NAILYSSA FANFICS

DISCLAIMER: EVERYTHING POSTED ON THIS SITE IS A WORK OF FICTION. Public figures may be used as characters, but I do not know these people personally. The works are entirely fictional and are not for profit. Any resemblance to real events or personalities is coincidental or loosely inspired by publicly available information.

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The trees zip past me as I awake from slumber. My vision is hazy and my body is exhausted. It’s nice to finally be out of the house. Quarantine sucked. It was some weird type of alternative universe that was good for a week before it turned to dog water. No going to the beach. No going to the gym. No going anywhere. It quickly became a breeding ground for a hamster wheel of harmful Thoughts and endless rumination. The same day over and over…

My camera roll is still littered with Stanford memories that I can’t delete, both literally and figuratively. There’s one photo of me and Tara on my official visit in 2015 that makes my skin crawl. I used to think sadness or anger were the most weighing emotions. I was wrong. Betrayal wrecks you in a way you don’t understand until it happens to you. It stays with you longer than you like and comes and goes. One moment, you’ve forgiven the perpetrator. The next, you’re back to being hurt again. You question if you’re being fair to them while you drown. Then you’re back to contemplating what you could’ve done to deserve that.

Tara and I bumped heads. Most players and coaches do. But was I that despicable? Was it bad enough that I had to be thrown to the curb like yesterday’s trash? No acknowledgment of my graduation on social media. I gave the Cardinal my all. And at the end of the day, it wasn’t shit. My stomach begins to churn as I try to implement the techniques my therapist has talked about. Think about your blessings in life, think about new beginnings. I tried to think about how cute I’d look in my new Baylor uniform, my new teammates, my new coach who believed in me. All I could see was Tara’s office in my mind and the day that broke my heart.

She called me in for my end of the year meeting like normal. I’d had three of these by now and was unsuspecting of anything out of the ordinary. I knew right away something was up, though. Usually, Tara talks to players one on one at the end of the season. She prides herself on intimacy and relationships (so she says). For this meeting, all the coaches were in the office. She never operated like that unless it was bad news.

I took a seat and looked at the five blank faces.

“Hey, everyone,” I said slowly. Tara was looking down at her computer.

“How do you think the year went, Nai?” The question was sharp and impatient. No pleasantries here. I wondered what I had done. I had excellent grades, had no drama with teammates. What was the problem?

My season was cut short because of the pandemic, and I was injured five games into the year. I still made the most of it and encouraged my teammates from the sidelines. I attacked rehab head on like I’d done so many times in the past. It wasn’t what I’d hoped, but I made it work. Injuries always suck, but all you can do is remain positive. I wasn’t as confident when verbally answering her question.

“I mean, um, I did what I could from the sidelines. I hate that I got hurt.” Tara nodded and the assistants side eyed each other. What the fuck?  The weird tension was beginning to make me uncomfortable.

“What’s going on?” I blurted out.

Tara turned to Coach Kate, my position coach. She was someone I could always confide in, regardless of what I had going on or off the court. Tara was strong and direct. She never had someone else speak for her or lead her meetings. I was expecting the absolute worse when Kate finally opened her mouth, and I got it.

“We don’t have a scholarship for you to use your fifth year here next year,” she said softly. My stomach sank to the floor and I couldn’t see straight. My jaw was taut with tears threatening to pour out. My ears were ringing.

“What? I thought everything was a go,” I finally said when I collected myself.  I had received a medical redshirt from the NCAA and was told I could use my COVID year at Stanford right after I became injured. Tara and I agreed on it and everyone knew. I had been loyal to Stanford for four years and they, up to this point, had been loyal to me. This was a sucker punch I never could’ve seen coming. I was so in shock I couldn’t digest it yet. Where was I going to go next?

Finding a new home would not be an issue; it was the unknown that would drive me crazy for weeks. Talking to new coaches, moving, and potentially heading away from California. I already planned on staying close to my niece for my last year of college. My brother was finally out of school, so we got to get dinner on the weekends when I wasn’t busy. She was taking all of that from me.

I bled red and white for as long as I could remember. Stanford was one of the earlier offers I got during the recruiting process. Tara and I clicked immediately. My family was sure she could push me to new heights, and that’s what she did. She was smart. She was a phenomenal leader. She trusted me on and off the floor. Our bond took time and wasn’t perfect, but it was raw and real. We loved each other.

“Nai, we just want to go in a different direction. It isn’t person-“

“It isn’t personal?!” I was quietly shouting. “You’re kidding right?” Tara looked up at me and her eyes were hollow.

“We’ve made our decision, DiJonai. You always will be a Card at heart.”

“Why?” I asked, simply. “What did I do wrong?”

All the coaches looked at Tara, waiting on her answer. She was doing that thing she always did when she would have to face an issue head on. She was coming up with an answer I would be satisfied with as far as its depth and logic went. The bullshit games wouldn’t work with me.

 I never was intimidated by being coached by one of the best in the industry. It was something I embraced and didn’t tiptoe around. I was always candid with Tara; she was always candid with me. While I respected her greatness, I was never intimidated by it like some of my teammates were. I would face her like I would anyone else.

 “Nai, when you came to Stanford, we took a chance on you.” She gestured to my knees covered in incision scars. “And it’s a chance we wanted to take, don’t get us wrong…” She thought for another moment. I stared through her. “But this upcoming year will be one of my last. We all know that. I want a championship.”

I just breathed. I was so angry I couldn’t form words. I was appalled, insulted. I was humiliated.

“And you don’t think I can’t help you do that.” I had too much pride to beg or try to change her mind.

“We have a good young group coming in. You’ll be coming off injury again, and that isn’t your fault. But we need a little more assurance in the production of our players going forward. It’s just wrong timing. Nothing against you, DiJonai. Never.” All the assistants stared off into space while Tara couldn’t even look me in the eyes. She handed over a piece of paper from one of her red envelopes. It was a form to enter the transfer portal and find a new school to play at.

“When you’re done with this, give it to compliance.” The meeting was over. I looked down at my feet while the other coaches shuffled out of her office. They each patted my shoulder on their way out. It was just me and Tara now.

I looked up at her one more time and gave a single nod. She did the same.  I got up and left the room in silence, before sobbing during the drive home.

Therapists always say you should sit in pain, whatever that means. That’s never worked for me. Pain is something I’ve always run from. I needed to be distracted while my heart attempted to sew itself back together. The pandemic didn’t help, as I was confined to my house for weeks at a time. I binge watched random Netflix shows and took up knitting. My hands moved aimlessly, while my mind wouldn’t stop racing. It didn’t help that I was constantly questioned on why I “left” Stanford. How kind it was that people thought it was my decision and not that I was thrown away like garbage in a dumpster.

Nobody had a real idea of what happened with me and Tara. I kept my answers about it short and diplomatic. Tara did the same. Even amid feelings of betrayal, bashing her didn’t seem right. I was ready to forget Stanford altogether and move on with life.

Kim Mulkey called me right when I entered the portal. Like Stanford, she was interested right away. I didn’t know much about Baylor. They wore gold and green; the school was in Texas which may as well have been another continent. I knew nothing about the state other than cowboy boots and horses.

My calls with her weren’t like the other dozens of coaches who reached out. Kim wasn’t like the media depicted her to be: rude, apathetic, and cold. I saw right away none of that was remotely true. Her infectious personality was palpable through the phone, her energy totally different than Tara’s laidback demeanor. Her strong Southern accent was funny to me being from the West Coast. She would make crass jokes in good fun, say things she sometimes probably shouldn’t. She was encouraging and never tried to pry about why I was leaving Stanford, unlike so many other nosy coaches. She was authentic in a way that I desperately needed. I felt the most seen I had in the last two months after feeling like everyone wanted an explanation instead of real connection.

I committed to Baylor without visiting the campus because of COVID restrictions. It was a choice that felt right. I trusted my gut. Stanford was now my past, and Baylor would be the portal to whatever the universe had for my future.

Waco looks nothing like California. The mountains, ocean air, and sprawling freeways were replaced with flat fields that stretched to the horizon, Baptist churches dotting every few blocks, and a heavy heat that clung to your skin. The pace of life felt slower, the energy more rooted, a world away from the constant hum of California.

We pull in front of the apartment complex where the girls will be staying for the summer, a tall contemporary looking building. The coaches are outside waiting for me as promised. Kim and I lock eyes and I can’t help the wide grin that spread across my face.

“Carrington!” I’m out of the car and she is bounding into my arms. My parents laugh while the media team takes photos. “Welcome to Waco!”

“Thanks, Coach. I’m ready to get to work.” My dad starts unloading boxes onto the ground while the rest of the staff greets my parents. There is more idle chatter as some of the other girls mill about moving boxes back and forth. I speak to some of them when one of the assistants interjects.

“Where’s Lyss?”

“She’s upstairs moving in,” Bickle replies. She’s a muscular, pale girl with tattoos. She’s from the West Coast also, so that is a nice chatting point.

“Come tell her to come say hey to her new teammate,” Coach says.  The girl skitters into the building while the coach mutters under her breath. I don’t care enough about whoever she is to have her stop moving to come meet me. I would be agitated if the shoe was on the other foot.

A few minutes later, a tall brown skinned girl comes out of the complex in a white Dri-Fit Nike tank top and Baylor basketball shorts. At the top of the green hem, I can see Nike Pro Shorts poking through. Her legs are muscular and littered with tattoos. I try not to stare to attempt to decode the pictures I make out on her skin. Her tank top fits her tight and I can her abs beneath the thing fabric. She has a golden cross necklace dangling in front of her tank.  

I’ve seen her on Instagram, but I know her as NaLyssa. She’s an outstanding basketball player with tons of acclaim and accolades. She’s projected to be the star of our team this year. I’ve watched a bit of her tape, and she’s legit; she’ll be a lottery pick when she enters the draft, no doubt about it.

“Sup?” She asks with an upchuck of her chin. Her voice is deep and has a slight Texan twang.

“Hey,” I reply. She extends her hand and gives me dap. “I’m DiJonai, but you can call me Nai.”

“People call me Lyss.”

With social media, all these introductions aren’t really needed. Everyone knows who everyone is at this level. I’m wondering where we go from here. She pauses, I guess waiting for me to reply. I have nothing to say. “Do you need help with your boxes or anything?”

Everything is just about moved by now. I thank her for the offer and tell her no. She gives an easy smile.

“All good, welcome to the team. If I can ever help you with anything, let me know, aight?”

“You bet.”

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The summer is all about getting acclimated to everything being so new—a new offense, a new coaching staff, new teammates. It comes in bits and pieces.

The girls are different from the ones at Stanford. Stanford is the type of place you have to keep up appearances. Baylor is none of the sort. If the girls have something to say, they say it. There is no walking on eggshells in any capacity, which is something I’m not used to in this setting. I thought I was totally bold at Stanford, but being at Baylor opens my eyes to what real authenticity looks like—not just doing it in a specific way, but being true to yourself all the time. I chuckle thinking of how a lot of my current teammates would have handled the situation with Tara.

We hang out at the apartment complex after practice at the pool nearly every day. It’s routine, but it’s all we have with the pandemic still restricting everything. JO and DiDi splash around, horseplaying while Moon and some of the others laugh and record them. I roll my eyes as JO looks away and DiDi splashes water on her for the umpteenth time.

People-watching is one of my favorite things to do, especially with people I’m around all the time. Today, there are no new revelations. JO is a class clown. Bickle is the team mom holding everything together…then there’s Lyss.

Lyss is hard to read because she doesn’t say much. She commands by far the most attention whenever we go somewhere as a group because her face is on every social media page and magazine, but you would never know it. She can go hours without speaking to any of us, like she’s in her own world. Now, she sits at the shallow end of the pool (she can’t swim) and mindlessly watches the others play around. From time to time, she checks her phone before placing it face down and going back to staring at the water.

In the middle of my ogling, she looks up and we lock eyes briefly. I give a smooth smile, and she does her casual nod before looking away. Now her attention is on one of the freshmen trying (and failing) to do the latest TikTok dance. Lyss laughs and gets up to join her. She isn’t much better.

After thirty or so more minutes, my eye begins to burn. I head to my bathroom on the top floor of the complex and fiddle with the key for a second before the door gives. My eye in the mirror is red and puffy. I never get in the pool, so chlorine isn’t the culprit. I sigh and take out my right contact, letting it sit in solution for a few minutes. I still hear all the chaos outside. Someone—I can’t tell who—gets thrown in the pool without their consent. At this point, I’m ready for the day to end.

I scour the cabinet for eye drops and come up empty. I frown, remembering my sister took them when she visited home right before I had to come to Texas. Fuck.

I reach for my phone to text the team group chat about eye drops I can borrow. A few dislikes pop up within seconds. Eventually, someone replies:

Nalyssa Smith, Baylor: I gotchu. wya?

I’m relieved and give her my room number. After a few moments, there’s a knock on the door. She’s standing there in neon red swim trunks and a sports bra, awkwardly holding her hand open. I gratefully take the drops.

She turns to walk away before I find myself speaking up.

“Do you wanna maybe chill for a bit?” I ask.

She turns around, confused. I shrug. I don’t even know why I’m offering. If it was anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have.

Something about the younger girl is intriguing. I never know what she’s thinking or how she feels about me. Most people gravitate to me naturally. She can take or leave me, which irks me for some reason. Normally, indifference doesn’t bug me.

“And do what?” Her tone is clipped.

“Just chat. I mean, I don’t really know you. Teambuilding.” Here I am practically begging our star player to give me the time of day. I remember the freshmen at Stanford always asking me to hang out, and I’d blow them off most of the time.

“You don’t seem to want to know any of us,” she replies. I smirk as she steps over my room threshold and closes the door behind her. I win.

“Not true. Just seeing the lay of the land.”

“You could be a bit more friendly,” she snaps. “We’re a family here at Baylor. We’re not all up our asses like at—”

“Hey, leave Stanford alone!” I laugh.

She puts her hands up in defense. “I call it how I see it, Nai.” This is the first time I hear her say my name, other than calling for a ball in practice. It feels weird.

“Whatever.” There’s a brief pause.

“Why did you leave Stanford, anyway?” She’s tapping at her phone and sitting on my pink polka-dot comforter. She’s so tall that even with her back against the wall, her feet touch the floor.

“Tara didn’t want me to come back.” She looks up at me, her eyes wide. This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone the truth outside of my immediate family. I don’t know why I’m confiding in someone I barely know. It’s a stupid decision. I wish I could take it back the minute the words leave my mouth.

“What? Damn, bro. I’m sorry.” She sounds sincere.

I give a half-hearted shrug. “It’s life, I guess. But yeah, it sucks.” I can tell she wants to ask the particulars, but unlike so many others, she doesn’t. I’m deeply grateful for that. “I’m here now, and that’s what matters.”

“Do you like it so far?”

That’s a complicated question.

“Baylor isn’t a bad place to be. It’s just not home,” I say eventually. Her face is hard to read, per usual.

“The girls are cool,” I add quickly, trying not to sound ungrateful. “Coach Kim makes me laugh. She’s a great coach.” Then there’s the part I can’t say to anyone out loud. It’s all still so unfamiliar. The air doesn’t smell like saltwater or eucalyptus like it does back home. Even the gold and green uniforms feel strange on my skin—too bright, too bold, like they’re shouting something I haven’t learned to say yet.

“I guess there’s a part of me still grieving what I thought I’d be doing this year…at Stanford, ya know? So, yeah… I like Baylor fine. But I didn’t choose it with my whole heart. I chose it because I had to.”

“That’s deep.” I don’t know why, but her deadpan manner—even in a conversation like this—makes me burst out laughing.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“You’re spilling your heart to me. All I bargained for was bringing you eye drops.”

“Well,” I say, still chuckling, “you knocked, I overshared, and now we’re trauma bonded. I’m officially on the team.” She gives a playful grin.

“What’s up with your obsession with pink?”

“All bad bitches love pink.”

“My favorite color is purple.”

I give a sarcastic shrug. “Then, well, you know what that means…” She tosses a pillow at me, and I swat it away without flinching. She giggles. The party is still going on outside, and she darts to the window to be nosy.

“They’re doing the Wobble.” I’ve taken up enough of her time and get the hint.

“Go get ‘em, tiger. Thanks for the drops.”

“You should come out too.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“Because it’s weird to be inside while everybody else is out there. Family, remember?”

“Or maybe I just hate line dances.”

“Who hates line dances?” she asks, like I’ve confessed a felony.

“People with rhythm,” I shoot back.

That gets a real laugh out of her—head tilted back, eyes closed for half a second. It’s the first time I’ve seen her drop the quiet, nonchalant act completely. And just like that, it’s gone again.

“Suit yourself, Nai,” she says with a grin, heading toward the door.

At the threshold, she stops.

“But if you ever need more eye drops… or want to trauma bond again…”

She lets the sentence hang, the unspoken invitation settling between us. Then she’s gone.