#making headlines

I love eating women out. It’s amazing don't you think?

I love the control. That’s what it really is. The rhythm, the way you can make someone come undone with your mouth, your tongue, your focus, it’s power dressed up as pleasure if you really think about it.

And if I really think about it, power’s the one thing I haven’t had in months.

I love fingering too. I have big hands and enough experience to know how to use them. ​​Enough experience to know exactly how to bend someone until they forget the world outside the room.

I wish I could forget the world outside the room.

And I love my strap, I’m a big woman, I need big things. I know how to handle big things.

But… Do I know how to handle this?

Because sitting here, drenched in sweat, tangled in sheets that smell like someone else’s perfume and sex, I don’t feel like I’m in control at all, I’m perfectly aware of the fucked-up world outside the room and I'm 100% sure I don’t know how to handle this.

“Are you staying?”

Her voice is soft, almost vulnerable.

I shrug into my hoodie, pulling it over my sticky skin, tucking my hair behind my ear. “No. I… I have practice early tomorrow. Thank you though. I’ll… I’ll call you back.”

I step toward the door. Her gaze follows me like I’m a mistake she’s not ready to forgive, not ready to forget.

I know I won’t call. I don’t even want to. And that’s the part that hurts more than anything, the knowing that I’m back here, back in the cycle, doing the thing I told myself I’d outgrown.

The door closes behind me, and I’m out in the street, breathing the night like it’s cleaner than I am. Shiny Las Vegas blinds me through the windshield of my car, even if it’s way past midnight.

By the time I get home, it’s past two in the morning. I barely bother to unpack my bag. I drop my hoodie on the floor, peel off the rest of my clothes, and step into the shower. The water scalds my skin, makes the ache between my legs almost tolerable, I didn’t cum, these days I don’t get to do it very often.

The water runs until it goes lukewarm, then cold. I stay under it anyway. The water falling on top of me making the scratches down my back burn in a way I once thought was delicious. Steam fades off my skin in lazy curls, the kind that make it look like I’m disappearing piece by piece. Sometimes I wish I would. When I finally step out, the mirror’s fogged over. I swipe a hand through it, catch my own reflection, red‑rimmed eyes, damp hair, faint bruises along my collarbone. It isn’t passion; it’s proof. Proof I’m trying to outrun something and still losing.

I throw on an old team shirt, no underwear, no effort, and walk straight to the couch. The clock on the oven says 3:07 a.m. The city’s still alive outside, neon bleeding through the blinds, cars humming somewhere far below, but my apartment feels like a vacuum.

I sit there, staring at the blank TV screen, every muscle in my body starting to buzz again. Not with want, God, not that, but with the question that won’t shut up:

What the hell am I doing?

This was supposed to stop. The meaningless hookups, the leaving before dawn, the pretending I’m fine. I told myself I’d grown past it, that I wasn’t that woman anymore. The one who uses strangers to forget women she can’t have.

But the truth’s sitting right here next to me, invisible and loud as hell. Her name’s still stuck to the back of my throat.

I drop my head into my hands and breathe, slow and shallow. My knee throbs from overtraining. My wet shirt clinging uncomfortably to my skin. My chest feels tight in that way that’s got nothing to do with cardio.

Maybe A’ja was right, back in college when I came back from my first threesome and she told me that I’m addicted to chaos. Or maybe I’m just punishing myself for wanting something I can’t have.

I stay like that for a long time, the city pulsing behind me, until my eyes burn and my throat tastes like salt.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to practice.

I’ll run plays.

I’ll talk trash.

I’ll laugh like nothing’s wrong.

But right now? I just sit there, wrapped in silence, wishing I could forget the sound of her voice saying my name.

“Girl, you look a mess.”

That’s the first thing A’ja says when I walk into the gym, eyes hidden behind my sunglasses like they can erase the fact I got maybe two hours of sleep.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, dropping my bag by the bench of the locker room. She raises a brow. “Fine doesn’t show up looking like you lost a fight with your own reflection.”

I smirk, or try to. “You should see the other guy.”

“Please, the only thing you've been fighting lately is your bed.”

“I slept weird. That’s all.” I roll my shoulders, trying to stretch out the stiffness from sleeping wrong on the couch. My muscles ache, not the good kind of ache from a workout, but the deep kind that comes from too much thinking and not enough rest.

It’s a lie. A bad one. She gives me the look, the one that says she’s not buying it but doesn’t have the energy to press yet.

“Right. ‘Weird.’ That why your eyes look like you cried yourself to sleep?”

The whistle blows. Coach calls us to warm up. Saved by the bell.

It takes about thirty seconds for my lungs to start screaming. The court feels too bright, every bounce of the ball too loud. My vision blurs at the edges from dehydration or exhaustion or both.

A’ja jogs past me, slowing her pace just enough to throw me a look over her shoulder. “You gonna keep pretending you’re good, or you want me to call 911?”

I flip her off “Shut up and run.”

We finish the drill, and I collapse against the wall, sweat dripping down my temples. My heart’s pounding way too hard for this early. A’ja tosses me a towel. “Late night?” I press it to my face, hiding everything. “Something like that.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes a sip of water, watching me. “You know, when you start showing up with dark circles and bad attitude, it usually means one of two things: either you’re spiraling, or you’re getting laid.”

“Jesus, A’ja.”

“What?” she grins, all teeth. “I’m just saying. You only look this wrecked when you’ve been doing something you shouldn’t.”

She’s not wrong.

But I’m not about to hand her the truth on a platter. So I just shrug. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t believe me. She never does. “Well, whatever it is, get your head right before scrimmage. You look like you’re about to cry or die.”

“Maybe both,” I mumble.

She laughs, jogging back to the group. “Delightful.”

I watch her go, forcing myself to breathe, to focus, to be here. On the court. Not in a bed that still smells like someone else. Not in a memory that still tastes like her.

Practice should’ve been muscle memory by now.

Drills. Screens. Runs. Sweat, noise, rhythm.

The kind of repetition that usually keeps me sane.

But today, everything feels off.

The ball keeps slipping out of my hands. My passes are too hard, too high. Every shot clangs off the rim. Coach keeps blowing the damn whistle like it’s personal.

“Get your head in the game, O’Hara!” Yeah, sure. If I could find it, I would.

I can feel A’ja’s eyes on me every time I fuck up. Not in a mean way, more like she’s trying to figure out if she needs to step in or let me self-destruct quietly way.

By the third missed layup, I slam the ball against the floor hard enough that it bounces past half court. “Fuck!”

A couple of people flinch. Someone laughs nervously. A’ja’s voice cuts through it, steady, but everything sounds muffled. “Hey. Breathe, Vic. Reset.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking breathe,” I snap before I can stop myself. The look she gives me back, calm, unbothered, A’ja as always, just pisses me off more. “Alright,” she says lightly, hands up. “Suit yourself.”

The rest of practice drags. My knee starts to ache halfway through scrimmage, and I try to shake it off, but it only makes me clumsier. Every missed rotation feels heavier than it should. By the time Coach finally calls it, I’m soaked, furious, and one bad comment away from walking straight out.

In the locker room, the noise dies down quick. Everyone’s exhausted. A’ja’s sitting across from me, untying her shoes, watching without watching.

“You good?” she asks again.

“Fine.” I shove my sneakers into my bag.

“V-”

“I said I’m fine!” The words come out sharper than I mean, echoing against the lockers. A couple of the girls look up. I lower my voice. “Just drop it, okay?”

A’ja doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. “You’ve been off all week. You’re late, you’re quiet, and now you’re snapping at people. I’m not your mom, but-”

I slam my locker shut, loud enough that the sound makes her stop talking. “You really wanna know what’s wrong?”

A’ja leans back slowly, crossing her arms. “Yeah. I really do.”

The words are out before I can even think about stopping them. “I slept with Diana.”

Silence. Complete, suffocating silence.

A’ja blinks once, twice.

“As in Diana Taurasi?”

I laugh, sharp and humorless. “No, Ross. Of course Diana Taurasi dipshit, how many Dianas do we know!.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. “Wait. Hold up. What? She called you a crybaby on national television! You hate her ass!”

“I know!” I throw my hands up. “I know I do. Or I did. Or I thought I did.” I pause, grimacing. “And for the record, it wasn’t crybaby, it was little baby.”

A’ja blinks. “Yeah, that doesn’t make your case any better.”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “It just happened, okay?”

A’ja stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m joking. “You’re serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

She lets out a low whistle, dragging her hand over her face. “Jesus, Vic. You and Taurasi?”

I drop onto the bench, the adrenaline fading just enough for the exhaustion to rush back in. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

She snorts. “I mean… it’s maybe in the top 5.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Don’t remind me.”

For a long minute, there’s nothing but the sound of running showers and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Then A’ja’s voice comes again, quieter.

“So… what now?”

“I don’t know.” I drag my hands down my face. “She left. I thought- I don’t know what I thought. Maybe that she’d stay. Maybe that she’d look at me like-” I stop myself before I can finish. “Doesn’t matter. It’s done.” A’ja leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Vic. Be honest with me. Are you catching feelings for her?” I laugh again, but there’s no bite to it this time. “I think that ship already sank.”

A’ja groans, head tilting back against the locker. “Girl, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Then don’t.”

But she does anyway. “You do realize she’s twelve years older than you, right?”

“Thirteen, actually,” I mutter.

“I mean at the end of the day that’s your lucky number isn’t it?” Despite everything, I snort. It’s small, but real.

Poor fucker you have no idea…

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