#basketball!reader

Mattheo had already finished his classes for today. He was doing alright grade-wise, even though college, nor school in general, wasn’t exactly his strong suit. His father forced him to take up the next level of schooling, and as much as Mattheo would’ve rather gone to art school, his father would be even more pissed about that than him not going to college at all. So, he picked a happy medium: visual communications. It was creative enough to keep him sane and relatively happy, yet practical enough to keep his father’s lectures over the phone away.

Normally, he would’ve been in his dorm by now, sketching while half-asleep, listening to the music blasting from his headphones. But something pulled at him as he walked past the outdoor courts. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump, of a basketball against concrete and the swish it made as it slid through the net caught his attention. Curious, he turned his head, and stopped in his tracks. 

There you were, alone. The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over everything, causing the sheen of sweat that had formed on your skin to shine as you pivoted, dribbled, and made another shot. The ball easily slipped through the hoop once again. Your movements were fluid, unhurried, as if you didn’t have to think about any of it, and you looked good doing it. Distractingly so.

He walked closer, moving to the basketball court. Leaning against the fence, he watched you practice longer than he probably should have. You picked up the ball from your previous shot, crossed the court to the three-pointer line, and made another shot like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Damn,” he murmured to himself. But you must’ve heard, because you turned, and walked over to him once you saw him. “You say something?”

He blinked, surprised. But his usual cocky grin spread across his lips. “Just admiring the form.” 

You raised your brows. “Didn’t know my practice was a spectator sport.”

He laughs. “Didn’t know we had someone out here giving Shaq a run for his money.”

A laugh left your lips, but your stance remained somewhat guarded – arms crossed across your chest, weight all on one hip. “Do you play, or just watch from the sidelines and look pretty?” 

He grinned, setting his keys down onto the nearest bench and walked fully onto the court. “You think I’m pretty?” he asked, holding his hand out. “Mattheo.”

“I know who you are,” you said, taking his hand and introducing yourself. “You’re the guy who flipped a table at intramurals early this semester.” 

“That was an accident,” he retorted. You gave him a sharp look. “Alright, a passionate accident.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He couldn’t help but grin, his tone mischievous when he spoke. “Want to see if I’ve improved from my rage quitting days?”

You laughed, handing him a ball. “Are you challenging me?”

“Unless you’re scared,” he countered, bouncing the ball once. 

You scoffed, but a smile crept onto your lips. “Fine. First to five?” 

“Winner gets bragging rights,” he agreed, stepping back to the center of the court. “And the loser buys us smoothies.”

You caught the ball when he passed it to you. “I’m not paying for anything.” 

That was the last time he smiled for the next ten minutes. He went in cocky, but you read him like a book, blocking every move he made and side-stepping him when he attempted to steal the ball. 1-0. 2-0. Then he made a shot, and when you ran to grab the ball as it landed, your shoulder bumped him so hard that he lost his footing, nearly falling over. That small stumble cost him yet another point. 

By 5-1, he was bent over, hands on his knees, panting. You, on the other hand, simply grabbed your water bottle and took a sip. 

“Holy shit,” he gasped. “You really don’t hold back, huh?” 

“Anything for a free smoothie,” you half-joked, shrugging. When he chuckled and stood back up, you put the bottle down. “But on a serious note, my scholarship doesn’t just keep itself.” 

His gaze was appreciative then, as if he saw you in a whole different light. However, it wasn’t any less admiring. “You’re on the team?” 

You nodded, grinning. 

“Could’ve led with that,” he grumbled. 

“And miss the chance to humble your cocky ass? Never.” You hit him playfully on the shoulder.

He huffed a laugh, dragging his hand through his curls. “You’re evil.” 

“Sure. But you have to admit it was fun.” 

There was a pause then, charged and lingering. He stepped closer, and you could hear the distant thump of the ball as it bounced across the court, forgotten. “Do you always practice alone?” His voice was softer now. 

You shrugged in response. “Hard to find anyone willing to. Or if they are, we can never agree on a time.” 

He sighed. “Well, clearly this solo practice is working. Your skill is impressive. Honestly, I think it’s hot.” 

You raised a brow, but when you spoke, your tone held no bite. “You think losing to me is hot?” 

“No,” he said, biting back a boyish grin, “I think you kicking my ass while looking as incredible as you do is hot.” 

That earned him a small, surprised laugh, and he filed that sound away as a victory. It was better than winning, if he was honest with himself. 

“I’ll give you a rematch,” you said, turning to grab your stuff. “But only if you promise to try not to embarrass yourself again.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he said, still watching you like you were the center of the universe. “I promise.”

Ty for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!! Feedback is appreciated, and comments/reblogs mean the world <3

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