Finding one's place - LaMelo Ball x agent!reader
(his father is the bad guy here, sorry)
-Summary: You’re a young, up-and-coming sports agent, recently hired to manage the career of LaMelo Ball, one of the NBA’s brightest rising stars. This is your shot to prove you belong at the highest level. But there’s a problem: his father, LaVar Ball.
-word count: +10k
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Votre rôle a toujours été simple : repérer, négocier et veiller à ce que votre client, LaMelo, obtienne les contrats les plus avantageux, les partenariats les plus fructueux et, surtout, intègre les meilleures équipes pour qu’il puisse donner le meilleur de lui-même.
You were young—almost too young for a position at that level. You’re the same age as Lamelo, which made it easier for you to connect with him; you hit it off right away, and that’s why you were in the best position to know what the public expects from him, what motivates him, and even what could hurt him. That credibility you’d spent an enormous amount of time building could often be called into question, especially in the world of men’s basketball. But you were determined to make Lamelo the iconic figure of the new NBA generation.
You’re ambitious and you don’t hide it—that’s what immediately appealed to Lamelo. The way you speak, your drive to always go further—In a way, he sees himself in your attitude and how you handle challenges.
On the other hand, what you hadn’t anticipated was that his father would get involved and have an opinion on every contract you negotiated, every decision, and hold an unbearable veto power over absolutely everything.
Yet you’d secured the highest-paying contract you could have hoped for and negotiated as best you could with the club; you were recognized in the industry as a powerful businesswoman and respected by all your colleagues thanks to your persuasive skills. You’d hit the mark again this time and walked out of the meeting room with confidence—a four-year, $150 million contract, along with a brand-new marketing strategy you’d spent weeks refining, which had been accepted by the biggest streetwear brand. Glancing at your watch, you remembered that you were supposed to meet up with your player around noon for a quick debrief before he flew to California to play his next game. But true to form, the Ball family was late again, and Melo was still at practice with his teammates. So much for discretion—the announcement would have to be made in front of his teammates.
As you walked toward the sideline, the squeaking of sneakers on the court gradually faded until you reached the coach to call time on practice and signal that you needed LaMelo for a few minutes, but he decided to let his players rest for today.
You watch the players file into the locker room one by one, jostling each other and cracking jokes as they open the doors. LaMelo leads the way. His father follows in your footsteps and enters the locker room behind you. The atmosphere in the room is relaxed; some players are chatting, others are changing or taking off their shoes. LaMelo is sitting in the back with his hood up, but he gives you a quick glance that says he’s seen you.
You toss the file you’d just gone over with the club onto the central island, grab a chair, flip it over, and rest your arms on the back. You take a breath and begin, “I’ve got the details for next week’s campaign right here, and you’re going to love it.” You don’t even have time to flash a triumphant smile at your player before his father steps forward, barely glancing at you and snapping, “Another one of your marketing schemes?” loud enough that the players around you turn to look. A faint, wry smile crosses your face. Here we go again…
You try to explain, “Yes, it’s important for Melo’s image and—” “Melo’s image?” he scoffs, cutting you off.
It had been barely three weeks since you’d taken over as head of the team managing LaMelo when his dad decided to give you a hard time for no reason.
Despite your lack of response, he keeps going, "you don’t understand half of what’s going on here." That’s when you look around with an annoyed pout and notice the team’s players exchanging bewildered glances. Some pretend to look away, but Brandon Miller—a player you’ve worked with before—turns back to you and gives you a nod to make sure you can handle the situation, worried by LaVar’s little act. LaMelo, for his part, slowly lifts his head.
You continue, “The partnership could bring in around— " “You really think your little plan is going to change anything?” he smiles, but his smile is far from friendly. “I managed my sons’ careers before you did; I know what works, unlike you.” That little act doesn’t faze you, but Melo’s lack of reaction hurts the most—his father is crossing the line, and his son doesn’t even have the courage to stand up to him for you. You let out a sigh, trying to get a word in edgewise. "I’m just doing what I’m paid to do, and I’d like to try to be effective without some old nag buzzing in my ear." This time the locker room is completely silent; some players crack a smile upon hearing your response.
“You've been here two weeks and you already think you know it all, you ungrateful little brat,” he sneers.
The players feel like they're watching a ping-pong match with two opponents trading blows faster and faster. But that’s the last straw, and LaMelo stands up. “Dad, that’s enough,” he says. His voice is calm, but you can tell he’s boiling inside. His father completely ignores him and turns to the entire locker room. “Guys, you can see she’s terrible, honestly… I don’t think what she’s proposing will ever work—that’s why putting women in charge of men’s business is a mistake.”
You think to yourself with a raised eyebrow, “Is he serious? I haven’t even presented the project yet…”
You don’t have time to think of a response before LaMelo steps forward and positions himself between you and his father. Luckily he had that brilliant idea, because you almost grabbed the nearest Gatorade bottle to use as a projectile aimed at his father. “She’s doing her job perfectly, and she’s doing it for me. I didn’t ask for a quality check on her work; your job is to watch me from the sidelines.”
His father frowns. “Melo, are you really going to take her advice?” “Well, yeah,” the reply snaps back in the locker room. He continues, “If you have a problem, take it up with me. Not with her, and certainly not in front of the whole team.”
You feel the tension in your shoulders ease at those words. And the players around you look at you differently—with respect, but also with support. LaVar shakes his head, furious, but he backs down, saying, “We’ll talk about this later.” He storms out of the locker room, slamming the door behind him. The silence hangs heavy for a few seconds before LaMelo turns to you with an unexpected gentleness in his eyes. “I’m sorry for everything he said; he had no right.”
You nod with a small smile, still shaken by his words. He steps closer to you and lowers his voice. “I’ll never let you handle this alone again.” A moment passes; the locker room gradually empties, and Miller walks past you with a sly smile and places his hand on your shoulder. “Good thing you brought out the claws, kitten. You’d better bring them out more often if you want us to stop messing with you. Personally, I’ll never criticize your work again,” he adds with a chuckle.
He leaves, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the number 1. There he is, slowly approaching you while slipping on a clean T-shirt and an old Hornets sweater. He’s taken off his hood, his curls still damp with sweat. His expression is serious, almost worried. “I’m really sorry about what happened.” You try to reassure him and shake your head, “It’s not your fault.” “It’s exactly that, honey. It’s my father. He shouldn’t behave like that toward you. He disrespected you in front of everyone.” You take a breath, searching for the right words. “I’m used to dealing with strong personalities. But this is different—it’s your father, after all.” You adjust your clothes, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is. You feel the warmth of his body, the scent of the hardwood floor and soap. “You didn’t deserve this,” he says in a low, almost hoarse voice.
“You know, I give my all to my job. I’ve worked hard, pulled all-nighters to get where I am today, and sacrificed time with my family. But to be questioned like this, just because I’m a woman—to be interrupted every two minutes—you’ll never know what that’s like,” you add, tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m strong, but I’ve had more than enough of people questioning my achievements, of hiding mockery behind friendly smiles. Your father isn’t the first, nor will he be the last, but honestly, I’ve had more than enough. I think I’m going to take a break; I’m tired of all this, of this whole circus.”
LaMelo didn't want you to leave under any circumstances, but his heart ached at the thought of you being unhappy by his side. “Come here,” he said softly. He opened his arms—not dramatically, just naturally, as if it were obvious. You hesitated for a moment, then let yourself fall into his arms. His chest was warm, his scent familiar, and his hands rested on your back with an unexpected gentleness, so different from the mischievous player you’d been spending time with for the past few weeks. “I don’t want you to feel alone against him or anyone else. I’d be more than happy to put a few assholes in their place. You know me well enough—no one disrespects those I care about,” he said with a chuckle. He slid a hand over your cheek, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.
Behind you, Moussa Diabaté poked his head into the hallway. “Melo, are you playing the hero again?” “Leave us alone, bro,” LaMelo replied without even turning around or pulling away from you. “Okay, okay, I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything.”
Moussa walked away, snickering. LaMelo sighed, amused. “I can already tell you that right now, Diabaté is announcing our upcoming engagement to the whole team.” You let out a little laugh, amused by their antics. “They’re never going to let me off the hook with this…” “With what?” “With you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he steps back slightly.
“Because I care about you, and they know it.” Your heart skips a beat, the argument with his father already forgotten. He smiles, charming, as confident as he is on the court, but with sincerity. "And besides, you’re pretty badass in your own way—not everyone stands up to LaVar Ball. You’re part of a select few, my dear. You deserve a medal. Or dinner, just you and me?" He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Personally, I prefer dinner,” he clarifies. You laugh, this time genuinely. He loved that; you could see it in his eyes. He was back to that kid-like look he always proudly wears in public. “Come with me,” he says. “Where?” “I’m taking you out to eat, remember? And I like it when you’re close to me like this—we should do this more often.” He holds out his hand to you, making a slightly ridiculous curtsy. “Will you do me the honor, madam?” “With great pleasure,” you reply, playing along, and placing your hand in his. He led you along with him, like a child dragging an adult toward a candy store, without letting go of your hand for a single second.
