#nba draft

Sharp suit. Fresh haircut. That slow-burn energy radiating off him like the second before a summer storm.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet,” I teased, setting the curler down.

He turned. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“The draft?”

“Everything. What if I trip? What if I forget how to talk? What if they call the wrong name?”

I stood up and crossed the room toward him, bare feet on the plush carpet, the hem of my robe brushing against my legs. I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind and rested my cheek against his back. He felt his heart going off like a drum.

“Cooper,” I whispered, “they’re not calling the wrong name. You know that.”

He didn’t answer right away.

I turned him toward me gently and tilted my head back to look up at him.

He looked beautiful. Nervous. A little flushed. The most human version of the boy I’d fallen for.

“Do you know what I see?” I asked him.

“What?”

I traced the lapel of his jacket, fingers gliding over the stitching.

“I see the kid who used to shoot hoops at midnight until his hands were raw. I see the boy who learned how to fold my laundry better than me. I see the man who knows how to hold me like he means it.”

He swallowed.

“I see someone who already made it,” I said. “The cameras, the lights, the stage? That’s just the world catching up.”

He looked at me like I’d just handed him oxygen.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

“You keep saying that like it’s not my line.”

He smiled — the real one, not the press-ready one. The one that only came out when it was just the two of us.

Then he stepped back to look at me. Really, look at me.

“You’re not even dressed yet,” he said.

I smirked. “Waiting on my glam team, duh.”

His hands found my waist. “Can I be your glam team?”

“Depends. Do you know how to zip a gown?”

He leaned down and kissed the corner of my mouth. “I know how to unzip one.”

“Okay, relax, Mr. First Pick.”

He laughed, and the sound warmed the whole room.

[…]

We'd music playing softly from my phone — a playlist I’d made for fun one night, labeled 'vibey but hot' — and the light outside was gold, bleeding slowly into the skyline. It felt like the universe was holding its breath with us.

I slipped into the bathroom to put on my dress, and for a few minutes, the room was silent—just me, the mirror, and a thousand thoughts swirling in my chest.

Not just about him. About us.

Because when someone’s whole life is about to change, you start to wonder if yours will, too. If there’s room for the girl he held through finals and flu seasons. If he’ll still kiss me the same when he’s on the cover of magazines.

I stared at my reflection, suddenly feeling the weight of it all.

But then I heard his voice through the door.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

I turned as he stepped inside.

His eyes went wide. He didn’t speak. The silence stretched for a heartbeat, then two.

“You look like something I’d only see in a dream,” he finally said.

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

He stepped closer, taking my hand in his.

“I was,” he said. “But then you walked out, and now all I feel is ready.”

And just like that, I knew: He wasn’t going to forget this night. Not because of the cameras. Not even because of the draft.

But because of this moment right here — just us, standing in a quiet room, hearts in our throats, holding hands before he took his first step into forever.

When we got there, I remember thinking I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many cameras go off at once.

The second they called his name — Cooper’s name — everything blurred. Like when fireworks explode too close to your face, and all you can do is blink against the light, try to remember what your heart sounded like before it started pounding so hard.

Cooper Flagg. First overall pick.

His name echoed across the Barclays Center like thunder, and my chest went warm. My boyfriend, Cooper Flagg, just got drafted first in the NBA. But that wasn’t what hit me first. It was the look on his face.

He turned to me before he even hugged his mom.

Like instinct.

His eyes found mine as if saying we did it without needing to open his mouth. And even though the noise, the lights, the agents, executives, and family members were crowding him, I swore it felt like we were alone for a second. Like it was just us, barefoot on some street somewhere in the middle of July. Like every fear I’d ever had just slipped out the window.

I clapped until my hands stung. I don’t even remember standing up, but I was. I was crying a little, I think. Laughing too. He looked at me with that same sleepy grin he always gives me when I say something dumb, like Do you think they have iced matcha in space?

And then he was gone, pulled into the tide of cameras and suits and reporters.

The boy I fell in love with was now the man the world wanted to know.

[...]

The gala was a blur. Velvet chairs. Crystal glasses. Too many forks. It didn’t matter.

I wore a soft blue gown that dipped in the back — he’d picked it out weeks ago, pointing at the screen and mumbling something like, “That one’s unfair. I’d be staring at you all night.”

He hadn’t lied.

Even across the room, talking to ESPN execs or shaking hands with the commissioner, he kept glancing over at me. I swear he mouthed you’re unreal at least twice.

And when he finally broke away—when he finally made it back to me—he didn’t even say hi.

He just wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in so tight I thought my spine would melt.

His whisper was hot in my ear. “You’re still the only thing that makes sense tonight.”

We stayed like that for a long time, just swaying a little. His chin on my shoulder, my hand pressed against the expensive fabric of his suit jacket, tracing the embroidered initials he never told anyone were mine.

“I can’t breathe in this dress,” I told him once we snuck outside.

“You look like a fever dream,” he replied.

We were standing under a private archway behind the hotel, just past the gala lights. You could still hear the music, but it was muffled by the ivy-covered walls. It smelled like summer — concrete still warm from the sun, perfume, something citrusy in the air. I slipped off my heels and stood barefoot in the grass.

“You gonna take your shoes off too?” I asked.

He shrugged off his jacket instead, loosened his tie. “Baby, I just got drafted. I can do whatever I want.”

I laughed, throwing my head back. “Cocky much?”

“Absolutely.”

He stepped closer, and I could see it in his eyes again — that fire that lit him up whenever he looked at me. That quiet disbelief, like how did I end up with her?

The truth was, I felt the same way.

“I can’t believe it’s real,” I whispered.

“What?” His hand brushed mine.

“You. This. All of it.” I looked up. “It feels like summer forever.”

He didn’t say anything at first. It just pulled me in again, slower this time. Like he didn’t want to wake up either.

His mouth found mine.

And that kiss — God, that kiss — it tasted like every promise we never made out loud.

[...]

Cooper’s hotel suite was bigger than my first apartment. Marble floors. A view of the skyline so sharp it looked fake. Champagne is already chilling in a silver bucket. A team of congratulatory gifts lined up along the table—designer sneakers, watches, gear from his new team, a note from LeBron that I swear made his hands shake for half a second.

But it was quiet. Just us.

And when the door clicked shut behind us, the noise of the night stayed outside.

I stepped out of my heels again — my feet had had enough — and walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city looked like it was holding its breath, lights flickering like camera flashes, like they were still watching us from down there. But up here, it felt like the world had finally gone still.

Cooper came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing his mouth to the side of my neck.

“I’ve been dreaming about this night since I was ten,” he murmured. “But it didn’t feel real until you looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” I asked, already melting into him.

“Like you were proud. Like I was already enough.”

My chest ached in the best way.

“I am proud,” I whispered. “And you’ve always been enough.”

He turned me around slowly, still holding me like he was afraid I might vanish if he let go. His eyes had that soft, glassy look — like they weren’t done being overwhelmed yet.

“You looked like magic out there,” I told him, brushing a hand through the nape of his neck, feeling the fresh cut on the tip of my fingers. “Like a star pretending to be human.”

He smiled. “You make it sound like I’m not.”

“Maybe you’re not.”

“Then what does that make you?”

“The idiot who fell for you.”

He kissed me before I could finish laughing.

It was slower this time. The kind of kiss you hold onto for the rest of your life. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… true. I felt his hand slide down my back, tracing the curve of my dress, then flattening over my spine, pulling me in until I could feel his heartbeat.

“I love you so bad,” he whispered against my lips.

My breath caught.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. “I didn’t want to say it before the draft. I didn't want it to be part of the moment. I needed it to be just between us.”

I blinked.

“I love you so bad,” he repeated, slower this time, like a vow. “I don’t care that we are too young, I don't care if it’s crazy fast. I know what I feel.”

Everything inside me flipped.

All the fears I hadn’t admitted out loud — the ones about what would happen now, about the spotlight, the distance, the headlines, the girls, the schedules — they fell right out the window.

Because at that moment, it didn’t feel scary anymore.

It felt like summer forever.

“I love you too,” I whispered. “So bad.”

He grinned like he’d just won something bigger than the draft.

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he kissed me again. And again. And again. His hands warm on my skin, his body grounding me, every kiss tasting like champagne and disbelief and something deeper than both.

We didn’t rush anything. We just laid there, side by side, fingers tracing invisible lines across bare arms, eyes locked like we were trying to memorize each other all over again.

“Do you think it’ll change?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“This. Us. When the season starts. When everything gets crazy.”

Cooper looked up at the ceiling for a second, then back at me. “Maybe. But not the way you’re afraid of.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said, reaching for my hand. “But I know you. And I know me. And I know that tonight, I’m holding the one thing that matters more than a jersey, or a paycheck, or any camera flash.”

I swallowed.

“I don’t need a forever promise,” I told him. “I just need tonight to be real.”

“It’s real,” he said. “It’s so real I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

I closed my eyes and leaned in until our foreheads touched. The world kept spinning, but it didn’t matter. All I could feel was the rhythm of his breathing and the way his thumb stroked the inside of my wrist like it was a song only he knew.

My 11:11. That’s what he’d become.

And tonight, I got to keep him a little longer.

Even if the morning meant letting go.

[...]

The first thing I felt when I woke up was warmth.

Not sunlight — that came second, streaming through the hotel windows in soft, gold streaks. But him.

Cooper.

His arm draped heavy around my waist, face buried in the crook of my neck, curls messily crushed into the pillow. His breath was steady, and when I shifted just slightly, he stirred — murmuring something incoherent and pulling me closer like muscle memory.

“Mm. Morning,” he mumbled, voice thick and lazy.

I turned in his arms. “You drooled on my collarbone.”

He cracked an eye open, smirking. “Lucky collarbone.”

I rolled my eyes and kissed the top of his head. “We should get up.”

“Or we could never get up. Live in this bed forever. Let the league come find me.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Real strong rookie move. First pick refuses to leave bed because girlfriend’s skin is ‘too soft.’”

He didn’t even deny it. Just let out a groggy sigh and nuzzled into me again. “You’re the softest damn person I’ve ever met. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. It's dangerous.”

“Are you trying to get me to cry before breakfast?”

“If you do, I’ll wipe your tears with the corner of my draft suit.”

I laughed. “You’re so stupid.”

He looked up then — eyes bright and boyish. “Wanna get out of here?”

My brows lifted. “Like... breakfast?”

“Yeah. Like, a real one. Just you and me. Somewhere with too much butter and terrible coffee.”

I paused. “You’re aware you’re not invisible anymore, right? You can’t just walk around New York like you didn’t go #1 overall twelve hours ago.”

“I’m still me,” he said, sliding out of bed and stretching. “And this morning, ‘me’ wants pancakes.”

We ended up at a café in the West Village. One of those places with chalkboard menus, loud jazz playing from a vintage speaker, and two elderly women debating the ending of The Sopranos at the next table.

It was perfect.

Except for the part where, halfway through his second plate of banana pancakes, a teenage boy in a Knicks jersey stopped mid-step on the sidewalk, jaw fully unhinged.

“Yo—yo, is that Cooper Flagg?”

I saw Cooper freeze for a microsecond. Like it still didn’t register. Like he wasn’t used to being that guy yet.

The kid pressed his face to the glass, whispering urgently to someone on his phone. Thirty seconds later, two more showed up. Then five.

Cooper looked at me.

I gave him a soft nod. “Go. It’s okay.”

He kissed my cheek and stood.

I watched from the window as he stepped outside and the small crowd swelled. They weren’t loud or pushy. Just in awe. Like they couldn’t believe he was really there — hoodie half up, laughing as he signed sneakers, hats, even a dollar bill.

The way he smiled at them… God, it made my chest ache. He was built for this. Not just the game. The being seen. The way people looked at him like he was something electric.

And yet, every few minutes, his eyes would drift back through the window. Back to me.

Like I was his anchor.

When he came back in, cheeks flushed from the chill, I handed him his now-cold pancakes.

“Are they still watching?”

I glanced over his shoulder. “No. They’re posting it to TikTok now.”

He groaned. “I looked like a walking hangover.”

“You looked like someone people believe in.”

He sat back down, reaching for my hand. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

“I didn’t sign up for banana pancakes either but here we are.”

He smiled.

“Coop,” I said gently, “this is your life now.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just squeezed my fingers in his.

“I just don’t want to lose this in the process,” he admitted. “You. Mornings like this. The parts where I still feel human.”

I leaned forward, brushing my thumb against his knuckles. “Then don’t let go.”

He looked at me for a long time. The world outside moved, blurred, shifted.

But he didn’t blink.