#released from drafts

The vet/rookie dinner is a tradition and your official welcome to the Phoenix Mercury. The restaurant was the kind of place where you worried about using the wrong fork. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting warm light over tables draped in white linen. You sat between two other rookies at the long table, your hands folded in your lap, trying not to look as overwhelmed as you felt.

You'd been drafted 11th overall—not exactly a lottery pick, but somehow you'd become a fan favorite during March Madness. The analysts called you "scrappy," "hungry," a "dark horse." On the court, you were fearless. Off the court? You could barely make eye contact with the waiter.

"Relax," whispered Kiki Rice, the 6th pick sitting next to you. "They don't bite." Referring to the various established WNBA veterans scattered amongst the table.

You weren't so sure about that. Three seats down, directly in your line of sight, sat Diana Taurasi. The Diana Taurasi. WNBA legend. Three-time champion. Olympic gold medalist. The greatest scorer in league history. You'd grown up watching her highlights, studying her footwork, memorizing her release. You had a poster of her on your childhood bedroom wall, for fuck's sake. And she was staring at you. Every time you glanced up from your untouched caesar salad, those dark eyes were on you. Your stomach did a complicated flip that had nothing to do with hunger.

"So, rook," called out AT from across the table, her voice carrying easily over the dinner conversation. "What position you playing?"

You cleared your throat. "Shooting guard. But I can play the 3 if needed."

"She's being modest," Kiki interjected. "She averaged 24 points per game her senior year. Led her team to the Final Four."

"Impressive," said Kah Copper, raising her wine glass. "We could use some of that energy after last season."

You tried to smile, but your attention kept drifting back to Diana. She hadn't said a word to you yet, but she was watching you like you were game film. Like she was looking for weaknesses, finding patterns, planning her attack. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower than you expected. Her voice sent a shiver down your spine.

"I saw your game against UConn," Diana said, and suddenly the entire table went quiet. "Your pump fake in the final minute? That was cold-blooded," Diana said shaking her head.

Your mouth went dry. "You... you watched my college games?"

One corner of her mouth lifted. "I watch everyone's college games. It's called scouting." Duh. You felt like you wanted to mesh into the floor. She leaned back in her chair, completely at ease in a way you'd never be. "You've got good instincts. But you pass too much. You're looking to set up your teammates when you should be taking the shot yourself."

"I—" You didn't know what to say. Diana Taurasi was critiquing your skills. Diana Taurasi had watched you play. Fuck. Think. "I just try to make the smart play."

"The smart play is putting the ball in the basket," Diana said. "You've got the talent. You just need to be more selfish."

"Dee's right," Alyssa added. "This isn't college anymore. You can't be afraid to take over."

The conversation moved on, but you couldn't focus. Diana's attention had shifted to someone else, but you could still feel the weight of her gaze, like a phantom touch against your skin. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You needed air before you threw up all over the table.

"Excuse me," you mumbled, pushing back from the table. "Restroom."

The bathroom was blessedly empty. You locked yourself in a stall and pressed your palms against your face.

Get it together, you told yourself. She's just a person. A legendary, gorgeous, intimidating person who apparently watched you play basketball and—Stop. Thinking. Lock in.

You finished in the restroom then went to wash your hands. You took a deep breath as the cold water hit your skin and stared at yourself in the mirror trying to burn away any anxiety inducing thoughts.

"You good, rook?"

You jumped, spinning around so fast you nearly slipped on the tile. There she was leaning against the wall by the door, arms crossed, that same amused expression on her face. She'd followed you. She'd actually followed you into the fucking bathroom.

"I—yes—I'm fine," you stammered. "Just needed a minute."

"Overwhelmed?"

"Yeah. A little." You forced yourself to meet her eyes. "It's just... this is a lot. You're all... you're legends. And I'm just—"

"An 11th pick who's about to prove everyone wrong?" Diana pushed off the wall and walked toward you slowly like she had all the time in the world. "I've seen your type before. Underestimated until you have your big moment. Dangerous, almost." She was close now. Close enough that you could smell her fragrance. An expensive and woody smell that made your head spin.

"I'm not dangerous," you said weakly.

"Not yet." Diana reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your cheek. The touch was electric. "But you will be."

Your breath caught. This couldn't be happening.

Diana's voice dropped lower, intimate. "First? You have to work on that confidence. I don't know if you're ready for the pressure if you can barely look me in the eye."

"I can look you in the eye," you protested, even as you stared at her collarbone.

Diana laughed. A low, rich sound that you felt in your chest. "Prove it."

You lifted your gaze. Met those dark eyes head-on. And immediately regretted it, because the intensity there nearly knocked you over.

"There she is," Diana murmured. "There's that fire."

Her eyes flicked to your lips and then back at your eyes. Fuck she is going to kiss me. You knew it with absolute certainty. And you knew you should stop her and remember that this was Diana Taurasi and you were a nobody rookie. And that this was insane. Then, Diana's lips met yours and every thought in your head evaporated.

Her mouth moved against yours with the same confidence she brought to everything else, like she knew exactly what she was doing and exactly how it would affect you. Her hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you made a sound that should have been embarrassing but only seemed to encourage her. When she finally pulled back, you were breathing hard, your back pressed against the marble counter.

"Give me your phone," Diana said.

You fumbled in your pocket, hands shaking, and handed it over. She typed in her number, then called herself so she'd have yours.

"Text me," she said, handing the phone back. "When you're ready to stop being scared."

Then she turned and walked out, leaving you alone in the bathroom with your racing heart and the lingering taste of her lip balm.

You stood there for a full ten minutes, your legs unsteady beneath you. Your skin felt hot, like every nerve ending had been awakened and was now screaming for her. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs, your breathing shallow and uneven. You gripped the edge of the marble counter trying to make sense of what had just happened.

But there was no making sense of it. There was only the overwhelming realization that your panties were soaked, that your body was responding to her in ways you'd never experienced before, that a single kiss had left you undone in a way that terrified.

╰┈➤

You stared at her text for the third time in an hour. It's a few days after the dinner (and heated kiss) and you've been anxouisly waiting to hear from her.

Diana: Come by tomorrow. 2pm. I'll send you the address. Time to work on that confidence problem.

You'd been drafted to the Phoenix Mercury four days ago. You'd kissed Diana Taurasi in a restaurant bathroom three days ago. And now she was inviting you to... what? Practice? A hookup? Both?

Your finger hovered over the keyboard. This was Diana Taurasi. A legend. Your childhood hero. Who apparently wanted to spend time with you.

You: Of course. I'll be there.

Her response came immediately.

Diana: Good girl.

You threw your phone across the bed and pressed your face into a pillow to muffle your scream. The address Diana sent led you to a gated estate in the kind of neighborhood where every house looked like it belonged in an aesthetic Youtube video. You pulled up to the gate in your sedan, feeling distinctly out of place, and punched in the code she'd texted you.

The gate swung open. The driveway was longer than your entire apartment building. Perfectly manicured desert landscaping lined the path. The house itself was a sprawling modern masterpiece of glass and stone, with clean lines and expensive taste. You parked next to a Mercedes and a Range Rover and sat in your car for a moment, trying to process. Diana lived here. And you were about to go inside.

The front door opened before you could knock. Diana stood there in basketball shorts and a Mercury tank top, her hair pulled back in a bun. You took a glance at her muscles and wondered what her trained fingers would feel like inside you.

"You gonna stand there all day, rook?" she asked, grinning. Can she hear me?

"Your house is insane," you blurted out. To save yourself you are trying to act like you weren't checking her out and take a look at the paintings.

"Come on. I'll give you the tour." Diana says leading you in with a light hand on your waist. She led you through rooms that looked like they'd been staged for a magazine shoot.

"This is... I mean, wow," you said, trying not to gawk. "I hope I have a place like this someday."

"You will, kid," Diana said. "If you work hard enough." She paused in the hallway, her expression shifting to more guarded. "It's been pretty empty since the divorce, though. Turns out a big house doesn't mean much when you're the only one in it."

You didn't know what to say to that. The vulnerability in her voice caught you off guard.

"Come on," Diana said, shaking it off. "Let me show you the real reason I brought you here." She led you down a hallway and through a set of double doors, and you stopped dead in your tracks.

It was a full basketball court. An actual regulation-size court, complete with professional hoops,and perfect hardwood floors. The ceiling was high enough for any shot, and the lighting was better than some college gyms you'd played in.

"Holy shit," you breathed.

"Language, rook," Diana teased, but she looked pleased by your reaction. "I had it built a few years ago. Figured if I'm going to practice, might as well do it in style."

You walked onto the court, your sneakers squeaking on the pristine floor. This court was unreal. This was a dream.

"So," Diana said, grabbing a ball from the rack. "Like I said, I've been watching your games. College and a little preseason footage."

Your head whipped around. "You've been watching my games? Like, actually studying them? I know you said that at the dinner, but I thought you were just saying that to everyone."

"Of course, kid. You're on my team now. Old team, but still." She dribbled the ball casually, that same easy confidence in every movement. "You're too passive. You wait for the play to come to you instead of creating it yourself. In college, that worked because you had a good system. In the league?" She shook her head. "You're going to get eaten alive."

"I just—"

"You just what? Don't want to step on toes?" Diana moved closer, still dribbling. "Let me tell you something. The greats— Lisa Leslie, Sue Bird, A'ja Wilson. They don't apologize for taking over games. They don't pass when they should shoot. They go for the hundred-point games. That's what you need to be thinking about."

You swallowed hard. "I'm not sure I'm that kind of player."

"Bullshit." Diana chest-passed the ball to you, hard enough that you had to react fast to catch it. "I saw you in that UConn game. Fourth quarter, you took over. Scored twelve straight points. That's who you are when you stop overthinking."

"That was different. We were down—"

"So be down every game. Play like you've got something to prove." Diana's eyes locked on yours. "Because you do, rook. Eleventh pick? They're expecting you to ride the bench. Prove them wrong."

Your fingers tightened on the ball. She was right. You knew she was right.

"Now," Diana said, backing up toward the opposite basket. "Let's play. One-on-one. First to thirty."

"Are you going to go easy on me?" you asked already knowing the answer.

Diana's grin was sharp. "Not a fucking chance."

She wasn't kidding. Diana played like she wanted give you an intense cardio workout from hell, and she did. Proving that age and experience trumped youth and nerves every single time. She was physical and aggressive, talking trash with every possession.

"That's weak, baby!" "Come on, is that all you got rook?" "My grandmother plays better defense than that!"

You hit the floor three times in the first ten minutes. Diana's elbows were everywhere. Ribs, arms, shoulders. She wasn't trying to hurt you— actually it kinda felt like she was. This was league-level physicality, and you were getting a crash course.

But a tension beyond the game was happening. Every time your bodies collided, the feelings from the bathroom came roaring back. You were hyperaware of her. The smell of her sweat. The strength in her arms. The way her eyes tracked your every movement.

The score was 28-20, Diana's favor, until you started to get pissed. You stopped thinking. Stopped being polite. Started playing the way you did when you were eleven years old and basketball was the only thing that mattered.

You threw an elbow into Diana's ribs on a drive. She grunted but didn't call the foul. You fought through her screens, matched her physicality, started talking your own trash.

"That's a travel, D!" "You're getting slow, old woman!" "Is that your best shot?"

Diana's eyes lit up. This was what she wanted. This was the player she'd been trying to unlock. You scored four straight points, cutting the lead to 28-24. Diana brought the ball up, that cocky grin on her face, and you got up in her space, denying her the three-point line.

She drove left, you stayed with her, and when she went up for the shot, you contested hard. Your body crashed into hers, and you both went down in a tangle of limbs. The ball clanged off the rim.

"Fuck," you gasped, the wind knocked out of you.

Diana was laughing, actually laughing, as she rolled away and got to her feet. She grabbed the rebound, drained a three-pointer with her arms up in mock celebration.

"What's wrong, rook? Can't take it?"

The anger in you snapped. You shoved yourself off the floor and pushed her. Hard enough to make a point. Diana's eyebrows shot up. Then she pushed you back, still grinning.

"Oh, now you want to get physical?"

"Fuck off," you said, and pushed her again.

This time, Diana caught your wrist. Her hand was large and strong, her grip firm but not painful. She pulled you forward, closing the distance between you until you were chest to chest, both of you breathing hard from the game.

"Or what, rookie?" she whispered, her lips inches from your ear.

Your brain short-circuited. You tried to pull away, but her grip tightened. You struggled. Your bodies pressed together with hands grappling, and it wasn't quite fighting , but it was charged with so much tension you could barely breathe.

"Let me go," you said, but it came out weak.

"Make me."

For a moment, you just stared at each other. Both breathing hard. Both knowing exactly what was about to happen.

Diana finally kissed you again. Her tongue swept into your mouth and you let her, your hands fisting in her tank top, pulling her closer even as your brain screamed that this was stupid.

She bit your lower lip and you gasped. Her hands were in your hair, on your waist, everywhere. You were making sounds you'd never made before, desperate and needy, and you didn't care. Didn't care about anything except the feeling of her mouth on yours and her body pressed against you and— you froze.

You turned your head, breaking the kiss. "Stop. I-I have to go."

Diana pulled back immediately, her eyes searching your face. "Hey. You okay?"

"I'm fine. I just—" You scrambled out from under her, grabbing your bag. "I have to go. Practice starts in two days and I need to focus and I can't—"

"Rook—"

"Thank you for the practice," you said, already backing toward the door. "I'll see you at training."

You practically ran out of there. Diana called twice that night. You let both calls go to voicemail.

You told yourself it was because you needed to focus. Because the season was starting and you had to earn your spot on the roster. But really, you were just terrified. Scared that if you let yourself fall, you'd never find your way back.

╰┈➤

The start of the season continued to be a blur of practices, scrimmages, and media appearances. You kept your head down and your game sharp. The coaching staff loved your work ethic. Your teammates respected your hustle. And the sports media started buzzing about the "eleventh pick who plays like a top-five talent."

Your game had changed. You were more aggressive and more willing to take over when the moment called for it. Everything Diana had said in her private gym was clicking into place.

You saw her at the arena, of course. But it was different there. professional, focused. She'd nod at you across the court, offer the occasional pointer, but she didn't push. Didn't corner you. Gave you space. You told yourself you were relieved. You were 100% lying.

The regular season opener was against the Dallas Wings, and you were a nervous wreck. Not just because it was your first official WNBA game. Or because the Wings had Paige Bueckers (who definitely has been in the weight room this off season) and Azzi Fudd (recent first draft pick, and the peoples princess) on their team.

But because Diana was in the stands as a guest moderator for the broadcast. You saw her during warmups, sitting courtside with the commentary team, wearing a blazer and looking unfairly good. She caught your eye and winked, and you nearly tripped over your own feet.

Focus, you told yourself. This is your moment. Don't blow it.

From the opening tip, nothing went right. Paige was everywhere, her screens suffocating. Azzi of course dominated the paint. And you... you were just in your own head.

Every time you touched the ball, you second-guessed yourself. Pass or shoot? Drive or pull up? You made the safe play every time, and every time it was the wrong choice. By the end of the third quarter, you'd been benched.

You finished the game with thirteen points, most of them garbage time. The Mercury lost by eighteen. And you sat in the locker room afterward, staring at your hands, feeling like a complete failure. You blew it.

"Tough game," said Kahleah, patting your shoulder. "It happens. You'll bounce back."

But you weren't sure you believed her. You went home to your apartment, still in warmups, and sat on your couch in the dark thinking about every mistake. Thirteen points. In your WNBA debut. You'd proven everyone right. You were just an eleventh pick. A bust.

Fuck it. You went to the grocery store, bought a bottle of red wine, and came home to drown your sorrows. You weren't supposed to drink during the season. It messed with your training and your recovery. But tonight you didn't care.

By the second glass, you were thinking about Diana.

By the third glass, you were pulling out your phone.

The call rang twice before her rough voice answered. "What's up, kid?"

"Hi," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you intended. Sad.

There was a pause. "You okay?"

"Not really." You took another sip of wine. "I played like shit tonight."

"You played scared," Diana corrected with a sigh. "There's a difference."

"I don't know what happened. I just... froze. Paige and Azzi were everywhere, and I couldn't—"

"You couldn't handle playing against the best," Diana said bluntly. "You got in your own head. Started thinking instead of playing."

"Thanks. That makes me feel sooooo much better."

"I'm not trying to make you feel better, rook. I'm trying to make you better." Her voice softened slightly. "You've got the talent. I've seen it. But talent doesn't mean shit if you don't have the confidence to use it."

You closed your eyes. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Bullshit. You can. You just need to remember who you are." There was a pause. "Let me take you to dinner. Before the next game. I'll get your head right."

"Diana—"

"Not a request, kid. I'm not letting you spiral. You've got the Lynx in four days. You're going to show up, and you're going to show them what you're made of. But first, you're having dinner with me."

Despite everything, you felt a small smile tug at your lips. "Okay."

"Good. I'll have my driver pick you up. Friday night, seven o'clock. Wear something nice."

"How nice?"

"Nice enough that I can't stop looking at you," Diana said, and hung up before you could respond.

You sat there with your phone in your hand and your heart in your throat, wondering what the hell you'd just agreed to.

╰┈➤

You changed outfits six times. The first was too casual. The second too formal. The third made you look like you were trying too hard. The fourth not hard enough. The fifth was perfect until you spilled water on it ten minutes before the car was supposed to arrive.

You finally settled on a skirt. Black, hitting just above the knee with a fitted top that was nice without being over the top. No heels, because the last thing you needed was to roll an ankle before the next game. Just clean white sneakers that you'd only worn twice.

The car arrived right on time. A sleek black town car with a driver in a suit who opened the door for you like you were someone important.

"Ms. Taurasi is waiting for you at the restaurant," he said politely.

The drive took twenty minutes, winding through an area you'd never been. Old Town, but the expensive part. The car pulled up in front of a restaurant with no sign, just a discreet number on the door.

And there, waiting for you, was Diana. Black slacks, a black button-down shirt that probably cost more than your rent, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. Her hair was down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She looked up when you approached, and the smile that crossed her face made your stomach flip.

"There she is," Diana said, standing to pull out your chair. "I was starting to think you'd bail on me."

"I considered it," you admitted, sitting down.

"Honest. I like that." Diana settled back into her own chair, looking completely at ease. "You look good, rook."

"You look..." You gestured vaguely at her outfit. "Expensive."

Diana laughed. "This old thing? It's just Tom Ford."

"I don't even know what that means."

"It means I've been in the league for twenty years and I like nice things." She poured you a glass of wine from the bottle already on the table. "But enough about clothes. Let's talk about your game."

You groaned. "Do we have to?"

"Yes. Because you're going to play the Lynx in two days, and I'm not letting you go out there with the same scared energy you had against the Wings."

"I wasn't scared—"

"You were terrified," Diana interrupted. "I could see it from the broadcast booth. You were playing not to lose instead of playing to win. That's not the player I saw in your college tape. That's not the player who pushed me in my gym."

You took a long sip of wine. "But Paige Bueckers is really good."

"So are you."

"She was the first overall pick—"

"And you were the eleventh. So what?" Diana leaned forward, her eyes intense. "You know what the difference between a first pick and an eleventh pick is? Marketing. Hype. Luck. Not talent. You've got just as much skill as Paige. You just don't believe it yet."

"How am I supposed to believe it when I played like that?"

"By remembering that one game doesn't define you." Diana reached across the table and took your hand. Her palm was warm, calloused from years of basketball. "I believe in you, kid. Now you need to believe in yourself."

You stared at your joined hands. This was surreal. Diana was holding your hand in a fancy restaurant, telling you she believed in you, and you were supposed to just... what? Be normal about it?

"Why do you care?" you asked quietly. "Why does it matter to you if I succeed or not?"

Diana was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.

"I see myself in you. Something special. And I don't want to watch you waste it because you're too afraid to take what's yours." She squeezed your hand. "And maybe because I like you, rook. Maybe I want to see you succeed because I want to see you happy."

Your breath caught.

"Let's order," she said, releasing your hand and picking up her menu. "I'm starving. And you need to eat."

The moment passed, but the warmth of her touch lingered.

Dinner was incredible. You ordered some kind of Chilean sea bass that melted in your mouth. Diana kept telling stories about her early years in the league, the players she'd competed against, the championships she'd won. You found yourself relaxing, laughing, forgetting to be nervous. She was easy to talk to. Surprisingly vulnerable when she talked about her divorce, about the loneliness of coming home to an empty house.

"It's weird," Diana said, swirling the wine in her glass. "You spend your whole career chasing greatness. Sacrificing relationships, time, everything. And then one day you wake up and realize you've got all these trophies and no one to share them with."

"Do you regret it?" you asked.

"No. Yes... sometimes." She smiled ruefully. "I don't know. I love basketball. I always will. But there's a cost to being great. And sometimes I wonder if I paid too much."

You didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to comfort a legend who seemed, in that moment, achingly human.

"Sorry," Diana said, shaking her head. "That got heavy. Let's talk about something else. Tell me about you. What made you fall in love with basketball?"

You told her about being eight years old and watching the WNBA finals with your dad. About spending every afternoon at the rec center, playing pickup games with boys twice your size. And the first time you made a game-winning shot and felt like you could fly.

"Basketball saved me," you admitted. "When everything else in my life was chaos, I had the court. I had the game. It was the one place I felt like I belonged."

Diana's expression softened. "I know that feeling."

The check came. Diana didn't even look at it, just handed over a black credit card. Suddenly the night was ending. You didn't want it to end. Didn't want to go back to your tiny apartment and your anxious thoughts.

"Come on," Diana said, standing and offering her hand. "I'll walk you to the car."

Outside, the night air was cool and desert-dry. The driver was waiting, but Diana didn't immediately open the door. Instead, she turned to face you, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

"You're going to be great, babe," she said quietly. "I know you don't believe it yet. But you will."

"Diana—"

She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, just like she had in the bathroom that first night. But this time, she didn't pull away. Her hand cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing your skin, and you stopped breathing.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Diana murmured. "If you don't want me to, say so." You didn't say anything.

Diana's lips met yours, soft and sure. Not the desperate, heated kiss from the gym. This was slower. Like she was savoring it. When she pulled back, you were dizzy.

"Text me after the game," Diana said, opening the car door. "Win or lose. I want to hear from you."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and climbed into the car. As the driver pulled away, you looked back to see Diana still standing there, watching you go. You touched your lips, still tingling from her kiss, and wondered how you were supposed to focus on basketball when all you could think about was her.

To be continued...

tags ★

@fleetingjake @c-grace56 @savagemickey03 @ghostlytraitortale @groovyblazepanda @mikromoon @aonungsfreak @ashleighscodina @dammitj4net @probioticpro @paigespinkhair @kiltersworld @babe0601 @slutforabbyanderson