letters she used the first time, in the hospital, except now they mean something closing instead of something opening.

later months later, a season and a half away from that kitchen you'll think about how it never really had a villain. 

no blowup big enough to deserve the ending just two people who loved each other clean through a championship night and a surgery and a chick-fil-a bag eaten too slowly in a hospital bed, and then ran out of road on the other side of it. 

you'll think about therapy, the kind you actually go to now, and how much of the first few sessions were just you trying to explain that you weren't angry at her. 

you were just tired of being something she had to be brave about you don't know, yet, if you'd do it again love someone that fully, knowing how loud the ending gets. 

some nights you think you'd take all the blame twice over just to keep her a little longer whereas other nights you're not sure you'd survive loving anyone that hard again at all.

there's a version of grief no one warns you about the kind that doesn't come with a funeral or a box of things to give back. 

you just wake up one day and your whole life has quietly rearranged itself around the absence of someone who's still, technically, alive. 

still playing basketball three states away still posting blurry gym mirror selfies you have to actively avoid, not because you're checking, but because you're trying not to.

the knee heals on its own schedule, indifferent to anything else going on in your life six months out, you can jog again eight, you can cut without your whole leg sending up a flare of protest. 

the trainers keep telling you you're ahead of pace, like that's supposed to mean something, like your body healing faster than expected is some kind of consolation prize for everything else that didn't.

you start therapy in month three, mostly because your mom asks you to in a voice that doesn't leave room for no. 

the therapist's office has a plant in the corner that's somehow always a little dusty, and for the first four sessions you talk about the injury like it's the whole story the knee, the surgery, the rehab until she asks, gently, almost as an aside, and what about everything that happened around it?

you don't have a good answer the first time you don't have a great one the fifth time either but you keep going back.

"i think i ended it to protect myself more than her," you say, eventually, somewhere around month five. it comes out smaller than you meant it to. "i told her it was for her. i think some of it was."

"some of it."

"some of it was just i didn't want to be the one left behind, watching. so i left first. made it look like generosity." you laugh, but it doesn't have anything funny in it. "i don't know if that's worse."

the therapist doesn't tell you whether it's worse she just lets it sit there, which somehow is the part that actually gets to you.

you watch the season anyway you tell yourself you won't, every single time, and then you do it anyway quiet, alone, volume low enough that it feels less like watching and more like checking on something.

azzi's better than ever you knew she would be there's a version of you that's almost proud in a clean, uncomplicated way, the way you'd be proud of anyone and then there's the other version, the one that watches her hit a stepback three and feels something in your chest fold in on itself, because you used to be in the gym for that. 

you used to be the first text after now you're a stranger with a remote, learning her season through a broadcast like everyone else.

she doesn't mention you in interviews you don't expect her to but there's a clip that goes around anyway some postgame question about her growth, her composure under pressure, and she goes quiet for a second too long before she answers, something passing behind her eyes that the interviewer doesn't catch but you do, because you spent two years learning every version of her face there is.

you don't reach out she doesn't either you tell yourself that's its own kind of answer, and some nights you believe it.

the anniversary of the championship comes around before you're ready for it espn does a one-year-later piece, all highlight reels and slow-motion nets, and there you are for four seconds on the floor, azzi's face above you, before the cut moves on to somewhere happier. 

you watch those four seconds more times than you'd ever admit out loud you write her a text that night you don't send it you write it again two weeks later, shorter this time, and you don't send that one either. 

there's a version of you that thinks one day you might there's a bigger version that thinks the kindest thing you ever did for her was meaning what you said in that kitchen that she deserved a season she didn't have to be brave about, and you'd already cost her enough of that.

so you let the messages sit in drafts, the same way you let the question sit unanswered, in some part of yourself you're still in therapy trying to excavate whether you'd do it again, love someone completely, knowing exactly how it ends. 

some nights the answer is yes, immediately, no hesitation; other nights you're not sure you'd survive opening that door twice.

you don't get an answer that sticks you're not sure you're supposed to, yet you just keep going to therapy, keep doing the rehab, keep not sending the texts and somewhere underneath all of it, quieter every month, you keep loving her anyway, in the specific, useless way you love someone you've decided not to reach for.

the draft is in april, in a city you've never been to, and you're only there because your agent insists it's good for visibility — let people see your face attached to something other than the injury, she says, and you don't have a good argument against that. 

you tell yourself it's a coincidence that azzi's in the green room too, two years out from that championship, finally at the part of the timeline where her name gets called early and everyone already knew it would.

you see her before she sees you she's in something simple, orange, her hair down for once instead of pulled back tight for competition, and for a second you just stand there relearning the shape of her like a language you haven't spoken in a while but never actually forgot.

then she turns, and she sees you, and whatever you'd planned to say goes straight out of your head.

"hi," she says. just that. the same economy of words she's always had, the kind that used to drive you a little crazy and now just sounds like home.

"hi." you don't know what to do with your hands. "congratulations. you earned every bit of this."

something flickers across her face pride, maybe, or just relief that you're still capable of being glad for her without it costing either of you anything. "thank you." a pause. "you look good. like — healthy. moving good."

"i am." you almost laugh. "knee's the strongest part of me, probably. therapist would have a field day with that metaphor."

that gets a real smile out of her, small and quick, the one you used to wait whole practices for. "you're still in therapy?"

"every week. it's — it's helped." you find yourself being honest with her in a way you didn't expect to be, here, under bad green-room lighting with people in headsets weaving around you both. "i had to figure out a lot of it without you in the room. that part wasn't fun."

"i know. i did the same thing." she looks down at her hands for a second, like she's deciding something. "i never sent you anything. i wrote things. i just — i didn't know if i was allowed to."

"i wrote things too." your throat goes tight. "never sent them either."

"what would yours have said?" you tell her the truth, because two years and a lot of unsent drafts have worn the easy lies down to nothing. 

"that i didn't leave because you were good at your job. i left because i didn't know how to watch you become everything you were always going to become without feeling like i was the thing slowing it down. and i know now that wasn't fair to either of us. you never once made me feel that way. i did that to myself and i handed you the blame for it."

she's quiet for a second when she talks again, her voice isn't steady. "mine would've said i let you go too easy. i kept telling myself i was respecting what you needed, and some of that was true, but some of it was just — i was scared of asking you to stay and getting told no again. so i didn't ask. for two years."

neither of you says anything for a moment somewhere behind you, someone calls a five-minute warning for the next round of picks, the ordinary noise of the night going on without waiting for either of you to catch up to it.

"i don't know what this is," you say finally. "right now. i don't know if this is just — closure, or something else."

"do you want it to be something else?" she asks, and there's no performance in it at all, just the plainest question she's maybe ever given you.

"yeah." it comes out steadier than you feel. "i think i'd rather try again than spend another two years writing texts i never send."

her hand finds yours, careful, like she's checking the same way she did in a hospital room two years ago, except this time neither of you is afraid of what the answer might be. 

"okay," she says a third time now the word that used to mean something closing, and now, finally, means something opening back up instead.

you don't get the whole story fixed in one green room conversation under bad lighting before a draft. 

that's not how any of it actually works but you leave that night with her number re-saved under a different contact photo, a dinner already half-planned for whenever both your schedules let you have one, and the particular, unfamiliar lightness of a person who spent two years convinced she'd rather never love again finding out, slowly, that she was wrong about that. 

it wasn't supposed to go like this golden state took you in the expansion draft before the 2025 season, and for a year it actually felt like home the inaugural roster, the new city, veronica already established as the engine of that team, reigning most improved player, the best player in the building most nights. 

you started four games. you played in forty-two you weren't a star there, not even close, but you were something, and more than that, you were near her then last may, right before the 2026 season opened, they called you in. 

coach nakase said it was a hard decision, said the front office was just trying to build the best roster possible, and none of that made it hurt less. 

you cried in front of reporters about it, actually cried, in front of cameras, which is not a thing you do because leaving your teammates was the part you weren't ready for. 

leaving her was the part you weren't ready for, even though you never said that part out loud to anyone, least of all her.

three days later you signed a development deal with the sparks, a new city, new jersey, new locker that doesn't smell like the one you left behind and you told yourself the distance would help. 

you told yourself that not seeing veronica every day might finally let this thing in your chest go quiet it has not gone quiet. 

if anything, getting waived by a team and watching her stay, watching the valkyries keep building around her while you packed a duffel bag for los angeles, just confirmed something you already suspected that veronica was never the easy part of golden state to leave. 

she was the only part you actually miss you played them once already, a commissioner's cup game back at the building that used to be yours, and they blew you out by twenty, and somehow the score mattered less than the fact that she was standing on the other free-throw line in a jersey that wasn't yours to share anymore.

it wasn't even dramatic, not at first, not back when you were both still wearing the same jersey it was small things it's the way she ties her shoelaces twice, double-knotting them like she doesn't trust the world to hold still. 

it's the rasp in her voice in the mornings before she's had coffee, low and unbothered, like she's never once worried about how she sounds. 

it's the fact that she called everyone "bro" except you, and you noticed that you noticed it weeks into your first season there and you have never once stopped thinking about it.

you told yourself it was nothing you told yourself a lot of things, back then, when you still had the luxury of seeing her every day to keep testing the theory.

the first time you really clocked it, the obsession, if you're going to be honest, which you try very hard not to be was during a film session in golden state's facility, of all the unglamorous places for your heart to fully and completely give itself away. 

veronica was sitting two seats down, knee bouncing, hood up, mouthing along to whatever was playing through one earbud while the coach broke down a defensive rotation on screen and you were watching the screen. 

you were mostly except your eyes kept sliding sideways like they had a mind separate from the rest of you, cataloguing the way she chews on the drawstring of her hoodie when she's thinking hard, the furrow that shows up between her eyebrows, gone as fast as it came.

she caught you looking of course she did veronica burton catches everything. "you good?" she said, not even bothering to whisper, because subtlety has never been a language she speaks fluently.

"yeah," you said, too fast, and you looked back at the screen so hard your neck protested.

she didn't say anything else but you felt her looking at you for one more second before she did, and that's the thing about veronica she doesn't let things go unnoticed, she just decides, sometimes, generously, mercifully, not to push.

you went home that night, to the apartment you don't live in anymore, and you lay on your back staring at the ceiling fan going around and around and you thought; this is so stupid. you are a grown woman. you play professional basketball. you have, at various points in your life, hit game-winning shots in front of thousands of people without your hands shaking.

but yet the idea of veronica smiling at you from across a locker room made your stomach do something it had no business doing.

you'd never been like that, that's what made it worse you didn't have a frame of reference for how to act normal around someone you liked that much, because you'd never liked anyone that much. 

you'd had crushes before, sure, the kind that fizzle out over a season, that you laugh about later with your teammates over greasy diner food but this wasn't fizzling. 

this was the opposite of fizzling it was a slow burn that kept climbing, day after day, practice after practice, until you weren't sure there was a version of yourself left that didn't orient around whatever room veronica was standing in you started noticing patterns in yourself that embarrassed you if you thought about them too long. 

the way you'd angle your body in the locker room so you could see her reflection in the mirror without it looking like that's what you were doing. 

the way you laughed a half-second longer at her jokes than anyone else's, even the bad ones, even the ones that weren't actually funny, because it wasn't the joke you were laughing at it was her, it was the easy curl of her mouth when she was pleased with herself, it was the way she'd look at you afterward like she was checking whether you got it.

like your reaction mattered to her in some small specific way you had absolutely no evidence for and refused to examine too closely because if you were wrong, if you were imagining it, you didn't know what you'd do with the disappointment.

it wasn't just the big things, either it was the dumb stuff the way you started keeping track of her coffee order without meaning to oat milk, extra shot, no sugar, because she said once, only once, that she likes things bitter, likes things that wake her up rather than coddle her and you didn't even drink coffee that often yourself but you started ordering an extra cup on the days you knew she'd be running late, just in case, just so it was there, just so you could hand it to her without making a thing of it even though it was, completely, entirely, a thing.

your teammates, your golden state teammates, back then noticed before you were ready for them to. "you're staring again," one of them said during a stretch circuit, not even looking up from her phone, like this was just a fact of life now, like the sky being blue.

"i'm not staring," you said, which was a lie, and everyone in a four-foot radius knew it was a lie, and nobody bothered calling you on it because what would have been the point. "you've been staring for, like, a month."

"i have not."

"kate."

"i genuinely have not." veronica, twelve feet away, doing absolutely nothing wrong, just existing, just stretching her hamstrings and talking to someone about a workout playlist, had no idea this conversation was happening or and this is the thought that still keeps you up some nights, all these months and one waiver wire later maybe she did. 

maybe she'd always known, in that quiet observant way of hers, and she'd just decided, again, not to say anything you can't decide if that was kind or if it was its own kind of cruelty, letting you sit in it without ever confirming or denying it.

the thing about being obsessed with someone really obsessed, not the surface-level kind is that it rewires how you experience time, and apparently rewiring doesn't undo itself just because you change area codes. 

a five-minute conversation with veronica from a year ago can still replay in your head for the rest of a day, every word re-examined for hidden meaning, every laugh cross-referenced against every other laugh she ever gave you to see if that one was different, warmer, longer. 

you built an entire library in your head of veronica data points back when you had unlimited access to collect them, and you hate how much you've memorized, and you have no intention of ever deleting any of it you remember the exact shirt she was wearing the day she told you she liked your sense of humor. 

you remember she said "you're actually so funny" like it was a discovery, like she hadn't expected it, and you spent the rest of that day floating about four inches off the ground you remember the away game where the bus broke down and you ended up sitting next to her for two extra hours on the side of a highway, and she fell asleep on your shoulder somewhere around hour one, and you did not move. 

you did not so much as shift your weight your arm went fully numb and you would have let it fall off rather than disturb her you remember and this one you try not to remember, because it does something dangerous to your chest every time the way she said your name once, just once, soft, almost like an accident, like it slipped out before she could decide whether she wanted you to hear it. 

you've replayed that single syllable more times than you'd ever admit to a single living soul, and you've had a lot of long flights with nothing else to do but replay it.

it would have been easier if she weren't so much herself about it if she flirted the way some people flirt, loud and obvious, so you could read it and respond and know where you stood but veronica's affection, when she gave it, came sideways. 

it came in the form of remembering your coffee order before you remembered it yourself it came in the way she'd find you specifically after a bad game, not to say anything profound, just to sit next to you in comfortable silence until you stopped replaying your mistakes on a loop it came in the way she'd text you at eleven at night about nothing a meme, a complaint about her wifi, a video of someone's dog doing something mildly impressive like she just wanted an excuse to talk to you and didn't feel like overthinking the reason. 

she still does that last one, actually that part survived the trade, somehow, even when so much else didn't you don't know if any of it ever meant what you wanted it to mean that's the part that keeps you up now more than it did then. 

because if you let yourself believe it, if you let yourself really believe that veronica looked at you the way you looked at her, looks at you still, even from a different locker room and you're wrong, you don't know how you come back from that. 

you didn't know it then and you definitely don't know it now, three thousand miles and one franchise away so you didn't say anything, then you just kept showing up you kept ordering the extra coffee you kept laughing too long at jokes that weren't funny you kept letting your eyes slide sideways during film sessions, and you kept getting caught, and you kept saying "yeah, i'm good" too fast every single time.

that was the golden state this is june, and the commissioner's cup, and chase center with sparks logos taped over half the signage like the building's still deciding who it belongs to tonight, and you just lost by twenty to the team that used to be yours.

you're the last one in the visitor's locker room, still in your jersey, untying your shoes slower than you need to, when there's a knock on a doorframe that doesn't have a door. "hey." veronica, out of her warmups, valkyries hoodie zipped to her chin, hovering in the doorway like she's not sure she's allowed to be there. "you good?"

"yeah," you say, too fast, exactly the way you always used to, like nothing about this has changed even though everything has she comes in anyway sits down on the bench across from you, elbows on her knees, and for a second neither of you says anything, because what is there, really, to say. you just played her. 

she just beat you by twenty you used to be on the same side of that scoreboard and now you're not, and you don't know how to talk about any of it without talking about the part underneath it. "i hate that it's like this," she says finally, quiet, in that voice she only uses maybe four times a year, the one that doesn't have any performance in it. 

"playing against you. i keep losing track of who i'm supposed to be guarding because i forget for a second that you're not — " she stops herself. "that i'm not on your side anymore," you finish for her. "yeah."

you almost tell her, right there, with your shoes half-untied and your legs still aching from a game you lost you almost say it i'm not okay, veronica, i haven't been okay since may, and not because of the roster spot but what comes out instead is, "i miss the team."

"i know," she says and then, after a beat that goes on a half-second too long: "i miss you specifically. more than the team part." your chest does something complicated and enormous. "yeah," you say. "me too."

she doesn't push further she just sits there with you in the half-empty locker room, and eventually she says, "text me when you land tonight. so i know you got home okay," which isn't anything, isn't a confession, except it is, the way everything with her always has been sideways, quiet, real.

you walk out to the team bus together, the long way, past the loading dock where it's dark and cold and your breath shows. "night, kate," she says, when the bus is close enough that you both know this is where it ends.

"night," you say and then because apparently your mouth has decided to be braver than the rest of you, just this once, just enough to leave the door open without actually walking through it you add, "thanks for staying after with me."

she smiles, it's not a big smile. it's the small one, the real one, the one she doesn't hand out for free. "anytime," she says. "i mean that. even from the other bench. anytime, kate."

and as you get on the bus with your heart doing something it has absolutely no right to be doing over four words and a smile and a losing score, and you think: this is so stupid, and you think: i would let this be stupid for as long as it takes, and you think, finally, as the bus pulls out and chase center shrinks in the back window maybe she's not as unaware as you think she is, maybe neither of you are.

the schedule comes out in january and you scroll past it twice before it registersaugust 9th, crypto.com arena, valkyries at sparks and something in your chest does a complicated little drop, the kind you've gotten used to but never quite get good at surviving.

it's been almost three months since chase center since the locker room, since i miss you specifically, more than the team part, since the bus pulling away with you on it and her getting smaller in the window. 

you've thought about that sentence more times than you'd ever admit out loud you've turned it over so many times it's started to feel less like a memory and more like something you carry, a stone in your pocket you keep checking is still there.

you've texted of course you've texted that part survived the trade, like she said it would good mornings on game days screenshots of dumb things voice memos of her singing badly to whatever's playing in her car none of it crosses any line either of you would have to answer for all of it means more to you than it should but this is different. 

this is her walking into your building, in your city, wearing the jersey that isn't yours anymore, and you don't know yet whether that's going to feel like anything or everything.

it feels like everything you see her in the tunnel before the game, both teams doing their separate warmup routines forty feet apart, and she catches your eye across the floor and does this small thing with her mouth not quite a smile, something quieter, something that's just for you and you have to physically look away before lynne roberts catches you standing still during a layup line.

"focus, martin," coach says, not unkindly, and you say "yes, coach" and you do not focus, not really, not until the ball is live and your body takes over the way it always does once the whistle blows the game is close, well closer than chase center was. 

kelsey is cooking all night, nneka's working the paint like she's got something to prove, and you get real minutes actual run, not garbage time and for stretches at a time you forget veronica burton is on the other end of the floor at all, because that's the thing about being a professional athlete, the game is the one place your brain still knows how to shut everything else off then she switches onto you in the fourth quarter, and your brain remembers everything all at once.

she's guarding you for real low stance, active hands, talking trash the way she talks trash to everyone, except it lands different coming from her, it always has and you cross her over and she stays in front of you anyway, because she's good, she's always been good, and you pull up for a jumper with her hand right in your face and it goes in anyway and the crowd loses it and she just looks at you, breathing hard, something flickering behind her eyes that isn't quite annoyance.

"since when do you have that," she says, not really a question. "since always," you say. "you just never had to guard me before."

something passes over her face you don't have time to read it because the ball's live again and roberts is yelling rotations and the next forty seconds belong entirely to the game.

the sparks win by four you finish with twelve points, your best night in a sparks jersey by a wide margin, and your teammates are loud and sweaty and happy in the locker room in that specific way a close win makes a team feel like family, and you let yourself have it, you let yourself be happy, because you earned this one and nobody can take it from you and then there's a knock on a doorframe that doesn't have a door, again, except this time it's your building, your home locker room, and she's standing there in her road grays with her bag already over one shoulder, looking like she got here as fast as she could after a loss that clearly stung. "hey," she says. "good game."

"you too," you say, even though she had a quieter night than usual, fewer assists than the box score's used to seeing from her, and you both know exactly why, even if neither of you is going to say it in a hallway full of people packing up. "can we — " she starts, and stops, and tries again. "do you have a minute. after. i'll wait."

you tell your teammates you'll catch the bus back to the hotel separately nobody asks why somebody probably erica gives you a look you choose not to interpret.

she's waiting by the players' lot when you come out, showered, hair still damp, duffel over your shoulder, the parking lot mostly empty under the kind of orange-pink la sky that only happens after a summer night game. 

she's leaning against a rental car that isn't hers, arms crossed, and when she sees you she pushes off it and just stands there for a second, like she rehearsed something on the drive and forgot all of it the second you appeared. "hi," she says, finally, dumbly, like you haven't been doing this dance for over a year now.

"hi," you say back.

"i didn't plan what i was going to say."

"that's new for you." she laughs, short, surprised out of her. "yeah. it is." she looks down at her shoes, double-knotted, the way they always are, and when she looks back up something in her face has gone soft and unguarded in a way you've maybe seen four times total in the entire time you've known her. "i've been thinking about that thing i said. at chase center. about missing you. more than the team." your heart does something that should probably be medically concerning at this point.  "i remember," you say, quiet.

"i meant it," she says. "i need you to know i meant it, because i've spent three months wondering if you thought i was just being nice, or being weird because we lost, or — i don't know. i meant it the way it sounded. i miss you, kate. specifically. all the time. it's not about the team. it was never really about the team."

you don't say anything for a second because your whole chest has gone tight and warm at once, an impossible combination, and you're terrified that if you open your mouth what comes out is going to be too much, too fast, a year and a half of careful silence breaking all at once.

"i used to keep track of your coffee order," you say instead, because apparently this is how you do it, sideways, the way you both always have. "back when we were teammates. oat milk, extra shot, no sugar. i used to order you an extra one on the days i thought you'd be running late. i never told you that."

veronica blinks. "i know," she says. "i always knew. i used to drink it even when i wasn't actually running late, just because you'd already gotten it for me, and i didn't want you to feel like you'd wasted the trip."

"you *new?"

"kate." she says it like your name is the whole explanation, like it always has been. "i've known for a long time. i just didn't know if you wanted me to know that i knew. you're not exactly subtle, but you're also careful. you're so careful with this. i didn't want to push you into saying something before you were ready."

"i've been ready for over a year," you say, and it comes out before you can decide whether you're brave enough for it to. "i've been ready since a film session in golden state's facility where you caught me staring and i panicked and said i was fine and then went home and lay on my floor for like an hour because i couldn't believe how much i liked you. i've been ready this whole time. i just didn't think — " your voice catches. "i didn't think i got to want this. you were the best player in that building. i was a roster spot they were trying to figure out what to do with and then i got waived, and i thought, well, that settles it, there's no version of this where i get to have her too."

"kate." she crosses the space between you in about four steps, which isn't far, the lot isn't big, but it feels like the longest distance either of you has ever closed. "i didn't stay because the front office liked me more. i stayed because of a roster decision that had nothing to do with either of our hearts, and i hated it, i hated watching you leave, i almost said something to nakase about it and then didn't because what was i even going to say please don't trade my favorite person, i'm in love with her? i didn't have the words for it then either."

the word lands between you like something dropped from a height in love as she said it so plainly, like it cost her nothing, even though you know you know her, you've always known her — that it cost her everything to say it first. "say that again," you say, barely above a whisper.

"i'm in love with you," she says, steadier this time, like she's decided she's not taking it back. "i have been for a long time. probably longer than you have, if we're being honest, since you're apparently slower at noticing things than i thought."

"i was very aware," you say, half a laugh, half something closer to tears. "i was aware the entire time. i was just scared."

"of what?"

"of this not being real. of making something out of nothing and having to sit across from you for an entire season pretending i hadn't."

"well," she says, and steps the rest of the way in, close enough now that you can see exactly how much she means it, no performance in it at all, the way she only gets maybe four times a year and is apparently spending all four of them on you tonight. 

"you don't have to sit across from me pretending anything anymore. i'm not on your team. you don't have to survive an entire season of this. you just have to decide if you want it."

"i want it," you say, immediately, no hesitation, the fastest you've said anything all night. "i have wanted it since before i knew what to call it." she smiles, the real one, the one she doesn't hand out for free, except this time she's handing it to you with both hands, no sideways, no careful distance, just straight on, just for you.

"good," she says. "because i drove an hour out of my way after a loss to say all that, and i was going to be really embarrassed if you didn't want it back."

you laugh actually laugh, loud, the kind that surprises you and she laughs too, and for a second you just stand there in an empty parking lot under an la sky, two players from two different teams who used to be on the same side of every scoreboard, finally saying out loud the thing you'd both been carrying sideways for over a year. "we're really doing this," you say, when you've caught your breath. "you and me. two different jerseys."

"two different jerseys," she agrees, "and one of us is going to have to learn to lose with grace, because i am not going easy on you next time we play."

"i can take it."

"we'll see," she says, and reaches out, finally, finally, and laces her fingers through yours like it's the easiest thing in the world, like it always should have been, "kate martin." and you stand there a long time before either of you moves toward your cars, because neither of you is in any hurry now you have time. 

you have a text thread and an entire season of being on opposite teams and absolutely no reason left to be careful about any of it you drive home that night with both hands loose on the wheel for the first time in over a year, your heart doing something it has every right to be doing now, and you think: this was never stupid, and you think; i would have waited even longer than i did, and you think, pulling into your driveway, cutting the engine, sitting there in the quiet warm dark with your phone already lighting up with a text from her she's not unaware she never was neither of you ever were.

here is a thing you have learned, four months into this, that nobody warned you about; being loved by veronica does not cure you of being obsessed with veronica if anything it's worse now it's worse because she knows, fully and completely, exactly what she does to you, and she has stopped pretending otherwise, and honestly? 

she's having a great time about it, it's an off day, both your schedules lining up by some miracle of the wnba gods, and you've flown up to the bay for forty-eight hours because that's what the long distance thing requires.

sometimes, somebody gets on a plane you're lying on her couch with your head in her lap while she scrolls her phone one-handed and runs the other hand through your hair like it's the most natural thing in the world, like she's not aware that you have gone fully, completely nonfunctional under the weight of her fingers against your scalp. "you're doing the thing," she says, not even looking up from her phone.

"i'm not doing a thing."

"kate. you've gone all soft and quiet. you do this every time i touch your hair. it's adorable and a little bit concerning."

"i don't know what you're talking about."

"mm-hmm." she sets the phone down, finally, and looks at you properly, and there's that look on her face — the one she gets when she's caught you, when she's known you the whole time and lets you dig the hole anyway just to watch you climb out of it. "you used to think i didn't notice. that whole first year. you thought you were so smooth."

"i was very smooth."

"you ordered me a second coffee every single day for, what, eight months? and thought i didn't clock that you only did it on days you thought i'd be running late, which for the record was every day, because you decided i was always running late so you'd always have an excuse." you bury your face in her thigh, mortified, delighted, both at once. "you weren't supposed to figure that part out."

"baby." she says it like the most obvious thing in the world. "i figured out the coffee thing in week three. i figured out the staring thing in week one. i let you keep doing it for over a year because it was, and i cannot stress this enough, the funniest and sweetest thing i had ever witnessed, and i wasn't about to be the one to end it."

"you're so mean."

"i'm really not. you liked being a little obsessed with me. i wasn't going to take that away from you." she taps your nose, and you swat her hand away, and she catches your wrist instead and presses a kiss to the inside of it like it's nothing, like it's the easiest gesture in the world for her, and you melt approximately four more degrees into her couch.

this is the part that gets you, still, even now that she knows. that she has always known the exact specific weight of how far gone you are for her, the coffee and the staring and the way you used to angle yourself in mirrors just to watch her without watching her, and instead of finding it annoying or excessive or too much, she has simply, calmly, collected it. 

catalogued it the way you catalogued her and once in a while, like tonight, she takes a piece of it out and turns it over in front of you just to watch you go red about it.

later, much later, you're tangled together on her too-small couch with a movie neither of you is watching playing low in the background, and she's got one hand splayed flat against your sternum like she's checking your heartbeat is still doing what it's supposed to, and you say, quiet, into the dark; "you really knew the whole time."

"the whole time," she confirms. "and you just — let me be obsessed with you. for over a year."

"i did." she presses a kiss to the top of your head, unhurried, certain. "because here's the thing nobody tells you about being loved by someone who's a little bit gone for you — it's not embarrassing, kate. i never once thought it was embarrassing. i thought it was the best thing that had happened to me in years, watching you try so hard to be subtle about something you were so obviously, hopelessly bad at hiding. i wasn't laughing at you. i was just — happy. happy that it was me. happy that out of everyone in that building, it was always me you couldn't stop looking at."

"you have me completely wrapped around your finger," you say, and it's not a complaint, it's barely even an observation at this point, it's just a fact you've finally stopped fighting. "you know that, right? you have always had me wrapped around your finger."

"i know," she says, easy, unbothered, the same way she's unbothered about everything, the same low rasp she's had since the first morning you ever heard it across a quiet practice facility. "i've known since the bus broke down on that highway and you didn't move your arm for two hours because you didn't want to wake me up. i felt that, you know. i wasn't actually asleep the whole time." you sit up so fast you nearly knock her phone off the couch. "you were awake?"

"for like the last forty minutes," she says, completely unrepentant, grinning at the look on your face. "you were so still. so careful. i just wanted to see how long you'd let your arm go numb for me before you said something."

"veronica."

"i told you. wrapped around my finger. you've just never minded." and the worst part, the absolute worst part, the part you will never admit to her directly because she will never let you live it down is that she's right.

you don't mind you have never minded, not once, not the staring or the coffee or the year and a half of careful sideways longing or any of it, because all of it led here, to this couch, to her hand against your chest, to a love that you spent so long thinking you had to hide and never, not even for a second, actually had to hide from her at all.

"go to sleep," she says finally, pulling you back down against her, settling you into the same spot you've apparently always belonged in. "you have a flight in the morning and you get insufferable when you're tired."

"i'm never insufferable."

"kate."

"okay. sometimes."

"always," she says, fond, already half asleep herself, her fingers still moving slow through your hair like she has no intention of stopping. "but you're my favorite kind of insufferable. so i'll allow it."

you fall asleep like that, wrapped around her the way you've apparently always been wrapped around her in every direction that matters, and you think, right before sleep takes you all the way under she was never unaware she was never going to let you go. 

then baylor, another knee, another floor, another silence in another arena that had nothing to do with you because you weren't there yet, hadn't met her yet, didn't know yet that you'd spend years of your life learning to read the exact angle of someone's leg for warning signs.

you were there for this one, though college park center, a tuesday in late june, dallas down by six with under two minutes left, and dijonai stepping into a driving guard's lane the way she always does fearless in a way that you have started to think of less as bravery and more as a kind of forgetting, a refusal to let the body's history dictate the body's next decision. 

she took the charge clean, drew the foul and then she didn't get up right away, both hands pressed flat against her ribs, her face doing something you'd never seen it do before, something that wasn't quite pain and wasn't quite panic but lived in the narrow country between them.

you sat in your seat with your hands folded in your lap like you were at church you didn't make a single sound some animal part of you understood that if you opened your mouth, you weren't going to be able to close it again she missed nine games after that a rib injury, the kind that doesn't show up dramatically on camera, the kind people forget is serious because there's no brace, no crutches, nothing for the broadcast to zoom in on just weeks of her sitting on the bench in street clothes, breathing carefully, wincing when she laughed too hard at something on her phone. "i've been injured before," she told a reporter, almost gently, like she was trying to make the rest of them feel better about it. 

"missed a year once. six months another time. a month's nothing, in the long run." she said it like a fact when you watched her say it and thought about how a person learns to talk about their own body like a weather system, something with patterns, something survivable, something you stop being surprised by even when it still knocks you flat every single time.

that's the thing nobody tells you about loving an athlete with a history like hers: the fear doesn't come from one injury, it comes from the math of all of them stacked together both acls, baylor, the rib, and whatever hasn't happened yet that you have no way of preparing for. you do the math without meaning to, every single game. 

you've gotten good at not showing it there's a routine now it built itself the way certain kinds of love build themselves, in increments too small to notice until you look back and realize you've constructed an entire architecture out of small repeated acts. 

it has three parts, and you know all three of them the way you know her number, the way you know the specific pitch of her laugh when it's real versus when it's for the cameras the first part happens in the kitchen of whatever apartment-hotel-rental the road trip has put you in, hours before tip-off.

she always cooks something, even on the road, even when the kitchen is a hot plate and a mini fridge with nothing in it not because she's hungry she barely eats on game days but because her hands need a task that isn't basketball and isn't worrying. 

you've learned the specific density of her quiet on these mornings, how it sits differently in the room than her regular quiet, like she's carrying something heavy through the apartment and trying hard not to let you see the weight of it.

you don't ask if she's nervous. naming it gives it a shape, and a shape is a thing that can grow instead you sit at the counter and let her cook eggs she won't eat, and at some point your hand finds the back of her neck not rubbing, not petting, just resting there, warm and still, the way you'd check a doorframe for a draft. 

you're not soothing her so much as checking her searching for the particular tremor that means her body is somewhere else, replaying a knee giving out in a high school gym, bracing for a hit to ribs that have only just stopped aching. "you're doing the thing," she says once, not turning around.

"i don't know what you're talking about." your thumb moves, once, against her neck. "i'm just standing here."

"uh huh." she never asks you to stop, you leave your hand there until the eggs are done and she finally exhales like a held breath letting go the second part happens in the car, a different rental in every city, but the silence is always the same.

she wants the radio off, always, every single time, ever since the first season you learned it the hard way, reaching for the dial automatically and feeling her hand close over yours before you got there. "leave it," she said, voice thin in a way you hadn't heard yet. "i need to hear myself think."

so you leave it you watch unfamiliar skylines slide past dallas, then wherever the next city is, then the next and you let her have whatever's happening behind her eyes her lips move sometimes, mouthing something you've never asked her to say out loud. 

you have your guesses, something about the rib, something about the knees, something about not flinching when contact comes, because flinching is how the body gets surprised, and being surprised is how it breaks again.

 you've never asked some prayers lose their power the moment someone outside of them learns the words what you do instead is reach over at the exact same point every time a landmark that changes by city but always exists, an exit sign, a familiar gas station, something your body has learned to clock without you trying and press two fingers to the inside of her wrist.

her wrist turns, slightly, enough that your fingers slide to where you can feel her pulse instead of just her skin, and she lets you sit there for the rest of the drive confirming a fact that needs confirming every single time: still here. still going. still hers to worry about.

the third part happens in the tunnel, forty-five seconds before she goes through the doors, in the small window the team gives partners to say whatever they're going to say.

you don't hug her there you don't kiss her, not where the cameras catch things that get clipped and dissected by strangers who think a thirty-second video tells them anything true instead you stand close enough that nobody could fit between you, find her eyes, and say the same three words you've said before every game since the night that started it.

"ribs aren't glass."

it used to be knees it used to be, in the earliest version of this a hospital hallway months after her second acl tear, long before college park center, long before you'd even seen her play in person, just a story she told you once, late, in the dark, about what it felt like to not trust her own legs it used to be your knee's not glass, it's not going to shatter just because it cracked once, you healed it, you're not made out of the thing that broke, you're made out of everything that came after. 

you said it the first time half by accident, trying to fill a silence that scared you both you didn't think she'd remember it specifically somewhere in the months that followed it calcified into a phrase, a code, a thing she apparently needed before every single game.

after the charge against connecticut sun, the phrase had to grow a second life. "ribs aren't glass either," you told her, the first game back, your hands sliding from her face to her shoulders, one firm squeeze, grounding. "your body's not a museum piece. it's not something that ends the moment it cracks. you keep getting back up. that's the whole pattern, dai. that's the only pattern that's ever mattered."

"ribs aren't glass," she repeats back tonight, quiet, like a vow, like a thing she's agreeing to believe for the next forty minutes even if she doesn't fully believe it yet then because this part got added too, somewhere around month eleven of loving someone whose job requires her to risk her body on purpose: "you're not allowed to stop breathing in the stands. i can feel it when you do."

"i'll breathe."

"you said that last time and didn't."

"i'll breathe," you say again, softer, and mean it more the second time.

she goes through the doors you find your seat high enough up that you can see the whole floor, close enough that she can find you in the crowd before the anthem if she looks. 

the lights come up underneath your sternum, a thing that's lived there since college park center tuesday small, persistent, never fully gone no matter how much trust you pour into it starts its old familiar hum.

it's quieter than it used to be, though nobody warns you that the fear doesn't leave when you love someone with a body like hers it learns to sit smaller some of that time, some of those three rituals built out of nothing; a hand on a neck, two fingers on a wrist, three words in a tunnel that keep changing their subject and never their meaning.

she plays well, you don't watch the box score you watch the way she plants and cuts and lands, looking for the hitch, the favor, the half-second hesitation that would tell you something's wrong before she'd ever admit it. 

tonight there's nothing tonight there's just her, moving fast and certain and unafraid in a way her face never quite manages forty-five seconds before tipoff after, in whatever parking garage this city has given you, she finds you the way she always does pushing through a small crowd until she can put both arms around you and exhale into your hair like she's been holding her breath since the anthem. "you breathed?"

"i breathed." (a small mercy of a lie there were two possessions in the third when you genuinely don't think you did.) she pulls back to look at you, and there's something on her face that isn't relief exactly, relief is too small a word for what crosses someone's face after they survive, again, a thing they're never fully sure they'll survive.

"ribs aren't glass," she says, like a question, needing it confirmed retroactively now that the game is actually over. "ribs aren't glass," you confirm, and kiss her, finally, now that the cameras have turned away. "you're not made out of the thing that broke. you never were."

"i know," she says, and for the first time all day, she sounds like she actually believes it you'll do this again in four days, in a different city, with a different gas station landmark and the same two fingers on the same wrist. 

for as long as she plays, probably because some rituals don't end when the fear that built them fades they become the structure left standing where the scaffolding used to be.

the trade happens in february, and you spend a week learning a new city's skyline well enough to find the right gas station landmark for the new drive.

dallas had been two years of practice minnesota is new, every part of it’s new arena, new teammates whose names you're still attaching to faces, new tunnel with a different slant of light coming through the doors at the end of it. 

but the routine survives the move intact, because that's the whole point of a routine, you think it's not the city that holds it together, it's the two of you, carrying the same three small rituals from one life into the next like furniture nobody would think to leave behind.

hand on the neck fingers on the wrist ribs aren't glass the words don't even have to update this time her ribs healed fully sometime back in dallas, stopped being a thing either of you flinched at, and the phrase just kept going anyway, the way old prayers do, useful long after the specific crisis that built them.

she plays eleven games for minnesota before september you remember thinking, somewhere around game six or seven, that this was good that the trade had been good, that she looked lighter on the new roster, that maybe the two acls and the baylor knee and the rib were finally just history now, the bad chapter, the part of the story you'd both survived enough to tell casually at dinner parties. 

you'd actually said something like that out loud, once, in the car, on a quiet drive with the radio off like always. "i think you're past it," you said. "i think your body's just yours now. no more surprises." she didn't say anything she just reached over and found your hand on the console between you and held it the rest of the way, and you remember thinking that was agreement, that was her letting herself believe it too.

you were wrong, both of you were wrong you've thought about that car ride more times than you can count since, replayed your own voice saying no more surprises like it was a hex you'd accidentally cast.

the foot happens against golden state, a quick cut, a plant that looked like a thousand other plants you've watched her make without consequence, and then she's down, and this one is different from the rib in a way your body recognizes before your mind catches up different because she doesn't get up holding a place and wincing, she gets up not getting up at all, just stays low to the floor with her hand pressed flat against the hardwood like she's checking whether the floor itself is still there.

you don't make a sound you've never made a sound, not once, not since the very first time two years ago, and you've started to wonder privately if that's its own kind of damage the silence, the discipline of it, the years of training yourself not to react, becoming its own scar tissue. 

but you don't make a sound, and you watch the trainers go out, and you watch them help her to the tunnel without her putting weight on the left foot, and something in your chest that had gone quiet over eleven good games wakes back up all at once, fully, viciously, like it had only ever been sleeping.

the season ends that night, though nobody tells you that part for another week surgery then the long flat stretch of words that come after surgery non-weight-bearing, six to eight weeks, we'll reassess, words that mean nothing and everything at once, words that you learn to translate the way you'd learn a foreign language out of necessity, fast and badly and just well enough to survive in it.

here is the thing; the routine was never built for recovery has no tip-off, there's no tunnel, no forty-five second window, no game to walk into and therefore no fear with a shape you recognize. 

instead there's just the apartment, day after day, dijonai on the couch with her foot elevated on a pillow that's gone slightly gray from overuse, and a different kind of silence than the pregame kind heavier, with nowhere to go, because at least the pregame fear had an ending it resolved into a final buzzer one way or another this doesn't resolve this just continues.

you find out fast that the old routine doesn't translate there's no kitchen ritual when neither of you can stomach eating much of anything for the first two weeks there's no car ride when the only drives are to follow-up appointments that you spend gripping the wheel too hard at red lights and there's no tunnel god, you miss the tunnel more than you would have ever predicted, miss the structure of it, the forty-five seconds that meant something specific because they were bounded, contained, over before either of you had time to spiral.

so you build something new, because that's apparently just what you do now, the two of you build rituals out of whatever material the situation hands you it starts with the boot she hates the boot hates the bulk of it, the way it makes her gait strange and unfamiliar, the way strangers look at it in grocery stores like it's an invitation to ask questions she doesn't want to answer. 

you start doing the velcro straps for her every morning, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch the way you used to stand in front of her in the tunnel, and somewhere in the third week you notice your hands have started saying something without your permission not words, just pressure, a specific firm squeeze at her ankle right before the last strap closes, the same kind of squeeze you used to give her shoulders before she went through the doors.

"that's the thing," she says one morning, watching you do it. "the squeeze thing."

"i don't know what you're talking about." you close the last strap. "i'm just finishing the boot."

"uh huh." you don't tell her what you're actually doing, which is the same thing you were always doing checking searching not for tension now but for flinch, for the specific way her face goes somewhere else when you touch near the injury, gone back to a replay of the cut, the plant, the floor.

the radio-off rule gets repurposed too, oddly you'd think silence would be the last thing either of you wants in a recovery this slow, this heavy, but she still asks for it sometimes asks you to just sit with her on the couch with the tv off and nothing playing, your fingers finding her wrist the same way they always have, pulse under your fingertips, still here, still going, still hers to worry about, even though there's no game to drive to, even though the only thing you're confirming now is that she's still breathing through a season she didn't get to finish.

"i miss it," she says once, mid-october, the boot finally off but the limp still there, faint, careful. "i know that's stupid. i miss the tunnel. i miss being scared in a way that had a clock on it."

you understand exactly what she means, because you miss it too the old fear had rules it started at a specific time and ended at a specific time and in between there was a game to focus on instead of the formless thing that's replaced it, the thing with no quarter markers, no final buzzer, just an open-ended we'll reassess that keeps getting pushed back every six weeks like a horizon that won't stop receding.

"we'll get a new tunnel," you tell her, and you don't fully know what you mean by it until you're already saying it. "it'll just look different for a while."

so you build the new version you don't decide on it consciously it just happens, the way the original three things happened, in increments too small to notice until you look back it becomes this; every night, before sleep, you press your palm flat against the arch of her foot not massaging, not doing anything a physical therapist would recognize as treatment, just resting your hand there, warm and still, the way you used to rest it on the back of her neck and you say the only thing that's ever actually worked, updated now for its third occasion. "foot's not glass."

"foot's not glass," she repeats, quieter than she's ever said it, because this time there's no game forty-five seconds away to walk into, no adrenaline to carry the words on. 

this time it's just the two of you in a dark room with a recovery that has no finish line yet, saying the same vow you've been saying in different forms for two years, except now it has to hold its own weight instead of borrowing momentum from a crowd, an anthem, a tip-off.

"you're not made out of the thing that broke," you add, the second half of the old sentence, the part you almost never have to say out loud anymore because it usually goes without saying. tonight you say it anyway. "you're made out of everything that comes after. even this part. even the boring part. even the part where nothing's happening except healing."

she's quiet for a long moment you can feel, under your palm, the very faint tremor that you used to look for and rarely find except tonight you find it, and instead of panicking the way the old version of you might have, you just press a little firmer, a little steadier, until it settles.

"i don't know who i am when i'm not playing," she admits, finally, into the dark. "i've never had to find out before. every other time i got hurt i knew exactly how long until i'd be back to knowing who i was again. this time i don't know the number."

you don't have a tidy answer for that, so you don't try to invent one you just keep your hand where it is and say the truest thing you've got. "you're the person who cooks eggs she won't eat on game days. you're the person who needs the radio off to hear herself think. you're the person who taught me that a body can break in the same place twice and still be worth trusting. none of that's gone just because there's no game tonight. you're still all of it. you're just doing it without an audience for a while."

she doesn't say anything to that. but her hand finds yours on top of her foot, and she laces your fingers through hers, and you fall asleep like that, your palm still pressed where it's pressed every night, a new ritual built entirely out of waiting, which turns out to be its own kind of love the unglamorous kind, the kind with no tunnel and no anthem and no crowd to hold its breath alongside you, just two people in a dark room, choosing, every single night, to believe a sentence into truth one more time before trying again tomorrow.

months later not soon, not as soon as either of you wanted, but eventually, the way these things go — she's cleared for light work the first day back in a gym that isn't a rehab facility, you drive her there with the radio off, two fingers on her wrist at a stoplight that doesn't have a name yet, no landmark established, not this time, not yet. 

she doesn't mouth anything silently this time she just watches the city go by with an expression you haven't seen on her since before the injury, something closer to hunger than fear, something that looks, finally, like a person remembering what it feels like to want something instead of just surviving the absence of it. "new tunnel," she says, mostly to herself, watching the gym come into view through the windshield.

"new tunnel," you agree, and you don't say knee's not glass or ribs aren't glass or foot's not glass this time, because there's no door to walk through yet, no forty-five second window, nothing to brace for except the small ordinary terror of starting over. 

instead you just squeeze her hand once before she gets out of the car, the way you've squeezed her shoulders a hundred times before doors that led to a court, and you watch her walk actually walk, no limp left to speak of, no hitch, no favor into a building that's going to ask her body to remember what it used to know how to do.

you sit in the car a long minute after she goes in you let yourself, finally, feel the entire shape of the year you've just survived, not pushed down, not managed, not folded small enough to fit beside whatever crisis came next, just felt, all the way through, for the first time since february.

she pulls on the t-shirt from the floor yours, not hers, she's been doing that for months and you've stopped pointing it out and pads down the hall, and you lie there another thirty seconds before you give up on pretending you'll fall back asleep.

by the time you get to the kitchen, frankie's already on kate's hip, fists full of her hair, and kate is one-handing the coffee maker with the kind of competence that should not be possible at this hour. she doesn't turn around. she says, "she had a whole speech for me. very passionate. i think it was about the wall."

"the wall?"

"there's a shadow on it. she's very suspicious of the shadow." you come up behind her and rest your chin on her shoulder, and frankie immediately abandons kate's hair to grab a fistful of yours instead, delighted by the upgrade, and kate laughs that low real laugh, not the one for cameras and for a second none of you move. 

this is the part nobody asks about when they ask what it's like, not the games, not the trophies, not the way strangers say her name like they have a claim on it, this a kitchen a shadow on the wall. someone's hands in your hair at six a.m. because it was simply closer. "you're staring," kate says.

"i'm appreciating."

"there's a difference?"

"the staring's for later." you kiss her shoulder through the shirt. "right now i'm appreciating that my girls are both up before me and i didn't have to do anything."

"your girls," kate repeats, like she's trying the words on, like she does every time, even now, even after fourteen months of this being simply true.

the trip is ten days west coast swing seattle, then the bay, then vegas, then a back-to-back that makes no sense on paper and exists anyway because schedules are made by people who have never had to explain to a one-year-old where their other mother went.

kate hates these trips she's never said it in those words kate doesn't really do the words, not the soft ones, not out loud, she does the actions instead, she does staying up too late on facetime and texting send a pic forty times a day and coming home and immediately, before her bag's even down, asking where is she but you know it the way you know weather coming. 

you watch her get quieter the day before she leaves you watch her hold frankie a little longer at bedtime, a little too still, like she's trying to memorize the weight of her the night before this one, she's sitting on the floor of the nursery long after frankie's asleep, just watching the monitor on her phone like there might be a quiz later. "hey," you say from the doorway.

"i know." she doesn't look up. "i know, i'm being weird."

"you're not being weird." you sit down next to her, on the rug that's covered in a popcorn-shaped stain you've both given up on ever fully removing. "you're being a mom about to leave for ten days. that's allowed to be weird."

"she's gonna do something while i'm gone." kate says it like a fact, not a worry, but you know it's both. "she's right on the edge of something. you can see it. the way she's been holding the couch."

"she might."

"i don't want to miss it."

"i know."

"i missed the rolling over thing."

"you were at shootaround for eleven minutes, kate."

"i missed it."you don't argue with her on this, because there's no version of the argument where you win, and also because she's not entirely wrong to grieve it, even if eleven minutes is a strange unit to grieve in. 

you just lean your head on her shoulder and let her have it, the quiet, unfair math of being good at something the world watches while also trying to be present for something the world doesn't watch at all. 

nobody puts the staying-up-til-2am-bouncing-a-teething-baby on a stat sheet nobody clips the moment she figured out the swaddle in week one when her hands were shaking from nerves, not exhaustion, just pure terrified love you've watched her be excellent at two completely different kinds of hard, and you don't think she's ever once let herself believe both of them count.

"she'll wait for you," you tell her, even though you have no actual authority to promise this, even though frankie is fourteen months old and operates on a logic entirely her own. "she's stubborn. takes after her mom."

"which one."

"both, honestly. that's the problem." that gets a real laugh out of her, finally, the tightness in her shoulders dropping half an inch, and she turns her head and kisses your temple and says, quiet, "i hate going." "i know."

"i'm gonna call so much."

"i know that too."

she does call so much seattle is fine frankie's mostly interested in the phone itself, in pressing her whole hand against the screen like she can pull kate through it, and kate laughs every time and says "i'm in here, weirdo" and frankie shrieks like that's the funniest sentence ever constructed. 

the bay is fine there's a game kate plays well and one she doesn't, and you watch both from the couch with frankie asleep on your chest, texting so proud of you after the good one and you good? after the bad one and getting back, both times, a single heart emoji that somehow tells you everything.

vegas is where it happens it's a tuesday, nothing-day, no game, just a practice morning and a long stretch of hotel-room nothing before the flight to the back-to-back flight frankie's been doing the thing kate noticed holding the couch, holding your legs, holding anything that'll hold still, standing there testing her own balance like she's running calculations you can't see. 

you've been narrating it to kate every day. she stood for eleven seconds without holding anything. she fell over laughing about it. you're in the kitchen when it happens not even looking you turn around because the room's gone too quiet and there she is frankie, in the middle of the living room floor, four feet from the couch and four feet from your leg and not holding either one, just standing there with the specific stunned pride of someone who has surprised even themselves, and you have approximately one full second to register this before she takes a step then another.

then she sits down hard, more from shock than failure, and starts laughing the big-bellied laugh she only does for genuinely funny things, and you are already moving, already crying a little, already grabbing your phone, and you almost, almost call kate first.

you don't you don't, because it's eleven a.m. there, which means it's two p.m. in vegas, which means kate is in a film session right now, headphones on, watching footage of a defense she needs to fix, and you know, you know that calling her in the middle of that to say you missed it would do nothing for either of you except hand her the exact grief she was already afraid of, fully formed, with no way to undo it and no way to be there even if she dropped everything that second.

so you film it instead; all of it the four steps, the laugh, the second attempt twenty minutes later where she does six steps before face-planting into the ottoman, soft enough to be funny, hard enough that she cries for ninety seconds and then forgets about it entirely. 

you film frankie clapping for herself. you film her saying something that is absolutely not a word yet but has the rhythm of "again," demanding a third attempt and you sit with it. 

the full unedited footage, the good clean joyful proof, and you think about sending it right now versus waiting, and it feels, for a second, like the cruelest kind of choice tell her now and let it ruin her afternoon, or wait, and let her find out you sat on it you wait not to hide it just to hand it to her whole.

she calls at 9:40 that night, her time, after the back-to-back's first leg is locked in and the team meal is over and she's finally, finally alone in a hotel room that looks exactly like every other hotel room she's slept in this month. "hey," she says, and she sounds tired in the specific way that means the day went fine but cost her something anyway. "she asleep?"

"yeah. about an hour ago."

"good day?" and here's the thing you could lie, not even really a lie, just a soft management of information, good day, nothing exciting, miss you, can't wait til friday and she'd never know, and you'd protect her from ten more days of replaying it but you don't think that's actually protecting her. you think that's just deciding for her what she's allowed to carry.

"kate," you say. "i have to tell you something and i need you to know upfront that it's a good thing, okay? it's a good thing, it's not — i'm not telling you this to hurt you." a pause on the line as you can hear her sit up. "okay."

"she walked today." the silence that follows isn't surprised, exactly; it's more like the sound of someone absorbing an impact they'd already braced for, weeks in advance, and finding it still lands. "oh," kate says very quiet.

"kate—"

"no, it's — it's good. you said it's good. i'm glad. i'm so glad, i just—" her voice catches and rebuilds itself, the way it does when she's working hard not to cry on a call she knows she's not going to end early no matter what. "how many steps."

"four the first time. six the second."

"six."

"she fell into the ottoman on the second one. she was fine. cried for like ninety seconds then forgot about it completely, asked to do it again."

"of course she did." a wet little laugh. "stubborn."

"takes after her moms."

"yeah." kate breathes out slow, the kind of breath that's trying to set something down gently instead of dropping it. "can i — do you have it? on video?"

"i have all of it. i didn't send it yet because i wanted —" you stop, try to find the honest version of this. "i didn't want you to get it in the middle of film session and have to sit there holding it for six hours with nobody to actually talk to about it. i wanted to wait til you could actually feel it instead of just survive it." there's a long quiet, and you genuinely don't know which direction it's going to break.

"i love you so much it's stupid," kate says finally, voice thick. "i mean that. that's — that's exactly the right call. i hate that i missed it and i love that you thought about how i'd have to carry it. both things. at the same time."

"i know. i'm sorry you missed it."

"don't be sorry. you were there. that's — that's the whole point of there being two of us, right? one of us gets to be there." a pause. "send it now?"

"sending it now." you watch the read receipt you wait and then her voice comes back rougher, openly crying now, no performance left in it at all. "she's — god, look at her face, she looks so proud of herself, she's so —" a wet laugh-sob. "i missed it. i missed it and i'm still gonna watch this forty more times tonight."

"watch it as many times as you need."

"i'm gonna," she says, like a vow. "i'm gonna watch it on the flight tomorrow too. and then i'm gonna come home and she's gonna walk to me and i'm not gonna miss that part, i'm not gonna miss the part where she does it for me."

"she won't even remember this was a milestone, kate. she'll just walk to you because you're home. that's gonna be just as good. maybe better."

"yeah." a long breath. "yeah. okay. tell me again she's stubborn. i need that part again."

"insanely stubborn. got it from both of us. she's gonna walk into the furniture for a week and refuse all help." that gets the real laugh back, finally, thin but real, and you talk for another twenty minutes about nothing the flight tomorrow, the ottoman's structural integrity, whether frankie's going to demand to walk everywhere now out of pure principle and underneath all of it is the same quiet thread; this is the cost not the games, not even really the distance. 

the cost is moments like this, split clean in half, one of you holding the living half and one of you holding the grief of the gap, and the only thing either of you can do about it is make sure the gap never turns into a silence. "i'm coming home in three days," kate says, eventually, like she's reminding herself as much as you. "three days."

"three days."

"tell her — " she stops starts again. "don't tell her anything. i want to tell her myself. i want to be the one who says it."

"she's fourteen months old, kate, she's not gonna remember the conversation."

"i don't care. i want to be the one who says it." you let her have that too.

she comes home on a friday, off a flight that lands at 1pm and somehow still manages to make it feel like an event, like the whole house has been holding its breath since tuesday and only now gets to exhale. 

you don't tell frankie kate's coming she wouldn't understand the timeline anyway, a fourteen-month-old has no real concept of in two hours, only now and not now but you do put her in the little fever onesie kate sent home from the team store last month, the one frankie's already half outgrown, because some things are for kate more than they're for frankie, and you've made peace with that.

you hear the door before frankie does kate's trying to be quiet, dropping her bag in the entryway with the careful exaggerated silence of someone who has clearly rehearsed this in her head on the plane, and you watch her round the corner into the living room and just stop.

take it in frankie, on the rug, surrounded by the same blocks she's been ignoring all week, completely unaware yet that the room has changed. "hey, bug," kate says, soft, crouching down at the edge of the rug instead of rushing her, giving her the second she needs to register what's happening.

frankie's head comes up there's a beat a real one, long enough that you watch kate's face brace for it not to land, brace for the disappointment of being just another face for a second and then frankie's whole body does the thing it does, the full-bodied joy-lurch, and she's up on her feet. and she doesn't fall.

she walks straight across the rug, arms up, the particular determined wobble of someone with somewhere very specific to be, and kate doesn't move to meet her halfway, doesn't reach out and scoop her up the second she's close enough she just stays low, stays open, and lets frankie make it the whole way on her own, lets her arrive, and when frankie finally crashes into her with the force of a small joyful missile, kate catches her and folds around her and you watch her shoulders shake, just slightly, just once.

"hi," kate says into frankie's hair, voice wrecked. "hi, baby. you did that. you did that all by yourself." frankie, for her part, has no idea what the fuss is about. 

she just wants to chew on kate's collar and pull her hair and be exactly as close as possible, which, you think, watching from the doorway with your own throat tight, is sort of the whole point. she didn't walk to make a memory. 

she walked because someone she loved came home and the floor was simply in the way kate looks up at you over frankie's head, eyes wet, and mouths something you can't quite hear, and you don't need to hear it as you already know.

later much later, frankie finally down for the night after refusing to let kate put her in the crib without at least four separate renegotiations, kate caving every time because ten days is ten days and who could blame her you find kate back on the nursery floor again, same rug, same popcorn stain, watching the monitor with the same stillness as the night before she left, except this time her shoulders aren't braced for anything. "you good?" you ask, sitting down beside her.

"yeah." she leans into you immediately, all her weight, the specific exhausted honesty of someone who's been holding themselves together for ten days and has just now decided it's safe to stop. "yeah, i'm good. i'm just—" she exhales. "i thought i was gonna miss all of it. the walking thing especially. i thought that was just — gone. mine to miss forever."

"you didn't, though."

"no." a small, disbelieving laugh. "no, she waited. or — she didn't wait, i know she didn't actually wait, she's a baby, she doesn't have a concept of waiting for someone — but it felt like she did. it felt like she knew."

"maybe she did. in whatever way a fourteen-month-old knows anything."

"yeah." kate's quiet for a second, watching the gray fuzz of the monitor screen like it's still showing her something. "i keep thinking about what you said. on the phone. about there being two of us so one of us can always be there."

"yeah?"

"i don't think i fully believed it til today. i think i thought it was just a nice thing to say to make me feel less guilty about a film session." she turns her head, looks at you properly. 

"but you were there for the actual moment, and i still got to be there for the moment that mattered. like — both things happened. she still got her first first time and her real first time. you didn't take anything from me by being there. you just — held it. til i could catch up."

"that's the job," you say, simply, because it is. "that's the whole division of labor. you carry the part the world can see. i carry the part it can't. and sometimes we trade for a day."

"i don't deserve you," kate says, in the low rough voice she only uses when she means something all the way down. "you say that like it's a debt. it's not a debt. it's just this is what we built. you don't earn the easy days, kate. you just get to have them, when they come."

she laughs, wet and tired and real, and tips her head onto your shoulder. "the easy days," she repeats. "i feel like i keep missing those too. the actual easy ones. i'm always either gone or so tired i can't tell they're happening."

"this is one," you tell her. "right now. floor of the nursery, baby finally asleep, you smell like an airport — this is an easy day. you're just bad at noticing them in real time. you're better at it in the replay."

"i watched that video like sixty times on the flight."

"i know. you told me. four separate times."

"i'm gonna tell that story forever," she says. "the four steps. the ottoman. all of it. i'm gonna be insufferable about it at her graduation."

"you're gonna be insufferable about it tomorrow, probably, the second she does anything else."

"probably," she agrees, completely unbothered by the accusation, and you sit there together on the floor of a room that smells like baby powder and ten days of waiting finally over, and you think not for the first time, but maybe for the first time with this particular clarity that nobody tells you the real measure of a good partnership isn't the big things, the trophies or the milestones logged on time. 

it's this; it's someone choosing to wait to tell you something so you can feel it instead of just survive it, it's someone walking the last four feet on their own so the person who's been gone gets to be the one they run to.

it's two people quietly trading the unbearable parts back and forth so neither one carries the whole weight alone, for years, without either of them ever once calling it a sacrifice. "three more home games before the next trip," kate murmurs, half-asleep against your shoulder already, the adrenaline of the day finally bleeding out of her. "i know."

"i'm not gonna miss anything else this season. i've decided."

"you can't control that, kate."

"i know," she says. "i'm still deciding it anyway."

as you let her have that too because some things you say not because they're true, but because saying them out loud is its own kind of trying, and trying, in this house, on this floor, with this particular stubborn, soft, exhausted, completely devoted person has always, somehow, against every odd a schedule could throw at it, been enough.

frankie is twenty-two months old when she starts saying things that are almost words, real words with the corners worn off, and the household enters a strange new era where every sound she makes gets cross-examined by two grown women leaning over a high chair like she's about to deliver verdict on something important. "dat," frankie says, pointing at a banana.

"that's not it," kate says, disappointed, the way she's been disappointed roughly four hundred times this month. "that's not it, that's just 'that.' she says that for everything."

"she said 'dada' to the dog yesterday," you offer, not helping. "i know she did. i was there. i watched her say her first non-'dat' word to a golden retriever who does not even live here." kate says this with the wounded dignity of someone who has, in fact, brought this exact grievance to you no fewer than three times since it happened. 

"he doesn't even live here, he's a visitor, and she greeted him like he was the moment we've all been waiting for."

"he's a very good dog."

"i'm not disputing that he's a good dog. i'm disputing the order of operations." frankie, entirely unbothered by the controversy she's caused, throws the banana on the floor and says, with great clarity and confidence, "dat," again, just to see if the rules have changed since the last time.

they have not this is the era you're in the almost-era, the cusp, where every week she's clearly closer and every week kate clocks in for it like overtime, leaning down at bedtime and saying "say mama" with the open, undefended hope of someone who knows she's pushing her luck and doesn't care. 

frankie usually responds to this request with intense, deliberate silence, watching kate's face the entire time like she understands exactly what's being asked of her and has decided, with the particular cruelty unique to toddlers, that the answer is no. "she's doing it on purpose," kate tells you, dead serious, after one such failed attempt.

"she's not doing anything on purpose, kate, she's not even two."

"she is. she's old enough to deny me strategically. i can see it in her eyes."

"go to bed."

"i mean it. i think she's saving it." you don't actually disagree with this theory, even if you'd never tell kate that there is something in frankie's face during these standoffs, something watchful and amused, that makes you wonder if toddlers really are simply tiny tyrants holding court, doling out affection on a schedule only they understand. 

but you keep that to yourself, mostly, and let kate have her conspiracy theory, because it's easier to be a little funny about the waiting than to admit how badly you both want it too.

the playoffs change the shape of everything, the way they do every year longer practices, heavier film sessions, a tension in kate's shoulders that doesn't fully leave even on off days, even at home, even with frankie climbing all over her on the living room floor like the postseason isn't a thing that exists in this house. 

you've been through one full playoff run with her already, back before frankie, and you remember it as a kind of pressurized quiet, kate going somewhere inward that you learned not to chase, learning instead just to be steady and present and let her come back to the surface on her own time.

this year is different because frankie's old enough now to notice that she has no concept of stakes, no concept of a series or a season or what it means that this is the kind of stretch careers get remembered by but she notices the texture of it. 

she notices kate coming home later, quieter, sometimes flinching at noise in a way she didn't used to she notices the new word everyone keeps saying around the house, repeating it back at random, gleefully, completely without context. "playoffs," frankie announces one morning, apropos of nothing, around a mouthful of cereal.

kate nearly chokes on her coffee. "did she just—"

"she's been saying it since tuesday. i didn't want to get your hopes up."

"she said 'playoffs' before she said 'mama.'" kate sets the mug down very carefully, like she's trying not to disturb a crime scene. "i want that on the record. i want it written down somewhere. our daughter's third word is a sports term."

"could be worse."

"could it, though." it's during this stretch game two of the second round, a home game, a real one, the kind with a crowd that vibrates the concrete under your feet that you decide frankie's finally old enough for her first actual arena trip. 

not a quick visit, not the family room before tip-off where she usually gets to wave at kate through the glass and then goes home for her nap. the real thing. seats, noise, lights, the whole overwhelming spectacle of it kate is, predictably, both thrilled and terrified by this plan.

"what if she hates it," she says the morning of, pacing the kitchen in her warmups, more nervous about this than you've seen her about an actual game in months. "what if it's too loud and she just screams the whole time and you have to leave and i'm out there not knowing if my kid had a meltdown forty feet away."

"i bought the headphones, kate. the little ones. she's worn them for practice runs all week, she likes them, she thinks they're a hat."

"what if she doesn't like the hat version in a real arena though, what if the context changes everything—"

"kate." you put both hands on her shoulders, physically stop the pacing. "she is going to be fine. and if she's not, i will leave, quietly, with zero drama, and you will not even notice we're gone until you look for us after a quarter break. this is a low-stakes outing. the only person who's making it high-stakes is you."

"i just want her to like it," kate says, quieter now, something almost shy under the worry. "i want her to like watching me do this. i don't know why it matters so much but it matters so much."

"she's gonna love it," you tell her, and you believe it, mostly, with the small reasonable caveat every parent carries that toddlers are essentially weather systems and nobody can actually predict them. "she loves you doing anything. she'll love this."

she does love it, as it turns out, with an intensity that surprises even you the headphones work exactly as advertised she sits on your lap in the family section with them clamped over her ears like tiny purple earmuffs, eyes huge, taking in the size of everything with the particular stillness she gets when she's truly overwhelmed in the good way rather than the bad way. 

the anthem doesn't bother her the horn at tip-off makes her jump and then immediately demand it happen again, again, again, disappointed each time it doesn't and then kate gets introduced in the starting five, and the arena does the thing arenas do, the wall of sound, and frankie's whole body goes rigid with attention, and you watch her scan the court really scan it, hunting until she finds her. 

finds kate, in the blue and gold, jogging out to the center circle, and frankie rips one headphone half off her own ear and points with her whole arm, a gesture too big for her body, and says, clear as anything, over all that noise. "mama!"

just like that, no buildup no standoff no strategic withholding just the single loudest, surest word she's ever said in her life, delivered to a woman forty feet away who has absolutely no idea it's happening, lost in the pre-game routine, dribbling out the nerves the way she always does.

you almost don't catch it yourself, the noise of the building swallowing half of it, but you catch enough the shape of it in frankie's mouth, the sureness and your whole chest goes hollow with the unfairness of it, the cosmic comic timing of the universe deciding that the word kate has been begging for nightly for a month would land in a building too loud for her to ever hear it.

you get your phone up too late for the moment itself, but frankie, delighted with her own debut, says it again "mama, mama" pointing, bouncing, clearly understanding she's onto something good, and this time you catch it clean, clean enough you don't send it during the game you've learned that lesson already.

the second quarter is when it happens there's no buildup to it the way there is in movies no slow ominous shot, no music swell. 

it's just a normal defensive possession, kate fighting through a screen the way she's fought through ten thousand screens in her career, and then a body collides with hers wrong, an ankle rolls under her at an angle ankles are not built for, and she goes down hard and doesn't get up.

the arena does the thing it does when this happens that specific drop in sound, half-gasp, half-silence, the collective held breath of thousands of strangers who don't know her at all but know enough to recognize that was bad and you feel frankie startle against you, headphones forgotten, twisting around to find your face instead of the court, picking up the fear in the room before she has any idea what's causing it.

"mama?" she says, and this time the word has none of the joy from twenty minutes ago this time it's a question, small and scared, and you have to fight every instinct in your body to keep your own face steady, to be the calm thing she needs right now instead of the mess you actually are inside.

"she's okay," you say, even though you don't know that yet, even though kate is still down on the floor with the trainer crouched over her and the whole building gone quiet and watchful. "she's okay, baby, she's just resting a second."

you don't look away from the court you can't you watch kate's face, the grimace, the way she's not putting weight on it, the trainer's hands moving over the ankle with a focus that tells you nothing and everything at once, and somewhere in your chest a vast cold certainty starts forming that you will remember this exact thirty seconds for the rest of your life regardless of how it ends.

it ends with her getting up. on her own helped to her feet but walking limping, favoring it badly, but walking, off under her own power to the tunnel with the trainer at her elbow and the bench standing for her, the building rising into a different kind of sound now, relief disguised as applause, and you exhale for what feels like the first time in a full minute.

frankie has not stopped saying "mama" in that same small scared voice, over and over, and you realize she needs to see something resolve, needs an ending she can understand, and there isn't one yet kate's in the tunnel, out of sight, and you have absolutely no information and a phone that's about to start blowing up with texts from people who watched it happen on tv and have no idea you're sitting in this building with a toddler who is currently losing her composure in your lap.

"she's getting checked out," you tell frankie, even though she's twenty-two months old and has no real framework for what checked out means. "she's okay. she's walking. that's a good sign, that's a really good sign." it's not entirely for frankie some of it's for you.

you don't get a real update until halftime, a single text from kate's team, who's two sections over and has a direct line to the medical staff that you, as the partner who is somehow always slightly outside the official channels despite being the most married-feeling unmarried person in the building, do not have. just a sprain. bad one, x-rays clear, she's furious about missing the second half, she's fine.

she's fine is doing a lot of work in that text, but you take it, because it's the best information you've got, and you spend the second half watching her sit on the bench with her ankle wrapped and iced and her face arranged into the specific flat mask of someone who is in real pain and refuses to let it show on national television.

frankie falls asleep against you somewhere in the third quarter, worn out from the fear of it, headphones askew, one fist still curled into the front of your shirt the way she does when she's anchoring herself to something solid. 

you sit very still and let her sleep and watch kate's team grind out a win without her on the floor, and you think, not for the first time, about the strange double life of loving someone whose job comes with a body count of moments like this moments where you're forced to watch something happen to her in real time, in public, surrounded by strangers, with absolutely no ability to get to her, to touch her, to confirm with your own hands that she's actually okay.

you don't get to see her until almost two hours after the final buzzer, the long wait while medical staff finishes its protocol, frankie woke up groggy and confused and immediately, urgently, asking for her the second her eyes open, like some animal part of her also needs the confirmation.

when kate finally comes through the door, it's on crutches, ankle wrapped thick, and she's trying visibly trying to arrange her face into something that won't scare frankie, but frankie's already moving before kate's even fully through the doorway, breaking into a run on her own unsteady toddler legs, and you have one half-second of pure panic that she's going to crash straight into the bad ankle.

"hey, hey, easy—" kate gets one crutch braced fast and drops the other entirely, catching frankie under the arms with both hands the second before impact, hauling her up against her chest in a motion that has to hurt, has to pull at something already swollen and tender, and she does it anyway without even a flicker of hesitation.

"mama," frankie says, into her neck, small and shaking. "mama, mama, mama," like she's making up for every time she withheld it, every standoff, every strategic silence, all at once, like she understands on some pre-verbal level that the word matters more right now than it ever has.

as kate just stands there one foot, one crutch dropped on the floor, the whole weight of a frightened toddler in her arms and a clearly serious ankle sprain underneath her and an entire building's worth of adrenaline finally draining out of her all at once and starts to cry. 

not quietly, not the dignified kind, the real kind, shoulders shaking, face pressed into frankie's hair, two years of waiting for that exact word landing on top of the worst fear either of you have had since frankie was born, both things detonating in her at the same time.

"i heard you," kate manages, into frankie's hair, voice completely wrecked. "earlier. before — i didn't tell you i heard you, i was so scared i forgot to tell you i heard you—"

"you heard her?" you ask, surprised, moving in fast to take some of the weight off the bad leg, get an arm under kate's elbow before she goes down trying to hold both a toddler and her own balance on one functioning ankle.

"during introductions. i heard her yell it. i thought i imagined it, i was so nervous, but then i looked up and saw you guys and i—" she laughs, wet and broken and genuinely happy underneath all the rest of it. 

"that's the last thing i remember thinking before the screen. i remember thinking she said it, she actually said it, and then i got rolled up like an idiot ten seconds later."

"you're not an idiot. you got hurt doing your job.

"i'm an idiot who got the best moment of the last two years and then immediately ruined it by getting injured directly afterward." she's still crying, but she's also laughing now, the two things tangled up together in a way that's somehow exactly right. "of all the timing. of all the timing."

"she said it again," you tell her, gently steering all three of you toward the bench along the wall, getting kate sat down before she falls down. "twice, actually. once during intros, and again right after, while you were down. she was scared and she kept saying it like saying it enough times would fix you."

kate's face does something complicated with that pride and grief and love so plainly mixed together that you don't think she could separate them even if she tried. "she said my name because she was scared for me."

"she said your name because you're the person she runs to when something's wrong. that's not a sad thing, kate. that's the whole point of the word. that's what it's for."

"i wanted her first time saying it to be happy."

"it was happy at first," you remind her. "you forgot that part because of what came after. but it was happy first. forty feet up, both arms out, yelling it at the top of her lungs because she was so excited to see you. that happened. that's real. the scary part doesn't erase it, it just — got added on top."

kate nods, slow, still holding frankie like letting go is not currently an option her body will allow, and frankie exhausted, thoroughly done with the entire emotional evening, completely unbothered by any of the gravity the adults around her are currently drowning in yawns hugely against kate's collar and mumbles, half-asleep already, "mama. home."

"yeah," kate says, voice cracking all over again. "yeah, baby. home."

the ankle keeps her out for the rest of the round, a real sprain, not catastrophic, but enough that the team shuts her down rather than risk it in a series that's already decided, and there's a strange two weeks where kate is suddenly, totally, almost disorientingly home. 

every morning, every nap, every meal, no road trips, no film sessions until the brace comes off, just an entire stretch of ordinary, unhurried days that neither of you had quite realized you were starved for until you had them.

she's a terrible patient, restless, antsy, constantly trying to do too much on the boot before she's cleared to but she's also, in this strange in-between, more present than you've seen her in years. she's the one doing bedtime every single night, no exceptions, parked on the nursery floor with her bad leg propped up on a pillow, running through the whole repertoire she missed during the season the books, the songs, the ridiculous voices she does for the books that frankie demands by name now, the silly voice one, mama, do the silly voice one.

"say mama," she still asks, every night, even now, even with the precedent fully established, just because she likes hearing it. "mama," frankie says, immediately, easily, like it costs her nothing at all anymore, like the whole withholding era was simply a phase she's outgrown and left behind without a second thought and every single time, kate's face does the same thing that complicated mix of relief and disbelief and pure undiluted joy, like she still half expects, after all this, to be told no.

"i don't think i'm ever gonna get tired of that," she tells you one night, after frankie's finally down, the two of you sprawled on the couch with kate's boot up on a cushion between you. "i thought once she actually said it regularly i'd stop — i don't know, feeling it every time. but i don't think i ever will."

"you better not. she's gonna say it for the rest of your life. you can't get emotional about it forever, you'll never make it through her wedding toast."

"i'm absolutely going to get emotional about it forever. i fully accept that about myself." she shifts, gets her head into your lap, looking up at you with the loose, unguarded look she only gets when the season's pressure is fully off her shoulders, even temporarily, even because of an injury neither of you would have chosen. "this has been a weirdly good two weeks. i feel bad saying that. i got hurt and it's been good."

"it's allowed to be both."

"i keep thinking about what you said. after the game. about the happy part happening first." she's quiet a second, turning something over. "i think i'm gonna remember it that way now. not the scary part first. the happy part. forty feet up, yelling my name because she was excited. that's the version i want to keep."

"that's the real version," you tell her, running your hand through her hair, the same motion frankie does to both of you a dozen times a day without ever once understanding the inheritance of it. "the scary part was just what happened after. it doesn't get to be the headline."

"yeah." she closes her eyes, settles deeper into your lap, the boot a heavy reminder on the cushion of everything that's brought you to this particular ordinary, unhurried tuesday. "yeah. that's the version."

outside, the porch light's on, the one you never remember to turn off and never actually mind leaving lit, and somewhere down the hall a small, stubborn, entirely too-loud person is asleep with a stuffed elephant and a vocabulary that's finally, gloriously, caught up to everything she's been trying to tell you both all along.

three more weeks til the boot comes off three more weeks of mornings that arrive instead of start, of bedtimes with no exceptions, of a word that used to be a withholding and is now, simply, freely, the easiest thing in the house to get.

“she’s fine,” your mom says, which is not the same as "she's eaten breakfast or she’s not crying or I have eyes on her right now.”

“mom—”

“i said she’s fine. go to your little practice.” you hang up before you say something you’ll regret saying to the one person willing to watch your daughter for free, and you press the heel of your hand against your eye for exactly two seconds before you walk back into the gym like nothing happened.

that’s the job that’s been the job since you were eighteen and found out you were pregnant three weeks before national signing day and decided, very calmly, in a bathroom that smelled like bleach, that nobody was going to know unless they absolutely had to.

three years later the list of people who absolutely have to know is; your mother, your aunt in hartford who takes mia on weekends when your mother can’t, and a pediatrician who thinks your “complicated childcare situation” is a custody thing and not a please do not tell my division one basketball program that i have a two-year-old thing.

coaching staff doesn’t know your teammates don’t know kk arnold, who has started sitting next to you on every bus ride since october and who you are increasingly, helplessly, stupidly into, does not know.

you’d like to keep it that way for as long as physically possible.

kk notices things that’s the problem with her she’s a freshman but she watches the floor like she’s been doing it for a decade, finds the gap before it opens, and apparently that same radar works on you, because three weeks into whatever this is between you, she says, completely out of nowhere, while you’re both stretching on the baseline; “you always leave practice like you’re being chased.”

“i have things to do.”

“you have things to do every single day, at the exact same time, and you flinch when your phone buzzes.” she says this lightly, like it’s not a big deal, like she’s not handing you a piece of evidence and watching to see what you do with it. “i’m not trying to be weird about it. i just notice stuff.”

“i noticed you eat the same protein bar every morning and call it variety,” you say, because deflection is a skill you’ve gotten very good at, and she laughs, lets it go, doesn’t push.

you go home that night and mia falls asleep on your chest with her fist curled into your shirt and you think, not for the first time, i could lose this so easily not mia, mia’s yours no matter what but the rest of it the scholarship, the locker room that finally feels like yours, the girl who watches the floor and watches you and hasn’t looked away yet all of that feels like something you’re holding together with tape.

it falls apart on a tuesday, the way these things always do not dramatically, just inconveniently your aunt calls during shootaround, which she never does, and when you slip out to check it she tells you she’s stuck in worcester with a flat tire and won’t make it to get mia from daycare in time, and your mother isn’t picking up, and you have eleven minutes before pickup closes and forty-five minutes before practice starts, and there is genuinely no version of this where you make both.

you choose mia, you always choose mia.

you tell coach you have a family emergency, which is true, and you do not elaborate, which is also true to your general policy, and you drive to the daycare with your heart going like a drum solo and you get there with ninety seconds to spare and mia runs at you yelling “mama!” loud enough that the woman at the front desk smiles at you like you’re a normal parent having a normal day instead of someone who is about to drive a toddler back to a college athletic facility because there’s nowhere else for her to go for the next hour.

you call practice can’t-make it for real this time coach is annoyed but not suspicious yet you take mia to the only place you can think of that’s quiet and out of the way, the little players’ lounge off the side of the practice facility that nobody uses on tuesdays, and you give her your phone and a granola bar and you sit on the floor with your back against the wall and you breathe for the first time in an hour.

which is, of course, the exact moment kk walks in looking for her water bottle she stops in the doorway looks at you looks at the small person sitting cross-legged in your lap wearing a uconn onesie that is, you will admit, criminally cute, watching cartoons on your phone with the kind of focus only a toddler can manage. “oh,” kk says.

mia looks up. “hi,” she says, because mia has no concept of stranger danger and thinks everyone is a potential friend. “hi,” kk says back, soft, automatic, before her brain seems to catch up with what’s happening as her eyes come back to you. “okay. um. who’s this.”

your whole chest goes tight this is the moment you’ve been avoiding for three years and it’s happening in a beige lounge with a half-eaten granola bar on the floor and absolutely no warning at all. “this is mia,” you say. your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “she’s my daughter.”

kk doesn’t say anything for a second you watch her do the math, the early leaves, the flinching at phone buzzes, the thing she clocked weeks ago and didn’t push on you to watch her get there. “she’s yours,” kk repeats, not like she doesn’t believe you, more like she’s testing the weight of the sentence in her own mouth.

“i was eighteen,” you say, because if you’re doing this you’re doing it all the way, no half version. “found out right before signing day. i didn’t tell the program because i didn’t think they’d take me if they knew, and then i got in, and i just — kept not telling them. my mom and my aunt split the watching. nobody on the team knows. nobody on staff knows. you’re the first person from this whole world who’s ever seen her.”

mia, oblivious to the gravity of the moment, holds your phone up to kk. “elmo,” she informs her, very seriously. “i love elmo,” kk says, equally seriously, crouching down to mia’s eye level, and something in your chest cracks open at how easy she makes it look, then she looks back up at you, and her face is doing something complicated. “you’ve been carrying this completely by yourself.”

“i had to.”

“you didn’t have to, you just decided you did.” it’s not an accusation. it’s just true, and she says it gently, but it still lands like one. “how long were you gonna keep doing this? sneaking her into the facility on emergency days and hoping nobody walks in?”

“i didn’t have a plan past don’t get caught.”

“i’m not coaching staff.” kk sits down properly now, cross-legged across from you and mia, like this is just a normal tuesday, like the floor of this lounge is exactly where she planned to be. “i’m not gonna report you to anybody. i just—” she stops picks her words. “i wish you’d told me. not because i’m owed it. because i like you, and i don’t want to be someone you have to hide from.”

“i wasn’t hiding you. i was hiding her. there’s a difference.”

“is there?” kk asks, but not unkindly. “because from where i’m sitting it looks like you built this whole separate life and didn’t let anyone from this one all the way into it. including me.” you don’t have a good answer for that, so you don’t give her one, you just sit there with mia in your lap and your throat tight and let the silence be honest instead.

kk lets it sit for a second too, then reaches over slow, asking permission with her eyes first and mia hands her the phone without hesitation, scoots half off your lap and onto kk’s knee like she’s been doing it her whole life, completely unbothered by the fact that this is, biographically speaking, the first time these two have ever met. “she really doesn’t do the stranger thing, huh,” kk says, softly, a little wondering.

“she’s never met a stranger she didn’t immediately trust. i don’t know where she gets it.” you watch mia point at the elmo character and explain something in toddler-language that only she understands, watch kk nod along seriously like she’s taking notes. “you’re not freaked out.”

“should i be?”

“most people would be. it’s a lot to find out at once.” kk considers this, mia still narrating elmo’s day against her shoulder. “i think i’d be more freaked out if you’d told me up front and i found out later you’d been carrying it alone this whole time for no reason. this—” she gestures at the three of you on the floor of an empty lounge, at mia’s small hand wrapped around her finger now, at the granola bar wrapper, at all of it, “—this i can work with. i just need you to actually let me.”

it doesn’t get easier after that, that's not how it works you still tell coaching staff a careful, edited version of the truth a week later; family responsibilities, nothing more specific, enough to explain the absences without handing anyone your whole life and your hands shake the entire meeting and afterward you sit in your car in the parking garage and cry for ten minutes straight, not because it went badly but because you’d been braced for it to for three years and it just…didn’t.

kk starts showing up not all at once, not in some grand gesture, just small things she learns mia’s nap schedule before you fully trust her with it she keeps a spare set of mia’s favorite crackers in her locker without telling you, just produces them the one time you forget, like it’s nothing. 

she’s there on a sunday afternoon when your aunt’s car actually does break down for real this time, sitting on your apartment floor building a block tower that mia knocks down with unholy glee every forty seconds, and kk just laughs and builds it again, and again, and again, with the kind of patience you didn’t know nineteen-year-olds had.

“you don’t have to do this,” you tell her one night, after mia’s asleep and it’s just the two of you on the couch, your legs over her lap, her hand tracing slow circles against your ankle.

“i know i don’t have to.” she says it like it’s obvious. “i want to. there’s a difference, remember?”

you remember you’d said it to her in a different context, defending a wall you’d built to keep people out, and she’s handing the same words back to you now to describe a door she’s choosing to walk through, over and over, on purpose.

“she asked about you yesterday,” you say. “wanted to know when kk was coming back.” something shifts in kk’s face soft, a little stunned, like she hadn’t let herself expect to matter this much this fast. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you reach for her hand. “she doesn’t ask about people twice unless she likes them.”

“smart kid.”

“she gets it from somewhere.” kk laughs, real and warm, and pulls you in by the ankle until you’re closer, until your head’s against her shoulder and the apartment is quiet except for the hum of the baby monitor on the coffee table. “for what it’s worth,” she says into your hair, “i’m not going anywhere. either of you.”

you believe her, that's the part that scares you most not that she knows now, not that anyone could find out, but that you believe her completely, with no tape and no backup plan, for the first time in three years.

it feels, finally, like enough.

the apartment you and mia live in is small enough that you learn kk’s schedule by sound before you learn it by any calendar the particular knock she does, two quick and one slow, the way she always toes her shoes off by the door instead of just stepping out of them mid-stride like you do, the sound of her keys hitting the bowl by the door that she started leaving there without asking, like the bowl had always been hers to use.

it’s a tuesday in late november when mia calls her “kk-mama” for the first time, and it happens so casually that you almost miss it as mia’s standing on the couch cushions in her socks a habit you’ve given up correcting because some battles aren’t worth fighting narrating something elaborate about a stuffed elephant’s day to no one in particular, when she announces, mid-monologue, that “kk-mama promised ice cream after dinner.”

kk, halfway into the kitchen with an armful of grocery bags, stops dead you watch it happen in real time; the slight widening of her eyes, the way her shoulders go still, the way she turns her head just slightly toward mia like she needs to confirm she heard that correctly. 

she doesn’t say anything for a second you don’t either you’re watching her, trying to read what’s happening behind her face, ready to step in and smooth it over if this is too much, too fast, the wrong kind of weight to put on someone who signed up for a relationship and got a family instead.

“i—” kk starts, and stops, sets the bags down carefully on the counter, like she needs both hands free for whatever she’s about to do, even though all she does is stand there. “did she just—”

“she did.”

“is that—” kk glances at you, something vulnerable and unguarded crossing her face that you don’t see very often, because kk arnold does not, as a general rule, let people watch her be uncertain. “is that okay? am i allowed to like that?”

“kk.” you cross the kitchen, put a hand on her arm. “she’s not confused. she knows exactly who you are to her. she’s just naming it before either of us figured out how.”

“i don’t want to step on anything,” kk says, low, like she’s confessing something. “she has a mom. she has you. i don’t want to be — i don’t want to confuse her about what i am, just because i want it so bad.” it’s the most kk has ever said out loud about wanting this not the relationship, not you specifically, but this, the whole shape of it, the kid and the bowl by the door and the groceries she buys without being asked because she noticed you were running low on the specific brand of crackers mia likes. 

you didn’t know, until right now, standing in this kitchen, how much she’d been quietly hoping for permission to want it. “she’s not confused,” you say again, softer. “watch her.”

you both look over at mia, who has moved on entirely from the conversation that just rearranged something in kk’s chest, now fully absorbed in walking the stuffed elephant along the back of the couch like it’s on a tightrope. 

she has no idea what she just did, she doesn’t need to, she just knows what’s true, the way kids always do before adults manage to catch up.

later that night, after mia’s asleep, kk sits on the edge of your bed with her back to you, peeling off her socks slowly, the way she does when she’s thinking about something and doesn’t want you to see her face while she works through it.

“i used to think i’d be bad at this,” she says, not turning around. “the kid thing. i don’t have — my family wasn’t really the soft, hands-on type. i didn’t grow up around people who knew how to be gentle with little kids.”

“you’re good at it.”

“i’m scared of getting it wrong in a way that actually matters like, if i mess up with you, that’s our problem, we can fight about it and fix it. if i mess up with her—” she finally turns, and her face is open in a way you’ve learned means she’s handing you something fragile. “she’s not gonna know the difference between me being clumsy and me not caring. she’s just gonna feel whatever i actually do.” you reach for her hand, thread your fingers through hers. 

“you carry crackers in your locker for a toddler you didn’t have to meet. you learned her nap schedule before i fully trusted you with it. you froze in the kitchen because you didn’t want to overstep a name she gave you on accident.” you bring her knuckles to your mouth as you softly kiss them. “that’s not someone who’s bad at this. that’s someone being careful on purpose. those aren’t the same thing.”

“i just don’t want to lose either of you,” kk says quietly. “i know that’s probably an unfair amount of pressure to put on a relationship that’s not even a year old.”

“it’s not unfair. it’s just honest.” you pull her down beside you, settle her head against your chest the way she settles mia’s against her shoulder. “you’re not losing anything. you’re just the first person who ever got to stay.”

by the time senior year rolls around, the secret has stopped being a secret so gradually that you can’t actually point to the day it ended as there was no single dramatic reveal, no team meeting where you stood up and confessed everything you’d been hiding since before you ever put on the jersey. 

it just eroded, the way ice melts, slow enough that you don’t notice the exact moment it becomes water it started with one teammate walking in on kk braiding mia’s hair in the players’ lounge, unbothered, like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

it continued with mia falling asleep in your locker stall during an unusually long film session, curled up on a pile of warmups, and nobody so much as blinked when they walked past it kept going with mia learning everyone’s names not just kk’s, but the whole roster’s, calling out greetings in the hallway with the kind of easy familiarity that made it impossible to pretend she was anything other than already, fully, part of the team’s world.

you told coach a year before senior night, finally, after three years of bracing for a conversation that turned out to last eleven minutes. “you should’ve told me sooner,” coach geno had said, not unkindly, more like she was filing away a regret of her own. “i’d have helped you figure out logistics. travel, practice schedules, all of it. you didn’t have to carry that by yourself.”

you’d cried in your car afterward for longer than you’re willing to admit, not because it went badly, but because some part of you, the part that had been eighteen and terrified in a bathroom that smelled like bleach had genuinely believed, for years, that the truth would cost you everything. and instead it had cost you nothing. it had just been sitting there the whole time, waiting for you to stop being scared of it.

senior night arrives on a cold february evening, the gym packed tighter than usual, banners and balloons and the specific electric hum of a crowd that knows it’s about to witness something it’s been building toward all season. 

they let the seniors’ families walk them out onto the court during the pregame ceremony, parents, siblings, whoever you want standing beside you when your name gets called.

you’d planned, originally, to walk out with just your mother and your aunt but mia insists, weeks in advance, with the kind of stubbornness that runs in your family whether you like it or not, that she’s walking with you, and somebody on the equipment staff you still don’t know who, exactly, though you have suspicions about an assistant coach with a soft spot for mia makes her a tiny jersey with your number on it, and there’s no version of this where you say no to that.

so when your name gets called, you walk out with your mother on one side as well as your aunt and mia’s hand wrapped around two of your fingers on the other, her small frame swallowed by a jersey three sizes too big, her hair done up the way kk did it that morning, slow and careful, both of you sitting on the bathroom counter while kk worked the braid out with more concentration than she probably puts into scouting reports.

the crowd does something you weren’t braced for when they see mia in which there is a soft collective sound, somewhere between a gasp and a coo, rolling through the stands like a wave. 

you catch sight of kk lined up with the rest of the team along the team row, not even pretending to hide that she’s crying, mouth pressed into a wobbly line like she’s trying and failing to keep it together.

the ceremony itself passes in a blur your name, your stats, your mother saying something into the microphone that you don’t fully process because you’re watching mia wave at the crowd like she’s the one being honored, completely delighted by all the attention, utterly unaware of the years of careful hiding that had to happen before this moment could exist.

afterward, mia gets passed around like a trophy she ends up on the shoulders of an assistant coach, ends up with chocolate on her face from a source no one can definitively identify, ends up in the middle of a huddle of your teammates who are all talking over each other trying to get her attention, calling her name, asking her opinions on things with the kind of genuine delight that tells you this was never going to be the disaster you spent years bracing for.

“i used to think i had to choose,” you tell kk later, in the emptying parking lot, mia heavy and asleep against your shoulder, the cold air biting at the back of your neck. “her, or this. all of it. i don’t even know anymore why i was so sure those were opposites.”

“because you were eighteen and scared,” kk says, simply, reaching over to brush mia’s hair off her face without waking her. “and scared people build walls in places that don’t actually need them. you don’t have to be either of those things anymore. not the eighteen, not the scared.”

“i know.”

“do you, though?” kk asks it gently, no edge to it, just genuine curiosity. “because sometimes i still catch you flinching when your phone buzzes. old habits don’t just disappear because the danger’s gone.”

you think about that for a second, watching your breath fog in the cold. “i think i’m getting there. i think watching her get loved by all those people tonight helped.”

“good.” kk leans over, careful not to jostle mia, and kisses your temple. “because she deserves to grow up watching you stop bracing for things. she’s gonna learn how to exist in the world by watching how you do it.” it’s a heavier sentence than kk probably means it to be, and it sits with you the whole drive home, long after mia’s tucked into bed and kk’s asleep with one arm thrown over your waist the idea that mia isn’t just living in the world you built for her, she’s learning how to be in the world by watching the way you carry yourself through it and for the first time in longer than you can name, you think you might actually be carrying yourself like someone with nothing left to hide.

it’s not dramatic you’d half-expected, somehow, that it would be kk’s the type who notices everything, plans three steps ahead, finds the gap in the defense before it opens you’d braced, quietly, for some elaborate scheme; a venue, a speech rehearsed in the mirror, something engineered to be unforgettable.

instead it happens on an ordinary tuesday, years later, post-college, post-draft, kk three full seasons into a pro career that’s taken her places you’ve watched proudly from a hundred different arenas, and you finally, finally not running on fumes for the first time since you were eighteen years old.

the apartment is yours now, actually yours, a two-bedroom with mismatched furniture and a kitchen that’s too small for the amount of cooking kk insists on doing in it. 

mia’s seven, sitting at the table doing homework with the particular focus of a kid who takes worksheets far too seriously, when kk gets down on one knee by the stove like it’s no bigger a deal than asking you to pass the salt.

“i talked to mia first,” kk says, and it’s the detail she leads with, like it’s the most important thing you need to know before anything else happens. “i asked her if it was okay. if she’d be okay with it.”

“you asked a seven-year-old for permission to propose to me,” you say, half-laughing, already feeling your throat go tight.

“i asked the most important person in this family besides you,” kk corrects, glancing toward mia, who has abandoned all pretense of homework and is grinning so wide she can barely hold her pencil. “what’d she say?”

mia, delighted to have been included in this conversation, announces with total confidence, “i said ‘finally.’”

“she did say that,” kk confirms, looking back up at you, ring box steady in her hand even though you can see, now that you’re close enough, that her fingers are shaking. “she’s been telling me for like a year that we should just get married already. she has very strong opinions on timelines.”

“i do,” mia says solemnly you laugh, and it comes out wet, because you can feel the whole thing arriving now, can feel the years compressing into this one ordinary kitchen on an ordinary tuesday with homework still spread out on the table and the smell of dinner not quite finished on the stove.

“i’ve been here for the whole thing,” kk says, and her voice changes, drops into something quieter, more careful. “the hiding. the hoping nobody found out. the day in that lounge when i walked in and you looked at me like you were waiting to find out if you’d just lost everything. i watched you build a whole life out of being terrified someone would take it away from you.”

she swallows. “i don’t want to be one more thing you have to brace for. i’ve never wanted that. i want to be the thing you stop bracing for. permanently. officially. with a ring, since apparently that’s how the world wants it documented.” you don’t remember the exact words you say back you remember mia cheering loud enough that someone in the next apartment knocks on the shared wall in protest, and you remember kk’s hands shaking worse than yours when she finally gets the ring out of the box, and you remember thinking, distantly, almost outside of your own body, that the version of you who cried in a gas station bathroom three weeks before signing day could never, not in a single version of her imagination, have pictured this. 

not the ring, not the apartment that smells like dinner and pencil shavings, not the kid who negotiated the timeline of her own mother’s engagement like it was a contract she had every right to weigh in on.

you remember thinking, with a clarity that feels almost physical; this is what it looks like when nothing has to be hidden anymore.

mia, ever practical, asks if this means she gets to be a flower girl, and kk still on one knee, still holding your hand like she’s not sure she’s allowed to let go yet laughs so hard she has to brace herself against the stove. “yes,” kk says. “you get to be a flower girl. you get to be whatever you want.”

“i want a dog too,” mia says, testing her luck. “don’t push it,” you say, and kk’s still laughing, and you’re still crying, and dinner, somewhere behind all of it, has started to burn slightly on the stove, and none of you move to save it for several more minutes because some things are worth letting burn.

you get married in late spring, in a backyard that belongs to nobody important, just a friend of kk’s family willing to let forty people and a folding arch take over their lawn for an afternoon because neither of you wanted anything that felt like it had to be performed for an audience. 

you’d had enough years of performing a version of your life for people. this one, you wanted to just live mia is, predictably, an extremely opinionated flower girl. 

she rejects the basket of petals you’d planned on in favor of carrying them in both fists, throwing them with the wild, indiscriminate enthusiasm of someone who has never once worried about doing things the “correct” way, and by the time she reaches the front there’s a noticeable trail of flowers scattered well outside the bounds of the aisle, onto the grass, into someone’s lap, into the cooler of drinks near the back.

nobody minds kk, waiting at the front in a suit that fits her like it was built around the specific shape of her shoulders, watches mia’s chaotic flower deployment with the kind of open, unguarded joy you don’t think you’d ever seen on her face before that day not even in the kitchen with the ring, not even in the lounge years ago with a stranger’s toddler narrating elmo into her shoulder.

your vows are short you’d both agreed on that beforehand, neither of you trusting yourselves to get through anything longer without falling apart entirely. kk’s, when it’s her turn, is the shortest of all.

“i used to think loving someone meant noticing things about them,” she says, looking at you, not at the small crowd of family and teammates and the handful of people from both your old programs who flew in for this. “i’m good at noticing things. it’s basically my whole job. but you taught me that the actual hard part isn’t noticing it’s staying, after you’ve noticed everything, including the parts someone spent years trying to hide. i noticed everything about you within a month of meeting you. i’ve spent every day since then choosing to stay anyway. i’m not gonna stop.”

you don’t manage your own vows with anywhere near that composure you get through maybe two sentences before you have to stop, and kk just waits, patient, thumb brushing over your knuckles, the same way she waited in that lounge years ago for you to find your footing on a truth you’d never said out loud to anyone outside your immediate family.

mia, sitting in the front row beside your mother and your aunt, watches the entire ceremony with rapt, serious attention, like she’s supervising a process she has a personal stake in which, you realize, watching her, she absolutely does. 

she’s not a guest at this wedding, she's one of its architects she’s been building toward this moment in her own small, stubborn way since the day she handed your phone to a stranger in a lounge and called her elmo before anybody had decided what kk was allowed to be to either of you.

at the reception, during the part where people are supposed to be dancing, mia commandeers the microphone from the friend acting as informal DJ and announces, to the assembled crowd, that she would like to make a speech. “i knew they were gonna get married,” she says, with the gravity of someone delivering important testimony, “since the elmo day. that’s not even a joke. i was right the whole time.”

the crowd laughs, and kk, pulling you close on the dance floor, presses her forehead to yours and says, low enough that only you can hear, “she really was right the whole time.”

“don’t tell her that. she’ll never let either of us forget it.”

“i’m gonna tell her that every single day for the rest of her life.”

the house is an actual house now, with a yard and a kitchen big enough for kk’s cooking ambitions and a hallway lined with photos that span more years than you sometimes let yourself fully register as it is loud in the mornings not chaos-loud full-loud. the specific noise of a family that’s stopped apologizing for taking up space.

mia’s twelve now, all elbows and opinions, locked in a debate with kk that has been ongoing for three full days about whether her travel team jersey number should be 23 or 2.

“it should be 2,” kk says, for what you’re fairly certain is the fortieth time, “because—”

“because it’s your number, i know, you’ve said it like a hundred times,” mia says, with the long-suffering exasperation that is apparently a hereditary trait, since you remember saying nearly identical things to your own mother at roughly this age. “i want my own number. i don’t wanna just be ‘kk’s kid’ wearing kk’s number.”

something flickers across kk’s face, surprise, maybe, or something gentler and she sets down the dish towel she’s been holding. “that’s fair, actually.” she says it easily, no defensiveness in it at all, the easy grace of someone who’s spent a decade learning exactly when to hold a line and when to step back and let mia have her own thing. “you should pick something that’s yours. not mine, not hers. yours.”

mia, somewhat mollified by being taken seriously, goes quiet for a second, considering. “what about 7?”

“why 7?”

“no reason. i just like it.” mia shrugs, the universal gesture of a preteen who has decided the conversation is over as kk catches your eye over the kitchen island, where you’ve been pretending to read the back of a cereal box and definitely listening to every second of this exchange. “she’s got your stubbornness,” kk says, quiet, just for you.

“she’s got yours,” you say. “i didn’t argue about jersey numbers for three days as a child. i had bigger things to worry about.”

“you argue about everything else for three days as an adult, so i don’t think you get to claim moral high ground here.” mia rolls her eyes at both of you with a precision that suggests she’s been practicing, and announces she’s going upstairs to do homework she will, you both know, take at least three breaks from. 

she doesn’t remember a version of her life where kk wasn’t in it and hasn't, for years now, carried any conscious memory of the secrecy, the hiding, the years you spent terrified of exactly this kind of ordinary domestic noise existing at all. that weight was always yours to carry. 

you made sure, deliberately, on purpose, over years of careful choices, that it never became hers later, after mia’s gone up and the dishwasher’s running and the house has settled into its evening quiet, kk finds you on the back step with two mugs of something that’s gone half-cold from neglect, and just leans into you, the way she does at the end of long days, her shoulder against yours, her head tipping to rest against your temple. “you ever think about it,” she asks, voice low in the dark. “the lounge. the granola bar wrapper on the floor. elmo.”

“all the time. more than you’d think.”

“you were so sure that was the day everything fell apart.”

“it was the day everything actually started,” you say, and you mean it more fully now than you did the first time you said it, years ago, parked in that same kind of quiet dark. “i spent three years building a life out of bracing for the worst version of getting caught. and then i got caught, and it turned out to be you. it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to either of us.”

kk laughs, low and warm, the sound settling into your chest the way it always does. “i used to think i was gonna mess it up. being there for her. being there for both of you.”

“you didn’t.”

“i know that now.” she presses a kiss to your temple, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else either of you needs to be. “i think i spent a long time scared i’d get it wrong in some way i couldn’t take back. and instead i just got to watch her grow up. i got to be one of the people who got to watch that. i don’t think i’ll ever stop being grateful for that, honestly. some days it still feels like something i’m not sure i earned.”

“you earned it the day you sat on that floor and let a two-year-old explain elmo’s entire emotional arc to you with total seriousness,” you say. “you earned it every single day after that, one cracker in your locker at a time.”

upstairs, mia’s music is too loud, the specific overconfident bass of a song neither of you can name, and the dishwasher beeps that it’s finished, and somewhere down the street a dog is barking at nothing in particular, and none of it not one single ordinary, ungraceful, completely unhidden piece of this life feels like something you have to brace for anymore.

it just feels like yours all of it the noise and the mess and the years it took to get here, and the two people sitting beside you on the back step of a house that nobody ever has to know was once, very carefully, a secret. “i love you,” kk says, simple, into the quiet.

“i know.” you turn your head, find her mouth in the dark. “i love you too. i love this. i love all of it.”

“good,” kk says. “because you’re stuck with it. with us. forever, if i have anything to say about it.”

“you have a lot to say about it. you proposed in a kitchen while dinner burned.”

"no."

"you do now." she tossed you the ball like it was a foregone conclusion, and it was. you chased her up and down that cracked asphalt court until the streetlights came on and your mother called you in for dinner.

the two of you grew up two doors apart, which in practice meant you grew up in the same house split across two addresses as sue’s mom kept a drawer of your favorite snacks as your dad taught her to drive stick in the church parking lot the same summer he taught you. 

she was the kind of kid who narrated her own games out loud; and bird for the win even in pickup runs that meant nothing, and you were the kind of kid who believed her every time, who kept score in her head just so she'd have someone to argue with about it after.

she taught you your first real crossover in her driveway when you were nine, badly, both of you laughing too hard to absorb anything useful. 

you taught her to ride a bike without training wheels that same summer, mostly out of spite, after she refused to admit she'd never learned.

at eleven she broke her wrist trying to dunk on a hoop a full foot too high for both of you, and you cried harder than she did in the waiting room, and she called you a baby through her own tears while leaning the cast-free side of her body into yours the whole ride home. 

you kept the hospital bracelet in a drawer for years after, not sure why, just unwilling to throw it out by thirteen you were both playing real basketball AAU circuits, scorching gyms, coaches who saw something in sue long before any recruiter caught up to it. 

she was always the better player, faster and meaner and hungrier in a way that unsettled grown men twice her size you didn't resent it you'd found your own quieter excellence a steadier handle, a better read of the floor, the kind of game that made you valuable without making you the headline. 

what you noticed instead were smaller things the way she'd find you in the stands after a good play, like the points didn't fully count until you'd seen them the way she stopped narrating her games out loud sometime around fifteen and started going quiet instead, focused, like she'd decided some things weren't for an audience anymore except, somehow, still for you she'd catch your eye across a gym and something in her face would settle, just slightly, like she'd checked a box.

high school added a layer of charged static that neither of you named she started driving you to away games senior year in a car that barely ran, the two of you splitting gas money and bad fast food, the radio always too loud you'd fall asleep against the window on long drives home and wake up to find she'd taken the highway exit slower than necessary, like she wasn't in a hurry to end the drive as neither of you commented on it; you'd both gotten good, even then, at not commenting on things.

college sent you in different directions, different conferences, different time zones, different coaching philosophies that shaped you into different kinds of players she committed to a powerhouse program two states over and you went somewhere smaller, somewhere that actually wanted you specifically rather than wanting what you represented on a recruiting board you missed her in a way that embarrassed you, called her more than you called home, learned to love the three-second delay on video calls because it meant at least seeing her face.

she went pro two years before you did, drafted high, immediately a name people said with respect already built into their voice. you watched her draft night from your dorm room floor with three teammates squeezed onto a twin bed, screaming loud enough that someone two doors down banged on the wall, crying in a way you blamed on team pride and absolutely nothing else. 

she called you the second the cameras cut away from her, still in her draft suit, voice cracking with something too big for the moment. "i wish you were here," she said, and you said you'd be there for the next one, and you meant it as a joke about future drafts and she went quiet in a way that told you she hadn't taken it as one.

two years later it was your name getting read a slight lower pick than hers, a franchise that needed exactly what you offered, a green room moment that felt smaller and louder all at once she was the first call you made, both of you laughing too hard to get full sentences out, and somewhere in the noise she said, "i told you. i told you, i always knew," and you didn't ask how long she'd known, because some part of you already understood the answer went back further than basketball.

the years after that turned into their own rhythm you watched each other's games from hotel rooms in different cities, texting through every timeout you flew out for her first all-star selection, sat in the family section in a jersey with her name on the back, cried again, blamed it again on something other than the truth. 

she flew out for your first playoff series, sat courtside in a hat pulled low so the cameras wouldn't catch her too easily, and found you in the tunnel after, both of you sweaty and exhausted and grinning like idiots. 

you learned the cadence of each other's road trips, the time difference math, the right window to call when you knew a game had gone badly and she'd need someone who'd watched the whole thing and still wouldn't make her relive it out loud. 

there were other people, over the years a few relationships on each side, nothing that ever quite stuck, nothing that ever quite explained itself either you both noticed, eventually, that the common variable in every failed thing was the same neither of you had ever stopped making room for the other first.

you were thirty-eight now, she was thirty-seven, headed toward thirty-eight in spring, both veterans in a league that chewed up players half your age, both still standing because neither of you had ever learned to play any other way but all the way in she still walked into every room like she already belonged there.

you still let her, the way you had since you were seven and she'd handed you a basketball you hadn't asked for.

it should have felt strange, the two of you sliding into something new this late. it didn't. it felt inevitable, the kind of thing you only recognize clearly once you're standing inside it.

tonight you were standing inside it in her kitchen, the same off-season, wine-loose quiet that had always existed between you, except now her bare feet were on the cold tile and your back was against the counter, and she was leaning in close enough that you could feel the heat coming off her skin. "you've been staring at me all night," she said but it wasn't a question.

"you've been letting me." her mouth curved, slow the same smile she'd had at seven, getting away with something. "you've gone quiet on me."

"i'm thinking."

"about?"

"thirty years of this." you gestured vaguely between the two of you, at the whole shape of it; the driveway, the draft nights, the hotel-room phone calls, all of it collapsing into the few feet of kitchen tile separating your bodies right now.

her hand came up, slow, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear with a kind of care that made your breath catch. "i've been thinking about it too."

"yeah?"

"yeah." her thumb dragged along your cheekbone, unhurried. "i don't want to keep dancing around it."

"me either."

that was all either of you needed to say she kissed you like she'd been waiting for permission and not a second longer than that, not soft, not careful, decades of almost burning that option off the table entirely. 

her hand slid into your hair, gripping just enough to tilt your head where she wanted it, and you let her, the way you'd been letting her lead since you were children racing each other down the block and she always won.

"you good?" she asked, pulling back just far enough to check, the way she always did before anything that mattered. "so good. don't stop."

she didn't her mouth found your neck, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing the same spot below your ear that had made your knees weak since you were a teenager who'd never let yourself admit it. 

she walked you back toward the bedroom without breaking contact, hands steady on your waist, and every step felt like the last thirty years narrowing down to exactly this hallway, exactly this door.

the back of your knees hit the mattress and she eased you down, climbing over you with the same easy control she carried into everything knee braced between your thighs, hands framing your face. "tell me what you want," she said. "all of it. don't make me guess."

"i want you. just — all of this. you."

"you've got me." her hands moved to the hem of your shirt, slow, giving you every chance to stop her. you didn't she pulled it over your head and looked at you like she was memorizing every inch of you, like decades of friendship had been quietly building toward exactly this moment of finally being allowed to look. 

her hands found your skin like she already knew the map of it, the small scar on your hip from a fall at fourteen she'd been there for, the spot just under your ribs that made you flinch and laugh when she pressed too hard.

"so pretty," she murmured, mouth dragging down your collarbone, her hand slid beneath you, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, mouth following the newly exposed skin, slow and unbothered by time in a way that made your whole body ache for more of it.

"tell me if you want me to slow down," she said, voice rough now, "or speed up. i want to hear you."

"don't slow down."

"yes ma'am." the smile in her voice was audible even as her mouth moved lower, hands working the rest of your clothes off with an ease that told you she'd thought this through more than once, more than a dozen times, probably every season, every late-night call where the silence had gotten too loaded to be just friendship.

by the time she settled between your thighs, you were already trembling, every nerve lit up from the slow burn of her attention, her hands firm against your hips, holding you exactly where she wanted you.

her mouth found you, unhurried at first, slow, broad, deliberate, the kind of patience that came from someone who'd spent a career studying angles and tendencies and knew exactly how to read a body under pressure. 

she built you up like that, methodical, until your hands found her hair and her name turned into the only word you had, and only then did she give you what you'd been asking for relentless, focused, her tongue working you with a rhythm that broke and reformed every time you got close, until she finally let you crest, holding your hips down through every aftershock, refusing to let you get away from any of it.

you came apart against her mouth, gasping, and when you finally caught your breath she was already moving up your body, pressing unhurried kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, like she had nowhere else to be and all the time left in the world to prove it. "that's one," she said against your ear, voice rough with want of her own now. "i'm not done with you."

"sue—"

"i've got you." she reached over to the nightstand, unhurried, and you watched her, heart hammering, as she got herself ready, every motion deliberate, like she wanted you to watch, wanted you to know exactly what was coming. 

there was no performance in it, just steadiness, the same calm focus she carried to the free-throw line in a packed arena, like pressure had simply never been the thing that rattled her. "you ready for me?"

"yes. god, yes."

she settled back between your thighs, propped on one forearm, her free hand guiding herself, slow, watching your face the entire time for anything she needed to adjust to. "tell me if it's too much."

"it's not. it's — " your breath caught as she pushed in, slow and deliberate, giving you every second to adjust, her forehead dropping to yours, breath shaky despite the control in every other part of her. "don't stop."

"wasn't planning to." whereas her voice had dropped into something low and steady, the same controlled intensity she carried into the fourth quarter of close games she found a rhythm unhurried at first, reading you, adjusting with every sound you made, her hips rolling deep and deliberate, until your hands found her shoulders and pulled her closer, until "more" was the only word you had left.

she gave you more; she picked up the pace exactly when you needed her to, angled herself exactly the way that made your back arch off the mattress, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your thigh to pull you into every thrust. 

she gave you everything the same way she'd given you everything else for thirty years fully, without holding back, like there had never been any other version of this that made sense to her. 

her mouth found yours again between gasps, sloppy now, both of you too far gone for anything careful, your name dragged out of her like it cost her something to finally say it like this, like she'd been rationing it for years and was spending it all at once. "i've got you," she murmured, over and over, voice fraying at the edges, "i've got you, i've got you—"

you came again with her name on your lips and her forehead pressed to yours, her own rhythm faltering, breaking, before she followed soon after with a low, broken sound against your throat that you knew you'd remember for the rest of your life. 

she stayed there a long moment after, both of you breathing hard, her weight braced carefully so as not to crush you, her mouth pressed to your shoulder like she needed to keep some part of her body touching some part of yours.

after, she pulled you into her, your back to her chest, her hand splayed warm over your stomach like she was anchoring herself to you, legs tangled, the sheets a mess around you both. "thirty years," she said quietly, into the back of your shoulder.

"thirty years," you agreed.

"started on a cracked-up driveway and ended up here." you turned in her arms to face her, and found her already looking at you, soft now, none of the hunger left, just something steadier underneath it the same look she used to give you from the free-throw line, finding your face in the crowd before a big shot, like she needed you to be the last thing she saw before anything important. "worth the whole road," you said.

"every bit of it." she kissed your forehead, then your nose, then finally your mouth, slow and unhurried, like the two of you finally, finally had nowhere else to be.

outside, the city kept going the way it always did traffic, sirens, somebody's music too loud three floors down — and none of it touched the two of you, tangled together in a bed that finally, after thirty years, felt like exactly where you were supposed to land.

you woke before she did, which almost never happened sue had always been an early riser, a habit drilled into her by a decade and a half of six a.m. lifts and shootarounds, but this morning she was still tangled around you, one arm heavy across your waist, breathing slow and even against the back of your neck.

you lay there a while just letting yourself feel it the warmth of her, the unfamiliar new shape of something that had been thirty years in the making and somehow still felt like it had happened overnight the sheets smelled like both of you, the early light coming through her blinds striped gold across the bed. you thought, absurdly, of the cracked driveway court, of seven-year-old reese tossing you a basketball like it was inevitable, and you thought; she was right. she's always been right about this.

she stirred against you slowly, mouth finding the curve of your shoulder before she was even fully awake, pressing an unhurried kiss there like it was the most natural thing in the world. "morning," she mumbled, voice wrecked with sleep.

"morning."

"you're still here."

"where else would i be?" she laughed, low, and pulled you tighter against her, hand splaying flat over your stomach. "good answer." her mouth moved to your shoulder again, then your neck, slower this time, more deliberate, and you felt the moment she woke all the way up the shift from sleepy affection into something with intention behind it.

"sue."

"hm?"

"you're not subtle."

"never claimed to be." her hand slid lower, slow, giving you every chance to stop her, the same way she had last night you didn't you turned in her arms instead, facing her, and found her looking at you with an expression unguarded in a way you'd rarely seen on her no performance left in it, none of the calculated control she wore on the court just her.

"i keep waiting to wake up and find out i made all this up," you admitted. "you didn't." she brushed hair back from your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone same as last night. "i've got the marks to prove it, if you need evidence."

you laughed, and she caught the sound with her mouth, kissing you slow and unhurried, no rush behind it, like she had the entire morning and intended to use every minute of it. "round two," she murmured against your lips. "if you're up for it."

"i thought you'd never ask."

"i was giving you a chance to recover." her hand slid down your side, over your hip, fingers tracing slow patterns against your skin. "but if you're offering—"

"i'm offering." she rolled you onto your back unhurried, settling over you with the same easy weight from the night before, knee parting your thighs, morning light caught the line of her shoulders, the focus already settling into her face the same look she wore studying film, dissecting something she intended to solve completely.

"tell me what you want this time," she said, echoing last night, except softer now, less urgent, more like she genuinely wanted the answer rather than needing it. "you. slower, maybe. i want to actually feel all of it."

something warmed in her expression. "i can do slow." she kissed down your throat, unhurried, mouth finding your collarbone, your sternum, taking her time in a way that felt different from the night before, less hunger, more reverence, like she was relearning your body now that she had nowhere to be and nothing left to prove.

her hands mapped you slow, deliberate, finding the places that made your breath catch and lingering there instead of moving past them by the time her mouth found you again, properly, you were already trembling, more sensitive than you'd been hours before, and she noticed, gentling her pace to match, drawing you up slow instead of fast, patient in a way that made the climb feel endless and worth every second of it. "sue—"

"i've got you." she didn't rush; she let you ride the building wave at your own pace, reading every catch in your breathing, adjusting until you came apart slowly and shaking, her name a long exhale instead of a gasp this time.

she gave you a minute after, pressing soft kisses up your stomach, your ribs, before settling back between your thighs, propped on her forearms, looking down at you with something unguarded in her face. "you good?"

"so good. come here." she sank into you slowly this time, no rush in it, her forehead dropping to yours as she gave you every second to adjust, her breath shaky despite the patience she was holding onto. 

you wrapped your legs around her, pulling her deeper, and she let out a soft sound against your mouth, hips rolling unhurried, deliberate, every motion deep and slow and full of an intention that had nothing left to hide behind. "feels different," you breathed. "this morning. slower."

"yeah." her voice was rough, low. "less scared now. less — i don't know. like i don't have to get it all out at once anymore." her hips kept their slow rhythm, deep, drawing soft sounds out of both of you. "we've got time now."

"we do."

"thirty years of time, actually." she smiled against your mouth even as her breathing fractured, hips picking up just slightly, still unhurried but deeper now, more deliberate, chasing something slow-built instead of urgent. 

her hand found yours, laced your fingers together against the mattress, anchoring you both through it you came again wrapped around her, slow and full-bodied, her name barely more than a breath this time, and she followed soon after with her face pressed into your neck, body shuddering through it, holding you like she never planned on letting go.

after, neither of you moved for a long while, tangled in the gold morning light, her heartbeat slowing gradually against your chest. "so," she said eventually, voice still rough, "round two recommended."

"round two highly recommended." she laughed, the sound vibrating against your skin, and pulled you in closer, like the morning had all the time in the world for the two of you to stay exactly like this. "thirty years," she said again, quieter this time, like she was still getting used to saying it out loud.

"thirty years," you agreed. "and round two."

you came into year two with a target on your back and you knew it, the way every team scouts the rookie who didn't play like a rookie you've absorbed enough hard fouls and enough chippy possessions this season to know exactly what's basketball and what isn't.

what happens to azzi in the third quarter isn't basketball.

you're on the bench when it happens, towel around your neck, two fouls of your own already on the books, watching azzi work off a screen the way she's done a thousand times catch, rise, smooth as anything, the same shot you've watched her get up in an empty gym a hundred times after everyone else has gone home. 

except this time sophie doesn't go for the contest she goes for the body, extends an arm, a forearm, a shoulder, something with real weight and worse intent behind it, and azzi goes down hard on the hardwood with a sound that doesn't belong anywhere near a basketball game.

you know before the trainers even reach her you know the way you know your own name the ref blows the whistle late, almost apologetically. common foul. like there was anything common about a grown woman throwing her whole body into someone with no shot attempt anywhere near the play.

you're up before you've decided to stand.

"hey — hey, sit down," as coach says, palm flat against your sternum like that's going to do anything at all, and you let her hold you there only because azzi is already getting helped to her feet, already waving off the trainer with that stubborn little headshake you know better than your own reflection. 

your eyes find sophie's across the court, and sophie isn't even looking at azzi she's looking at you like she knew exactly who'd be the one to react like she's been waiting all game to find out.

nobody outside this locker room is supposed to know what azzi is to you it's been that way since last summer; quiet on purpose, careful on purpose, your business and nobody else's but sophie's spent the whole half needling at azzi's space in ways that have nothing to do with defense, the kind of chirping that's designed to get under someone's skin and find out who flinches, and apparently she found her answer. apparently it's you.

azzi finishes the half she's slower the next few possessions, favoring the hip she landed on, jaw tight in the specific way that only you would catch, because you've spent over a year learning the architecture of her face every micro-expression, every tell she thinks she's hiding.

she doesn't say much when she gets to the bench except your name, low, just checking that you're not about to do something stupid. "i'm fine," she says.

"i didn't ask."

"you were gonna."

you don't deny it arike claps a hand on your shoulder on the way to the locker room “easy, rookie of the year, save it for the fourth.” and you let the nickname needle at you because she's not wrong to be worried.

the fever crowd is loud all night in a way that tells you they know exactly what's at stake dallas hasn't beaten indiana yet this season, and this matchup has been circled on the calendar since the schedule dropped your team's backcourt, built around the two of you and paige and arike, against a fever squad playing in front of a sold-out building that's been chanting since pregame warmups. 

you love playing in this building you hate that sophie's been chirping in it for three quarters like she owns it.

you don't get your shot at her until the fourth, and when it comes it isn't dramatic, just a loose ball off a missed three, both of you boxing out under your own basket, shoulder to shoulder, breathing the same recycled arena air.

"learn to keep your girl's elbows down," sophie mutters, low enough that the sideline mic doesn't catch it but you do, "if you don't want to watch her hit the floor again."

something goes very still and very loud in you at the same time. "say that again."

"you heard me."

"say it to her."

sophie laughs, short, no humor in it at all, and that's when you feel it tip past anger into something colder and more specific. 

it isn't really about the game anymore it's about azzi holding her hip on the bench and pretending she wasn't hurting. 

it's about every single time you've watched her absorb something so the people around her don't have to.

it's about the fact that nobody in this building knows what she means to you, and you're the only one who gets to be furious about this on her behalf, and you intend to use that.

the ball comes off the rim ugly, kicks high off the back iron, and you and sophie go up for it at the same time except she doesn't just go up for the ball. 

she goes up through you, using her hip the way she's been doing all night to clear space, and something in you just decides without consulting the rest of you first.

you don't remember deciding you remember your hands finding her shoulder and the small of her back, you remember the floor tilting toward her instead of you, and then she's on the ground and you're standing over her, chest heaving, and your hands come together once, twice, sharp and loud and right in her face not a hit, nowhere close to a hit, just a clap, just pure undiluted don't you ever and the arena makes a sound like a held breath finally let go.

"—there is contact away from the ball, y/n and cunningham are exchanging words, this has gotten heated fast," the broadcast says, from somewhere very far outside the version of you currently standing on this court, "both benches are out here, this is a situation—"

the ref's whistle is shrill and constant azzi is on her feet at the sideline, both hands pressed flat against the top of her head, not yelling, just watching you with an expression you don't have time to read.

"technical foul, number—" the PA announcer starts, says it again for sophie a beat later, and the crowd your crowd, the dallas faithful who've spent the whole night watching the fever get away with exactly this kind of dirty play erupts. 

not at the foul at you like you've done the one thing they've all been wanting to do since the second quarter.

your coach doesn't bother trying to calm you down at the bench; he just hands you a water bottle and says, "make the next shot count," like that's a punishment, like that's not already exactly what you're planning to do.

paige leans into your ear while the officials sort the technicals out. "you good?"

"i'm great."

"you're terrifying. i love it. azzi's gonna kill you after, by the way."

"azzi can get in line."

it's a one-possession game with fourteen seconds left, dallas up by two, and you've played this exact scenario in your head a hundred times in driveways and empty gyms growing up ball in your hands, clock bleeding out, an entire building either screaming for you or against you but you've never played it with your ribs still hot from adrenaline and your jaw still tight from the technical and azzi's eyes on you from the baseline like she's the only steady thing left standing.

you don't call a play you just take the inbound, eat the clock down to six seconds, and cross sophie over so hard she has to reset her feet entirely, and in that half-second window where her balance is gone you rise up from seventeen feet and you don't even hear the ball go through the net. you hear the building instead of the whole arena detonating at once with no single source, just noise from everywhere, the fever crowd's home-court chanting swallowing the whole.

the horn sounds a half-second after the ball drops through dallas wins by four you don't celebrate right away you just stand in the spot where you shot it, chest rising and falling, watching azzi break from the bench at a dead sprint toward you, and you barely have time to brace before she crashes into you, arms locking around your neck, both of you stumbling back a step before you catch your footing. "you absolute menace," she says into your shoulder, half laughing, half something else entirely. "you could've fouled out."

"worth it."

"you could've gotten ejected, on national tv, in your own building—"

"also worth it."

she pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still fisted in the fabric at your shoulders, and for one second the noise of the arena goes soft and far away, the way it always does when she looks at you like that like you're the only person who exists inside whatever room you're standing in, secret or not. "i'm fine, you know," she says, quieter now, just for you. "you didn't have to do that."

"i know."

"you did it anyway."

"i know that too."

she shakes her head, but she's smiling, the real one, the one that crinkles at the corners and makes you forget, for one second, that there are about fifteen thousand people in this building who don't know what they just watched.

holly rowe finds you near half court for the postgame one-on-one, mic already extended, grin already in place. "y/n — sophomore season, and that might be the most complete fourth quarter we've seen out of you yet. the technical, the defensive stand, and then the dagger with six seconds left talk me through that sequence with cunningham."

you laugh, a little breathless still, wiping sweat from your hairline. "honestly? not much thinking happening. i saw azzi go down earlier and i think something in me just switched off the thinking part."

"that quote's going to be on a t-shirt by tomorrow morning," holly says, and you're about to answer when you feel cold water, a full bottle's worth, dumped directly over your head from behind. you yelp loud enough that holly has to step back laughing into the mic.

your teammates are already half-circled behind you, and azzi's the one holding the empty bottle, looking entirely too pleased with herself for someone who claims to hate cold water more than anyone in the building.

"that's for the defense," she announces to the camera, completely unbothered by the fact that this is live television, and then nods at someone just off-frame arike, naturally, who's already cocked back with bottle number two — "and that's for the offense."

"i hate every single one of you," you say, soaked, laughing, shivering under the arena's air conditioning.

"you love us," azzi says.

"i tolerate you."

"you love me, specifically." she says it lightly, teasing, the kind of line that could mean nothing to anyone watching and means everything to the two of you, and paige standing just behind azzi's shoulder, the only other person in the building who's known about the two of you since before it was even something with a name has to physically bite back a grin.

holly's delighted by the whole scene, mic angled to catch it. "i think that's our answer, folks," she says into the camera. "back to you in studio."

the second the red light blinks off, azzi steps in close, unbothered by the fact that you're dripping and gross and still humming with adrenaline, and presses a kiss to your temple that's somehow softer than anything else that's happened in the last six minutes. "thank you," she says, just for you. "for earlier. you didn't have to."

"i did, though." you turn your head enough to catch her eyes. "every time." she doesn't argue with you on that one she just laces her fingers through yours under the cover of the towel arike tosses over both your shoulders careful, the way you've both gotten careful, a habit built out of necessity instead of shame and lets your teammates pull the two of you back toward the tunnel, the sound of the crowd still rolling like surf behind you, sophie cunningham's name being booed somewhere in the noise.

none of it matters half as much as the fact that azzi's hand is warm in yours and her hip doesn't seem to be bothering her, not really, not with the way she's grinning down at the floor like she still can't quite believe the night you just gave her. "unrivaled this summer's gonna feel quiet after this," she mutters, just loud enough for you to catch.

"good. i could use boring for a week."

you've had migraines since you were fourteen you know the shape of them by now, the aura first, sometimes, little silver fractures at the edge of your vision, and then the slow tightening, like someone's hand closing around the base of your skull you know what to do; dark room, water, lie still and just wait it out.

what you don't know is how to do any of that in a wnba locker room twenty minutes before tip-off.

"you good?" cotie calls from across the room, already half into her warm-up jacket. "yeah," you say, because you are, technically, still standing you're not lying exactly you've played through worse.

but the light is starting to do that thing where it smears at the edges, and your stomach has gone tight and hollow in a way that means if you don't sit down soon you're going to have to sit down anyway, just on the floor instead of a bench.

you find a wall to lean against and close your eyes to breathe and then, without you asking, without you saying anything at all, someone moves the equipment bag off the bench next to you and sits down.

not touching you, not talking just there a quiet, solid kind of there you crack one eye open sonia she's got her headphones around her neck instead of over her ears, which is unusual for her she's usually plugged into something low and instrumental until the second the buzzer calls them out and she's just sitting, looking straight ahead, giving you absolutely nothing to perform for.

"migraine?" she asks quite not even really a question. "how'd you know."

"you get a look," she says. "like you're listening to something underwater." you almost laugh, except laughing requires moving muscles in your face and your face currently feels like it belongs to someone else. "that's annoyingly accurate."

she doesn't say anything else, doesn't ask if you're okay, doesn't tell you to go to the trainer, doesn't do any of the things people do when they want migraines to be a smaller, more manageable problem than they are.

she just sits with you in the two minutes before someone yells five out, and when she gets up, she leaves her water bottle on the bench next to you without a word, like she'd noticed yours was empty without you ever having said so.

you don't think much of it not that night you play the first half with a vague, throbbing wrongness behind your eyes and you ice it after with a towel over your face in the dark of the training room, and by the time you're on the bus back to the hotel it's mostly receded into something dull and survivable.

it's not until the third time three weeks later, on a road trip, in a different city, in an entirely different kind of too-loud room that you notice the pattern.

travel days are the worst for you, they always have been something about the pressure changes, the recycled air, the way everyone talks slightly louder on a plane than they think they are you've learned to sit near the front, away from the engine roar, headphones on, eyes closed, and just survive the descent.

this time you don't even make it that far before the aura starts little silver commas at the edge of your vision, multiplying and you know, with the dull dread of experience, that you have maybe twenty minutes before this becomes a real problem.

the team is scattered across the gate area, some on phones, some watching film clips on a tablet propped against a backpack, georgia laughing too loud at something on her screen you find the quietest corner you can, which isn't very quiet, and put your hood up like that's going to do anything.

sonia's seat is two rows down she's reading an actual paperback, dog-eared, the kind of low-tech that nobody on a team full of phones seems to carry anymore and when you sink down two seats from her without really deciding to, she glances up once, takes in whatever's visible on your face, and goes back to her book without a word.

it should feel like nothing it doesn't it feels like relief, almost like she's a pressure valve you didn't know you needed, someone whose presence doesn't ask anything of you.

she doesn't fill silence she doesn't need you to fill it either by the time boarding starts, the aura's mostly faded, replaced by the duller ache that means you got lucky this time, you caught it before it became a full siege, and you're not totally sure if that's because of the timing or because something about sitting near her quiet had let your nervous system unclench enough to not spiral.

"you always read paper books?" you ask, mostly to have something to say, mostly because your brain has decided this is information you need.

she looks up again, marks her page with a finger. "phones make my eyes hurt on planes. the screens flicker weird with the cabin lights." a pause. "didn't peg you for someone who'd notice."

"i notice things that don't make noise," you say, before you can stop yourself, and something flickers across her face not quite a smile, but close, the corner of her mouth doing something complicated. "that's a weirdly specific skill," she says.

"migraines do that to you, you start sorting the whole world into loud and not loud." she studies you for a second longer than feels purely casual. "and which one am i?"

you don't answer right away, because the honest answer feels like it's giving away something you haven't fully looked at yet not loud, you'd say, if you let yourself. the quietest thing in every room you're in, and somehow it's the only thing i can hear clearly when my head's trying to kill me.

what you actually say is, "guess." she goes back to her book, but you catch the smile this time. small private like she's keeping it for herself.

it becomes a thing without either of you naming it, not deliberate, not discussing just a slow accumulation of small adjustments, the kind that only becomes visible if you stack them all up at once and look at the shape they make.

sonia starts sitting at the end of the bench closest to the tunnel, where the crowd noise breaks first and softest, and somehow you end up there too, more nights than not.

she starts keeping a spare pair of the over-ear headphones, the good kind, noise-cancelling, not just earbuds in her bag, and the first time you reach for them without asking, she doesn't even blink, just slides her bag toward you with her foot.

"how long have you had those?" you ask, turning them over they're not new there's a small scuff on the left ear cup, like they've been carried around a while. "couple weeks," she says, not looking up from retaping her ankle. "you bought noise cancelling headphones."

"i bought headphones," she says. "they happen to cancel noise."

"sonia."

"what."

"you bought them for me." she finally looks up, and there's something steady and unembarrassed in her face, no flush, no scramble to deny it, just a flat, simple kind of honesty that you're starting to realize is just how she is. "you get migraines on planes and in arenas and basically everywhere sound exists and seems practical."

"that's —" you don't actually know what word you're looking for thoughtful feel too small, intimate feels too big for a pair of headphones you settle for, "thank you."

"don't thank me just use them." you use them, you use them so often that eventually they're not really hers anymore, not in any way that matters, and neither of you ever brings it up again, like the headphones simply transferred ownership through sheer repetition of you reaching for them.

the locker room thing keeps happening too you've started to track it without meaning to the way that on nights your head is bad, your eyes go looking for her before they go looking for anything else not in a way that's obvious, you don't think just a habit your body's developed, like checking for an exit in a new room.

she's good in chaos that's the thing you keep coming back to she doesn't get loud when things get loud, doesn't get frantic when the schedule gets tight, doesn't need to fill space with sound the way some people seem constitutionally unable not to she just exists, steadily, at whatever volume the room can tolerate, and somehow that steadiness becomes a kind of harbor.

you tell her this, eventually badly on a night your head's bad enough that your filters are mostly gone, sitting in the dark of a team bus with your forehead pressed to the cool of the window glass and her shoulder a warm, solid line against yours.

"you're like— " you start, and stop, because the sentence in your head sounds either too clinical or too much, and you can't find the version that's neither. "i'm like what," she says quietly not pushing.

"the only thing that doesn't hurt," you say finally. "when my head's like this. everything else hurts. light hurts. sound hurts. people's voices hurt, even when they're trying to be nice, because trying to be nice is still a sound i have to process. but you don't — " you gesture vaguely, eyes still closed, " — you don't ask anything of me. you're just there. and it's the only thing that doesn't feel like static."

she's quiet for a long moment long enough that you start to worry you've said too much, tipped some careful unspoken thing into something that has to be addressed now, acknowledged, possibly walked back then she says, "i used to get migraines too. when i was younger. not as bad as yours. but bad enough that i remember what it's like when somebody talks at you like you're supposed to perform being okay."

"i didn't know that."

"you never asked," she says, but there's no edge in it. "i try not to do that to you. talk at you like you owe me a reaction."

"you don't owe me an explanation for being quiet either," you say. "i just i notice it. that's all. i notice you."

her shoulder shifts against yours, just slightly, like she's turning that sentence over and finding she likes the weight of it. "i notice you too," she says, and it sounds like it costs her something to say, like she's been holding it further back than you have.

neither of you says anything else for the rest of the ride but her hand finds yours in the dark between your seats, careful, asking permission with the slowness of it, and you give it without hesitation, lacing your fingers through hers like you've been waiting for the excuse.

it shifts, after that not all at once neither of you is the type for grand declarations, you're starting to learn, you're both quiet in your own particular ways but in small, deliberate increments.

she starts texting you the night before travel days, just to check what time your head usually starts acting up, so she can plan around it.

you start noticing the way she watches you across the locker room before games, like she's running the same check you are, sorting the room into loud and not-loud and finding her way back to you each time.

the team notices before either of you says anything out loud of course they do you're not as subtle as you think, sharing headphones, sitting in the same two seats on every flight, the way sonia's gone from the player who keeps to herself to the player who's always somehow in your orbit.

"so," kiki says one practice, not even looking up from her free throws, "you and sonia."

"there's no me and sonia."

"you wore her hoodie on the bus yesterday."

"it was cold."

"you don't get cold, you get migraines, there's a difference." you don't have a response to that, because she's right, and because you're starting to realize that whatever this is has stopped being deniable even to people who aren't paying particularly close attention.

it comes to a head gently, the way most things with sonia do on a night off in a hotel room that isn't either of yours, technically, but has become a kind of shared territory anyway.

the lights are off because your head's doing its low, grinding thing again, not bad enough to be an emergency, just bad enough to want darkness and quiet and the particular comfort of not being alone in it.

sonia's sitting against the headboard, your head in her lap, her fingers moving slowly and absent through your hair in a rhythm that you suspect she's not even fully conscious of, the kind of touch that exists more for her hands to have something to do than for any performed effect. "can i ask you something," she says, low, careful not to disturb the dark.

"mm."

"this — " she gestures, vaguely, at the space between you, at the hand still tangled in your hair, at the whole unspoken architecture you've built without ever drawing up a blueprint. "what is it to you."

you think about it honestly, because she deserves honesty, because she's never once asked you to be anything other than exactly as much or as little as you are on any given day.

"i think you're the only quiet i've ever wanted to stay in," you say. "not escape. stay in. like — i used to think quiet was just the absence of pain. with you it's not absence of anything. it's just — full. on its own."

her fingers still in your hair for a second when she speaks again, her voice has gone thinner, more careful, like she's handling something breakable. "i think i fell for you somewhere around the second time i gave you my water bottle," she admits. "i just didn't know what to do with that. you don't really get a how-to guide for falling for your teammate over headphones and migraines."

"we could write one," you say. "for science."

"i'm being serious."

"i know." you tilt your head up, just enough to see her face in the dim spill of streetlight through the curtains — the soft, unguarded way she's looking at you, none of the careful neutrality she wears around everyone else. "i'm serious too. i think i've been falling for you since the locker room. i just didn't have a word for it yet because it didn't feel like falling. it felt like finally being able to put something down."

she leans down, slow, asking the same quiet permission her hand always asks, and you meet her halfway, and the kiss is soft and unhurried and tastes faintly like the mint she always keeps in her bag for exactly this kind of slow afternoon.

it doesn't feel like a beginning so much as a confirmation like something that had already been true for weeks, finally being said out loud in the only language either of you has ever been fully fluent in: quiet.

later much later, the kind of later where careful has stopped being the only mode available to either of you, she traces the line of your jaw in the dark and asks, low, "headache?"

"none," you say, and mean it in more ways than one.

"good," she murmurs, and the rest of what passes between you that night needs no words at all — just her hands finding the places that ache and learning, with patient, deliberate attention, all the ways she can be the thing that softens them instead.

the room stays quiet it stays yours it stays, finally, both of yours — the one room in your whole loud, aching life that has never once asked you to perform being okay.

you don’t fall asleep right away neither does she the room’s gone soft and dim and a little too warm, the streetlight still leaking gold through the gap in the curtains, and she’s got one arm slung loose across your waist like she’s not quite ready to stop touching you, like she wants proof you’re still there even with you pressed right up against her.

“hey,” she says, after a while, voice rough and low in a way that makes something in your chest go warm all over again. “hey.”

“you still good? head, i mean.”

“still none,” you say. “i think you broke it in a good way.” she laughs, quiet, the kind of laugh that’s mostly breath, and you feel it against your shoulder more than you hear it. “i didn’t know that was a thing i could do.”

“neither did i.” her fingers trace slow, absent shapes against your hip, not going anywhere, just existing there, the same unhurried attention she’s given you all night. “can i tell you something kind of embarrassing.”

“always.”

“i used to time how long i could stay quiet in the locker room before like i’d see how long i could go without anyone noticing me, just to see if i could disappear a little. it felt safer that way.”

a pause. “and then you started finding me. on purpose every single time and i stopped wanting to disappear.” you turn your head against the pillow to look at her properly, find her watching you with an openness she doesn’t show anywhere else, ever, to anyone.

“you were never disappearing to me,” you say. “i think i clocked you the first week. the quietest person in every room, and somehow the loudest thing i could feel.”

“that doesn’t make any sense.”

“none of this makes sense. i fell for you over a water bottle.”

“a good water bottle,” she says, mock-offended, and you laugh, and she pulls you in closer, tucking your head under her chin like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like your bodies had already worked this out long before either of you said anything true out loud.

“stay,” she murmurs into your hair, not really a question, more like she’s testing how the word feels out loud for the first time. “tonight. tomorrow. however long you want.”

“i wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” you say. “you’re the quietest room i’ve ever been in. i’m not in a hurry to leave it.”

she doesn’t answer that, not in words she just holds on a little tighter, her breathing slowing into something even and unhurried against your hair, and you let yourself sink into it the warmth, the quiet, the steady drum of her heartbeat under your palm until sleep takes you both somewhere soft and wordless and entirely safe.

morning comes in slow and gray-gold through the curtains, and you wake up before she does, which almost never happens, usually it’s the opposite, you surfacing to the sound of her already moving quietly around whatever room you’re in, careful not to wake you.

this time it’s just you, blinking against the soft light, her arm still heavy across your waist, her face slack and unguarded in a way she never lets it be when she’s awake.

you watch her for a minute longer than is probably normal, take in the small things you don’t usually get to study this closely the way her jaw is less sharp like this, less braced, the faint crease between her brows even in sleep like some part of her is always half-alert.

you think, not for the first time, that you’ve never seen anyone look this soft and this strong at the same time.

she stirs when you shift, blinking awake slow, and the first thing she does before good morning, before anything is check your face, the same quiet scan she always runs, sorting you into okay or not-okay before she’s even fully conscious herself.

“head?” she mumbles.

“perfect,” you say. “you’re a menace to my migraines. completely unfair advantage.” she laughs, rough with sleep, and pulls you in closer instead of letting you go anywhere. “good stay there a while.”

“i have nowhere better to be.”

“i know,” she says, smug and sleepy at once. “that’s the appeal.”

you lie there a long time, not talking much, just existing in the quiet in the way you’ve gotten so good at doing together her thumb tracing slow circles against your spine, your ear pressed to the steady drum of her heart, the whole apartment hushed and golden and entirely yours.

eventually she gets up to make coffee, padding around the kitchen in one of your old practice shirts, humming something low and off-key that you’ve never once heard her sing out loud before, and you watch from the doorway, half-dressed and grinning, thinking that this, this exact, unremarkable, soft thing might be the loudest your heart has ever been about anything.

“what,” she says, catching you staring, mug halfway to her mouth. “nothing. just you.”

“that’s not an answer.”

the first thread is small enough that you almost don't notice it pulling her road trips have always been part of the deal four days here, six days there, facetime calls that go choppy at 1 a.m. her time because some hotel wifi in some city is always garbage. you've built a whole rhythm around the absences you know how to miss her efficiently, if that's a thing a person can know how to do.

what's new is mara.

mara played with kahleah years back, before your time, somebody from an old chapter of her life that you'd only heard about in passing—we ran together in chicago for a minute, she's good people. 

mara's overseas team is in town for an exhibition swing through kahleah's road trip cities, and suddenly there's a person from kahleah's past sitting two seats down at dinner in every city, laughing at jokes you don't have the context for, touching kahleah's arm in that easy, familiar way old friends touch each other without thinking about it.

you don't think anything's happening you want to be clear with yourself about that, even later, even at the worst of it you never actually think kahleah's doing anything wrong it's smaller and stupider than that it's just the slow erosion of feeling like the only person who knows kahleah's inside jokes, watching someone else get easy access to a version of her you don't have a key to.

"mara's hilarious, you'd like her," kahleah says one night on the phone, breathless and happy in a way that's been rarer lately. "she remembers exactly how dramatic i was as a rookie. it's humiliating in the best way." 

"sounds fun," you say, and mean it, mostly, and also feel something small and unnamed curl up tight behind your sternum.

the second thread is the one you'd never admit out loud is a thread at all, because saying it makes it sound petty, and you don't want to be the girlfriend who's petty about being hidden but her cousin's engagement party is in march. 

you find out about it from her sister's instagram story, not from kahleah, three days after the fact a whole backyard full of family, kahleah in a soft yellow suit laughing next to people you've heard described in stories a hundred times and never met. 

when you bring it up, gentle, just curious, she says, "oh, i didn't think you'd want to come to that, it's a whole family thing, it would've been a lot," and you say sure, makes sense and feel the sentence land somewhere it shouldn't.

it happens again with the team's charity gala and again with a small dinner after a win that half her teammates' partners attend each time there's a reasonable-sounding reason — “it's a work thing, it's a family thing, it's not that big a deal, i didn't want to make you sit through something boring” and each time you swallow it because any single instance, taken alone, really is small. 

it's only in aggregate that it starts to look like a shape like maybe you're a person kahleah keeps in one room of her life and doesn't bring into the others, even the ones that have nothing to do with privacy or scrutiny, even the ones that are just about family and friends and the ordinary architecture of a life.

natasha notices before you say anything, the way nat notices most things. "you good?" she asks one afternoon, the two of you waiting on kahleah to finish an extra shooting session. "you've had that face on for like two weeks."

"i don't have a face."

"you have several faces, monique, and this is the one you make when you're talking yourself out of being upset about something." you laugh because it's true and because saying it out loud feels dangerous. "i don't know. it's stupid. it's not — she's not doing anything wrong, exactly."

"that's usually how the real stuff starts," nat says. "the stuff that's not technically wrong but still isn't right."

the third thread is the one neither of you has properly said out loud yet, even though it's been sitting underneath everything since the beginning; you want to exist publicly, eventually, and you don't actually know if kahleah ever pictures a version of this where you do.

you'd told yourself in the beginning that the secrecy was temporary, a season, a phase, something with a horizon but eight months in, you're starting to suspect the horizon keeps moving, that let's protect this for a while might actually mean indefinitely, and you don't know how to ask the question without it sounding like an ultimatum, so you don't ask it you just let it sit, low and constant, under every smaller frustration, making each one heavier than it would be on its own.

the night it actually breaks open starts ordinary kahleah's team just got back from the road trip the mara trip, though you've stopped letting yourself call it that even in your own head and they lost the last game of it badly, the kind of loss that makes everyone on the team quiet and raw for a day or two afterward. 

you know this about her, you know the rule; give her room after a bad loss, don't ask much of her, let her decompress you're trying to follow the rule you really are but she gets home late, drops her bag by the door, and the first thing out of her mouth isn't hello, it's, "mara's actually moving back stateside next season, might end up in our division, that'd be wild," said lightly, like a piece of news, not aimed at you at all and something in you that's been pulled tight for two weeks just snaps clean through.

"cool," you say, and you hear how flat it comes out, and you can't stop it kahleah catches the tone immediately, too tired to let it slide. "what's that supposed to mean."

"nothing. it's fine."

"y/n."

"i said it's fine, kahleah, can we just —"

"no, clearly it's not fine, you've got that voice on." she drops onto the couch, rubs her face with both hands. "i just lost by twenty-two and drove home for three hours, i don't have it in me for whatever this is."

"then we don't have to do this tonight."

"we're already doing it." she looks up at you, and there's an edge of real frustration there now, not just exhaustion. "just say it. whatever it is."

so you do it comes out faster and messier than you mean it to, all three threads tangled into one rope, no clean order to it. 

"it's mara. it's not even really about mara, it's that you've talked about her every single day for two weeks and it's the most i've heard you laugh in months and i know that's not fair, i know you're allowed to have friends, i'm not trying to be that person but then i think about how i found out about your cousin's engagement party from instagram, and how i wasn't at the gala, and how every time there's a room full of people who matter to you, i'm somehow not supposed to be in it, and i don't know if that's about privacy anymore or if it's just if i'm just not someone you want in those rooms and i don't know how to ask you if there's ever an end point to keeping this a secret, because every time i think about asking, i talk myself out of it because i don't want to sound like i'm pressuring you into something so it just sits there all of it just sits there and apparently tonight is when it decided to come out."

the room goes very quiet. "wow," kahleah says, after a second, and it's not a good wow. "okay. so this has been building for two weeks and you're bringing all of it to me the night i lost by twenty-two."

"i didn't plan this."

"clearly. you've got a whole list."

"don't make it sound like i was keeping score —"

"what else would you call it." her voice is rising now, the exhaustion curdling fast into something sharper. "you just laid out three separate grievances back to back like you'd rehearsed it and the mara thing — are you serious right now? she's an old friend. i'm not allowed to be happy about catching up with somebody from my old life without you turning it into a referendum on us?"

"that's not what i —"

"and the family stuff, i told you why, i didn't think you'd want —"

"you didn't ask me, kahleah, you decided for me there's a difference between me choosing not to go to something and you choosing not to invite me."

"because the second i bring you to something like that, it stops being a private thing between us and it becomes everybody's business, and i'm not — " she stops herself, jaw working, and you watch her decide whether to finish the sentence. "finish it," you say.

"i'm not ready for that yet. okay? is that what you want to hear? i'm not ready for my whole family, my whole team, the entire internet to have an opinion about us. i like that this is ours. i thought you liked that too."

"i did. i do. but eight months in, y/n — i mean me, i'm y/n, i'm losing track of who i even am right now — eight months in, 'ours and private' is starting to feel like 'hidden,' and those aren't the same thing, even if they look similar from where you're standing."

"so what, i'm supposed to just announce us to the world because you've decided you've waited long enough?"

"i'm not asking for an announcement but i'm asking if there's an actual horizon, or if this is just how it's going to be indefinitely, because i can live with a season of this, i signed up for a season of this, but i don't know if i can live inside an open-ended secret forever and still feel like a real, full person in your life instead of a contained one."

"a contained one jesus, y/n." she stands up, paces a few steps, hands pressed to either side of her head like she's trying to keep something from coming apart. "i give you everything i have left after this job eats the rest of me. i don't know what more you think there is to give right now."

"i'm not asking for more of your time tonight. i'm asking if there's a future where i'm not a secret. that's a different question and you're answering the wrong one on purpose because the real one scares you."

that lands somewhere true, you can tell, because she goes very still, and her face does something complicated caught, almost, like you've named something she hasn't said even to herself.

"i can't have this conversation right now," she says finally, low. "i can't lose by twenty, drive three hours, and also have the relationship-future conversation in the same night. i don't have anything left."

"you never have anything left, that's kind of my whole point."

"that's not fair."

"maybe not. i'm not feeling especially fair right now, kahleah, i'm feeling like i've spent eight months folding myself into whatever shape fits in the parts of your life you're willing to open, and tonight i found out i might not actually know the size of the room i'm in."

she doesn't have an answer for that or she has one and won't say it, which might be worse she just stands there, breathing hard, looking at you like she doesn't fully recognize the conversation she's in, and the silence stretches long enough that you can't stay inside it anymore. "i need to go," you say.

"y/n, don't —"

"i'm not trying to punish you. i just can't be in this apartment with this exact silence for one more minute. i'll text nat. i'll text you when i land somewhere safe. that's all i've got."

she doesn't follow you to the door this time either you think, walking down the hallway with your bag half-packed in your arms, that this might be the part you remember longest not the words, exactly, but the specific shape of her standing in the middle of the living room, not moving, while you let yourself out.

natasha doesn't ask questions when you show up she just steps back from the door, takes one look at your face, and says, "okay. couch or guest room?" like this is a known protocol by now, which, you realize with a small awful laugh-cry, it kind of is. "guest room," you manage. "i don't think i can be looked at directly tonight."

you cry for a long time once you're alone, not the pretty, contained kind, but the kind where your whole face goes swollen and your chest aches afterward like you did manual labor.

you cry about mara, even though you know mara isn't actually the problem you cry about the engagement party, about a yellow suit you'll never have a version of yourself wearing in those photos. 

you cry, mostly, about the horizon question, because some sealed-off part of you has known for a while that you were scared of the answer, and now you've finally forced it into the room and the room went silent instead of answering.

nat checks on you twice that first night, leaves tea outside the guest room door without making you talk about it, and on the second morning she sits on the edge of the bed while you stare at the ceiling and says, carefully, "i'm not gonna pretend i'm neutral, because i love you both and that's annoying for exactly this kind of situation. but you want to actually talk about it, or you want me to just sit here and let you not talk about it?"

"the second one for now."

"the second one it is."

you stay five days this time longer than the version of this you'd have predicted for yourselves a year ago, back when you thought a fight this size wasn't even possible between you.

kahleah doesn't disappear into silence the way you maybe expected her to, the way she used to. she texts the first morning—i'm sorry. i know i answered the wrong question on purpose last night. i need a little time to be honest with myself about the real one before i try to answer it to you, because i don't want to give you something half-true just to make the fight stop. can you give me that time, even though i know i don't really get to ask for anything right now.

you don't answer right away but you read it four times, and something about i don't want to give you something half-true just to make the fight stop sits differently than anything she's said in the heat of an argument before it sounds like someone actually doing the work instead of just managing the damage.

on day three, a small package arrives at nat's, addressed to you inside is a photo an old one, kahleah maybe twenty-two, mid-laugh at some team function, the kind of photo that's never been posted anywhere, a piece of the parts of her life you don't usually get access to. 

on the back, in her handwriting: this is what a room with you in it could've looked like, a long time ago. i'm sorry it took me this long to want to let you stand in one.

you sit with that one a long time on day four, you finally call her, not to fix it yet, just to hear her voice. she answers on the first ring, like she's been holding the phone the whole time. "hi." she says, careful.

"hi."

"you don't have to come home yet. i'm not calling to ask that. i just — i missed your voice and i didn't want to keep pretending i could go without it for one more day."

"i missed yours too."

a pause you can hear her breathing, can picture her exact posture without even trying sitting on the edge of the bed, probably, elbows on her knees, the way she sits when she's working herself up to say something hard. "i thought about the horizon question," she says. "the real one. for three days straight, honestly, which is more thinking than i've done about anything outside of basketball in years."

"and?"

"and i think the truth is i've been using 'privacy' as a softer word for 'scared,' and i let you absorb the cost of that for eight months without ever naming it honestly, even to myself. i'm not scared of people knowing about you. i'm scared of how much it'll matter to me if it goes wrong in public instead of in private. that's — that's actually about me, not about you, and i think i made you carry it like it was about you."

you close your eyes. "that's a real answer."

"i've got more of them, but i don't want to do the rest over the phone. can i see you? not to push you home. just to see you." you meet at nat's, on her doorstep, because you're not quite ready to leave the version of safety you built there, and kahleah doesn't ask you to.

she looks different than she did five days ago, not put together, exactly, more like someone who's been doing real work instead of just waiting for it out as there are dark circles under her eyes that say she hasn't been sleeping well either.

"i talked to my mom," she says, before you've even fully sat down on the step. "told her about us. for real, not the vague version i've let people assume for two years. she's known about the gist of me for a long time and never made me explain anything, but i'd never actually said your name to her before, like a real thing, with a real shape to it. i did that yesterday."

"kahleah —"

"i'm not telling you that to get credit," she says quickly. "i'm telling you because i think you needed to hear that the horizon isn't infinite anymore. i can't promise you a press conference, i'm not built for that and might never be, but i can promise you the engagement party next time. i can promise you a seat at the team dinners. i can promise you that 'ours and private' stops meaning 'hidden from everyone i actually love,' starting now, not someday."

"and mara?"

she actually laughs, small and a little embarrassed. "mara's getting married, y/n to a girl she's been with for six years i was an idiot for not mentioning that part, i think i just talking about her made me feel like a version of myself from before any of this got complicated, and i got selfish about it without thinking about how it'd land on your end. that one's just on me. that one doesn't even need an explanation, it just needs an apology, so; i'm sorry. i should've led with the part where she's very happily engaged to someone else."

something in your chest, tight for five days, finally lets go all the way. "i'm not trying to make you something you're not," you say. "i don't need the whole internet. i never did. i just needed to stop feeling like a secret kept for my own good when really it was kept for yours, and i needed to know there was an actual door at the end of the hallway instead of just more hallway."

"there's a door," she says. "i found it. it took me getting scared enough of losing you to actually look for it, which isn't a great look on me, but it's true, and i'd rather be honest about the ugly part than pretend i got here gracefully."

you let her take your hand this time it feels different than it did a week ago less like falling back into something familiar, more like both of you choosing it again, on purpose, with your eyes open.

you don't go home that night either, not all the way but two days later you do, and the apartment feels different walking back into it not because anything's physically changed, but because something underneath it has. 

there's a framed version of that old photo on the bookshelf now, the one from the package, sitting out in the open where anyone who visits could ask about it and get a real answer.

three weeks later, you're at her cousin's birthday dinner, introduced actually introduced, by name, by relationship to an aunt who hugs you like she's been waiting to for a while. 

it's not a press conference, it's not the whole internet, it's a backyard and some folding chairs and kahleah's hand resting easy on your knee under the table, not hiding it, not performing it either, just letting it be a normal, unremarkable true thing.