#ucla wbb

The bottom hem of her shirt was held in her mouth. She knew you loved her abs, especially the shine that they had after a rough practice.

The navy shirt fell out of her mouth after seeing the imprint of her in your tummy, the tip reaching just below your bellybutton.

“Fuck, baby. Look at how well you’re takin’ me.” She hooked your legs together, holding you by your ankles, and putting both legs on her left shoulder.

“Tryna put a baby in you.” She said, rubbing her hand up and down your thighs, kissing your ankle, eliciting a moan from you.

Lauren bites her lip with a smile, thrusting harder.

“Too big, mama? Be a big girl, c’mon.”

You shake your head,

“Mhm, not too big.” You say through a whine, reaching out to touch her. “Take it off, Lo, please.”

She gently moved your legs off her shoulder to hug her hips instead, and reached for the bottom of her shirt. Lauren’s Nike bra hugged her in a way you would if you weren’t being absolutely ruined by her.

“Not too big?” She responded.

“Why you so fucked out then, baby?” She asked, her voice soft, light, despite the position you two were in. Her large hand cupped your face. “Or do you just like when I’m splittin’ you open?”

She only earned a whine.

Your long nails lightly scratched along her toned stomach, causing her to get chills.

The ache was different this time.

“Fuck, Lau- I think I’m gonna s-“ You say, cut off by your own moan.

Lauren reached beside you, where the hat lay, and put it back on. She held her hands on her head, allowing for her hips to ruthlessly thrust into you. The sight nearly sending you over the edge.

“Lo, don’t stop.”

“Lookin’ so good for me, pretty. Takin’ it so well, fuck.” She moved a hand to your clit. You were dripping now, and Lauren’s rapid hand and hip movements caused more of a mess than there already was. “Squirt all over me baby, fuck.”

Her mouth was open, chuckling. Her whole hand moved fast and careless. She wanted you to be a mess. You were a mess.

“God, look at you.”

You reach for her wrist, her fingers still moving lightly. Lauren gave a few more good thrusts. She folded at her hips, and her damp forehead met your neck.

“We’re gonna have to change these sheets, lovey.” She commented. You hid your face in your hands to stop Lauren from speaking on the blush creeping up your face.

“Fuck, that’s so embarrassing, oh my God.”

“I’ll wash them if I got next, deal?” She asked while holding out her pinky.

You already knew minutes ago what the outcome of the game is, but when the final buzzer goes off, the entire UCLA section goes insane around you. Hugging Michelle, Lo's mom, you try to wipe the tears running down her face before you attempt to make out with your girlfriend on the court.

You can barely even look for her before you feel a strong hand sliding around your waist, turning you around. Immediately, your face lights up at the sight of your girlfriend. Carelessly, you throw your arms around her as she picks you up, squeezing you tightly, her sweaty body sticking to you, but you honestly can't help but not care.

"You were so fucking amazing, Lo," You whisper into her ear, peppering her face with kisses before she pulls you away just enough to press your lips together softly.

Surrounding you, people try to talk to her, but she simply ignores them, listening to every last little comment and replay you give her on the game, nodding and smiling, giggling at certain parts, and squeezing you at others until she's forced back down to the court for pictures and such.

When families are allowed on the court with the players, you gladly follow Michelle, the two of you holding hands and quietly conversing the whole way there. Of course, you congratulate Lauren's teammates before finding her again.

"Sister-in-law!" Sienna exclaims, throwing her arms around you. Both the sisters are fucking tall, so the height difference is insane around them, like you feel so short. "You came!"

"Did you think I wasn't?" Sassily, you throw an eyebrow up, smiling before hugging her back. "I had to see my favorite player." Pretending to ignore your girlfriend's expectant giddiness, you point at her sister, nodding before you crack a smile at your girlfriend. Your favorite player.

Cheesing, you take about a million pictures with your girlfriend and the Betts', your cheeks honestly hurting by the time you're escorted off the court and into a side room to wait for Lo.

She comes out of the locker room after about 30 minutes of waiting, her hair damp from the shower, and with a fresh pair of jeans on and a tight tank top.

Non-sweaty now, you're much more inclined to open your arms for a hug.

Deciding to skip the bus, you decide to walk to the afterparty, her arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders to keep you warm as you debrief on the game.

"Oh my gosh, Lo, and there was this really stupid guy sitting next to your mom and I who would like to yell every time you got a basket and make fun of you. I was so freaking mad, like every time he opened his mouth,"

She just chuckles at your story, looking down and nodding as you walk together. "Hater's gonna hate,"

Pretending to be disgusted, you jostled her gently with your side. "Ew, you're weird,"

Smiling, she looks down to the side at you, and fuck, you melt. "Hey, you have to be nice to me tonight, I just won a natty."

Raising your eyebrow, you give her a pointed look. "But I'm still your girlfriend, I have rights to make fun of you,"

Shaking her head, she laughs. "Whatever,"

The club is, obviously, packed when you arrive, teammates everywhere, most of them already drunk, and all you can see is a sea of UCLA jerseys filling the giant room.

God, it's gonna be a long night.

Normally, you and Lo go to bed relatively early, so for the pair of you, it's gonna be longer than normal, but you're celebrating her, so you'll do it.

The night is spent with her hands all over you, on the small of your back, wrapped around your waist, gripping your hand. Just everywhere. She watches as you dance with Sienna, making eye contact every couple of seconds in a way that lets her know you're doing it for her. And you are. So you do.

Eventually, you pull her into the dance group you got going, grinding up against her in a way that you know drives her insane, teasing her beyond belief until she's pulling you away and back to a table the team has reserved.

She orders a couple of drinks for the two of you, both of you wanting to keep it light despite the partying.

Lounging now, you lean into her, your back pressing against her chest as you quietly converse, occasionally joining in someone else's conversation.

"Guess what I brought," She says quietly into your ear, her breath ghosting your neck before she pulls away.

Whipping your head around, you know exactly what she brought. "Oh yeah? The glittery one?" You smirk.

She snorts at this comment, but nods. "Yep, baby, there's gonna be glitter all up in your belly tonight,"

she’s been on you the entire game, shoulder brushing yours, hands quick and relentless, trash talk slipping out of her mouth like it’s second nature, every play another excuse to be right there in your space, close enough that you can feel the heat of her body every time you pivot.

“you’re forcing it.” she murmurs near your ear when you try to drive past her, you shove your shoulder into her and keep going anyway, spinning into the lane and throwing up a shot that barely drops through the net.

the whistle blows and the crowd erupts but the only thing you notice is the way juju is still right there when you land, barely stepping back, eyes locked on yours like the entire arena has disappeared.

“lucky.” she says, lips twitching. “scoreboard.” you shoot back, breathless as she huffs out a quiet laugh and jogs backward down the court, shaking her head like she’s already planning how to get you back.

the game only gets rougher from there, bodies colliding harder, elbows brushing ribs, your frustration building every time she manages to tip the ball away from you or bump you off balance just enough to ruin a play, and by the time the final buzzer sounds the tension between you is wound so tight it almost feels physical.

usc wins by two, yet juju looks pleased about it with everyone starts shaking hands you end up face to face with her near the scorer’s table, sweat dampening both your jerseys, your chest still rising and falling from the last possession.

she leans closer than necessary when she reaches for your hand. “good game.” she says, though the grin on her face says she knows it wasn’t good for you at all, you squeeze her hand harder than required.

“next time.” her eyebrows lift slightly, amused. “you keep saying that.” the moment lasts a second too long before teammates start pulling everyone apart, lauren grabbing your shoulder and steering you toward the locker room while kiki drapes an arm around juju on the other side.

but when you glance back over your shoulder juju is already looking at you again and she’s smiling. the weird part is it doesn’t end when the game does.

two nights later both teams end up staying at the same tournament hotel, a tall quiet building where the hallways smell faintly like laundry detergent and the elevators take forever, and you’re wandering toward the ice machine sometime after midnight when you hear footsteps behind you.

“you always walk this slow or just tonight.” you turn your head, juju is leaning against the wall near the vending machines, hoodie pulled over her head, arms folded like she’s been standing there for a while. “following me now?” you ask.

“please,” she says, pushing herself upright, “i’d have to care a lot more for that.” you roll your eyes but your heart is beating faster than it should be, she walks closer as she talks, slow and casual, like the space between you shrinking is the most natural thing in the world.

“still thinking about that last play?” she asks. “are you?”

“maybe.” the hallway is quiet, the rest of the floor asleep, and when she stops in front of you there’s barely a foot of space left between you, you should probably step back, you don’t. “you play angry,” she says softly. “you play annoying.”

“that too,” she admits, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth for a second neither of you moves, the silence stretching out in a way that feels strange and heavy, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close she is, how the sleeve of her hoodie brushes your arm when she shifts her weight.

“you know,” she murmurs after a moment, voice dropping slightly, “most people hate me after a game like that.”

“i might,” you say. “might.” her gaze lingers on your face, slower this time. “doesn’t look like hate.” your pulse stutters. “you’re imagining things.”

“am i.” she tilts her head slightly, studying you like she’s trying to figure something out for someone who just spent forty minutes trying to shut you down on the court. she's standing awfully close now, close enough that the air between you feels warm.

“you get this look when we play,” she continues quietly, “like you’re mad, but not the kind that wants to walk away.”

“and what kind is that.” her smile softens just a little, something deeper hiding behind it. “the kind that keeps coming back.” before you can respond the elevator dings down the hall and footsteps echo closer.

lauren rounds the corner carrying a bag of snacks, stopping immediately when she sees the two of you standing there.

“…okay,” she says slowly, looking between you, “should i come back later.”

you step away instantly juju just laughs under her breath. “relax,” she says, backing toward the elevator doors as they slide open, “we were just talking.”

lauren squints suspiciously, juju steps inside the elevator and glances back at you one last time before the doors close. “see you next game,” she says.

the worst part is you know she means it in more ways than one because whatever this thing is between you and juju watkins, it stopped being just basketball a long time ago and every time you see her again it only gets worse.

the next time you see her isn’t on the court, which somehow makes it more dangerous, because when there’s no game clock and no refs and no screaming arena full of people watching, the tension between you two has nowhere to go except straight into the air between your bodies, thick and electric and impossible to ignore.

it happens the night before the next matchup, the teams staying at another tournament hotel, the kind with long carpeted hallways and dim lighting that makes everything feel quieter than it actually is, and you’re standing near the ice machine at the end of the corridor trying to shake the restless energy in your chest, the game tomorrow sitting heavy in your mind, when a familiar voice drifts through the silence.

“you pacing or just pretending you don’t care.” you don’t even have to turn around. juju is leaning against the opposite wall, hoodie sleeves pushed up her forearms, watching you like she’s been standing there long enough to study the way you move.

“don’t you have somewhere else to be,” you say, grabbing a cup of ice even though you don’t actually need it, she shrugs. “not really.”

she pushes herself off the wall slowly, walking toward you with that same calm confidence she carries on the court, like she’s completely aware of the effect she has and isn’t in any rush to change it. “big game tomorrow,” she adds casually.

“shocking observation.” she huffs a quiet laugh at that, stopping close enough that you can feel the heat coming off her even through the thin space between you. “you nervous,” she asks.

“about beating you,” you reply, “not particularly.” her smile spreads slowly, amused and a little sharp. “you talk big for someone who lost the last one.” you tilt your head. “you still thinking about it that much.”

“maybe.” the word comes out softer than the rest of the conversation, almost thoughtful, and the silence that follows stretches longer than it should, both of you standing there like neither one wants to be the first to move away.

you shift your weight slightly and the sleeve of your hoodie brushes against her arm, neither of you pulls back. “you always this intense,” she murmurs after a second, voice quieter now, “or is it just with me.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

“too late for that.” her eyes flicker across your face slowly, the same way they sometimes do when you’re lined up across from each other before tipoff, like she’s memorizing something she refuses to say out loud.

“you looked mad after the game,” she continued. “i was.”

“still are.”

“maybe.” she hums softly under her breath, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside you instead of stepping away, the distance between you shrinking until it’s almost nonexistent. “funny thing about you,” she says.

“what.”

“you act like you hate me,” she murmurs, “but you keep showing up wherever i am.” as you scoff, though your pulse is beating faster than you’d like. “we’re rivals, that’s how schedules work.”

“sure,” she says, the corner of her mouth lifting for a second. it's quiet again, the hallway empty except for the faint sound of an elevator somewhere far away, and the longer you stand there the more obvious the tension becomes, something tight and restless and impossible to name.

juju exhales slowly, glancing down for a moment before looking back up at you. “you know,” she says, voice lower now, “you play different when you’re mad at me.”

“i’m always mad at you.”

“not like that.” you raise an eyebrow. “like what.” she studies you for another second, like she’s debating something in her head, and then she steps a little closer.

not touching, just close enough that the space between your shoulders disappears. “like you’re trying to prove something,” she murmurs as your throat feels suddenly dry.

“maybe i am.” her gaze drops briefly to your mouth before flicking back up again the moment stretches as neither of you moves. “dangerous game,” she says quietly. “you started it.”

“did i.” her smile fades just a little, replaced by something softer, more curious. “maybe we both did.” down the hall a door opens and laughter spills out from another team’s room, the sudden noise breaking the strange stillness between you, and juju steps back like she remembers where she is.

she runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head slightly, “we should probably stop doing this,” she says. “doing what.” as she gestures vaguely between the two of you.

“whatever this is.” you cross your arms. “then walk away.” she looks at you for a long second then she laughs softly. “see you tomorrow,” she says and just before she turns to leave, she bumps her shoulder lightly against yours as she passes, the contact brief but enough to send a spark straight through your chest.

you watch her walk down the hallway until she disappears around the corner. the worst part isn’t the rivalry anymore, it's the way every time you’re near her the line between competition and something else gets thinner and tomorrow you’re supposed to spend forty minutes guarding her which would be easier if the only thing you felt when you looked at juju watkins was anger.

it’s the way every time you’re near her the line between competition and something else gets thinner and tomorrow you’re supposed to spend forty minutes guarding her which would be easier if the only thing you felt when you looked at juju watkins was anger but the next night proves almost immediately that anger isn’t the only thing left between you.

the arena is louder than usual, the kind of packed crowd that turns every possession into a roar, usc and ucla always drawing attention but tonight especially heated after the last game ended the way it did, the shove, the warnings, the way both teams walked off the court still glaring at each other.

you and juju don’t even pretend to ignore each other during warmups she’s across the court draining threes like it’s nothing, the ball leaving her hands in smooth arcs while the usc bench cheers, and every few shots her eyes flick over to you like she’s checking whether you’re watching.

but you are.

as lauren bumps into your shoulder lightly. “you two gonna actually play basketball tonight,” she mutters, “or just stare at each other again.”

“shut up,” you say, grabbing the rebound and tossing it back to a teammate.

tipoff comes fast after that and the moment the ball goes up the rivalry snaps back into place like it never left, bodies colliding, sneakers squeaking, the game moving at that fast frantic pace that makes everything feel sharper.

juju finds you almost immediately of course she does as she’s guarding you again, close enough that every movement you make she mirrors, every cut you take she slides in front of you like she’s already read it in your head.

“you look tired,” she murmurs while you dribble at the top of the key, “you look slow,” you shoot back.

she grins you drive left and she slides with you instantly, her shoulder bumping yours as you try to turn the corner. “still forcing it.” she says quietly.

“still talking.” as you spin away and pull up for a jumper over her outstretched arm, the ball snapping through the net clean, as the ucla bench explodes.

juju just jogs backward, shaking her head. “cute,” she calls.

yet the game only escalates from there.

every possession between you two turns into a personal battle, hands swiping at the ball, hips knocking together when you fight through screens, your frustration flaring every time she manages to tip a pass away or block your path to the rim.

but late in the third quarter you steal the ball off her dribble and sprint down the court for a fast break, the crowd rising as you lay it in when you land. she's already there again.

“lucky bounce,” she says. “you should guard me better.”

“maybe i like watching you work for it.” your breath catches for half a second.

she notices, of course she does, the smile she gives you is slow and infuriating and a little too knowing the game ends with ucla winning by three.

so when the buzzer sounds your team rushes the court, lauren wrapping you in a quick hug while the crowd roars, but through the chaos your eyes find juju on the other side of the floor.

she’s looking right at you, not smiling this time just watching during the handshake line she steps in front of you, her hand clasping yours firmly.

“guess you got your next time,” she says. “told you.” for a second neither of you lets go then someone behind her bumps forward and the line moves, breaking the moment apart.

you figure that’s the end of it for the night.

it isn’t because an hour later when you step outside the arena into the cool evening air, still half in your warmups and texting lauren that you’ll meet the team bus in a minute, a familiar voice drifts from the curb.

“celebrating alone.”

you look up juju is leaning against a streetlight a few yards away, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark hoodie. “what are you doing here,” you ask as she shrugs.

“waiting.”

“for what.” her gaze slides over to you.

“you.” you blink. “…why.” she pushes off the pole slowly, walking closer until she’s standing a few steps away, the city noise humming quietly in the background.

“because,” she says casually, “i figured if we’re going to spend half our lives trying to ruin each other’s games we should at least figure out what the hell this is.” you cross your arms. “this is a rivalry.”

“yeah,” she says then she tilts her head slightly. “but it’s also a little more than that.” you don’t answer as she studies you for a second before nodding toward a small diner across the street, its neon sign glowing softly in the dark. “come on.”

“where.”

“food,” she says, like it’s obvious. you stare at her. “you’re asking your rival on a date.”

“i didn’t say date.”

“you implied it.” her mouth curves into a small grin. “are you coming or not.” you should probably say no, yet everything about this is a terrible idea but the truth is you’ve been orbiting each other for months now, the tension growing every game, every hallway run-in, every glance across the court and maybe you’re just curious enough to see what happens when the game clock isn’t involved.

so after a moment you sigh and shove your phone into your pocket. “fine.” her eyebrows lift slightly. “that easy.”

“don’t get used to it.” she laughs softly as you both start toward the diner, the neon light reflecting faintly in the pavement.

inside it’s quiet, only a few late-night customers scattered through the booths, and you slide into opposite sides of a booth while a waitress drops menus in front of you for a second neither of you speaks, then juju leans back against the seat, watching you the same way she does on the court. “this is weird,” she says. “your idea.”

“true.” you glance up at her. “so what now.” she shrugs lightly. “now we find out if we only like competing with each other,” she says, “or if we actually like each other.”

you raise an eyebrow. “bold assumption.” she smiles. “we’ll see.” and somehow sitting across from juju watkins in a quiet diner at midnight feels way more nerve-wracking than guarding her for forty minutes ever did.

the booth is small, the table between you barely wide enough for the menus and the metal napkin holder sitting in the center, the soft hum of the refrigerator behind the counter mixing with the low murmur of a late night radio station playing somewhere in the kitchen, and for the first time since you’ve known her juju isn’t wearing that game face, the sharp competitive edge dulled just slightly by the quiet.

she’s leaning back against the vinyl seat, one arm draped along the backrest, watching you the same way she does on the court, focused but curious, like she’s trying to read a play before it happens.

“you’re staring,” you say finally, setting your menu down even though you barely looked at it. “so are you,” she replies easily.

you scoff under your breath but you know she’s right, because ever since you sat down you’ve been noticing things you never paid attention to before, the way a loose strand of her hair keeps falling forward near her cheek, the faint crease in her brow when she thinks about something, the way her fingers tap lightly against the edge of the table like she’s still carrying leftover energy from the game.

the waitress comes by long enough to take your orders and drop off two glasses of water, then disappears again, leaving the quiet to stretch between you juju tilts her head slightly.

“so,” she says, “this is the part where we figure out if we can actually talk without a scoreboard involved.”

“don’t get your hopes up.”

“too late for that.” her smile is smaller than the ones she gives you on the court, less cocky, almost thoughtful, and it throws you off more than the trash talk ever did. “you were good tonight,” she says after a second.

you blink. “…are you complimenting me.”

“don’t make it weird.”

“it’s already weird.” she laughs softly at that, shaking her head. “seriously though,” she continues, fingers tracing a slow circle against the side of her glass, “that pull up in the third quarter, the one over my right shoulder, i thought you were driving.” you shrug. “you leaned too far.”

“yeah,” she admits, “i noticed that about two seconds too late.” a moment the conversation slips into something easy, the two of you picking apart plays from the game, arguing about defensive switches and missed rotations like you’re still standing on opposite sides of the court but then the food arrives and the conversation slows again.

juju tears a fry in half absentmindedly, glancing up at you through her lashes. “can i ask you something.”

“depends.”

“why do you hate me so much.” you almost choke on your drink. “that’s a strong word.”

“you shoved me on national tv.”

“you grabbed my jersey.”

“fair point.” she leans forward slightly now, elbows resting on the table. “still,” she says, voice quieter, “that can’t be the whole reason.” you hesitate because the truth is complicated, tangled up in months of rivalry and tension and something else you’ve never quite wanted to name.

“you’re annoying,” you say, finally she rolls her eyes. “creative.”

“and you’re always looking at me like you know something i don’t.” that makes her pause her gaze lingers on your face for a moment before she leans back again. “maybe i do.”

“what does that mean.”

“means,” she says slowly, “you play different when it’s me.” you raise an eyebrow. “everyone plays different against good competition.”

“not like that.” the way she says it makes your chest feel tight. “like what then.”

her lips press together for a second, like she’s debating how honest to be. “like you want to beat me,” she says quietly, “but you also kind of like that it’s me you’re trying to beat.”

the words settle between you, yet you decide not to answer right away juju watches your reaction carefully, the same intense focus she uses when she’s guarding someone in the final seconds of a close game.

“i’m wrong,” she says after a moment it sounds more like a question than a statement you exhale slowly, glancing down at the table before looking back up. “i didn’t say that.” her eyebrows lift just slightly. “so i’m not.”

“don’t get cocky.” that small smile returns. “too late.” a second the tension shifts again, no longer sharp like it is on the court but something warmer, something quieter.

juju reaches for her drink and takes a sip, then gestures loosely toward the window. “you know this probably ruins the rivalry.”

“how.”

“because now when we play each other i’ll know what you look like when you’re not trying to glare me into the ground.”

“i can still do that.”

“yeah,” she says, amused, “but now i’ll know you also agreed to get fries with me at midnight.” you lean back slightly in your seat. “don’t read too much into it.”

“impossible,” she says lightly, the diner door jingles as another customer walks in, the cold night air drifting briefly through the room before the door swings shut again.

juju’s gaze drifts back to you, “you know what the weirdest part is,” she says. “what.”

“i thought if we actually hung out like this we’d end up arguing the whole time.”

“we still might.”

“maybe,” she admits, then her voice softens just slightly. “but i’m kind of glad we didn’t.” for a moment neither of you says anything, you’re suddenly very aware of how close the booth is, how the space between your knees under the table is barely a few inches.

juju glances down briefly before looking back up at you. “don’t worry,” she adds, a teasing edge creeping back into her tone, “i’m still planning on locking you up next game.”

you snort. “good luck.” she smiles and somehow the rivalry doesn’t feel smaller after tonight, if anything it feels bigger because now you know what juju watkins looks like when she’s sitting across from you at midnight, laughing quietly over fries instead of trying to steal the ball from your hands and that might make guarding her next time even harder.

the worst part is you don’t realize how much harder it is until the next time you step on the court across from her, it’s a few weeks later, another rivalry game, the kind that fills the arena before the teams even finish warmups, red and blue scattered through the stands while the noise builds into something constant and electric, and when you jog out of the tunnel with your team the first thing you notice isn’t the crowd or the lights or the scoreboard above the court.

it’s her, juju is already out there stretching near half court, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, and when she glances up and spots you something flickers across her face before she can hide it, something quick and almost soft that disappears the second her teammates start talking around her.

for a second neither of you looks away then lauren nudges your shoulder as you pass. “focus,” she mutters you forcing yourself to look somewhere else because suddenly the court doesn’t feel like just a court anymore.

now it’s the place where you’re supposed to guard someone you sat across from at midnight, someone who leaned over a diner table and told you she was glad you didn’t spend the whole night arguing.

tipoff happens and the game explodes into motion immediately, fast and physical the way these matchups always are, bodies colliding under the basket, sneakers squeaking across polished wood, the crowd roaring every time the ball changes hands.

juju finds you early, of course she does yet she’s guarding you again, sliding in front of your cuts, bumping your shoulder when you try to drive, the two of you moving around each other like you’ve been doing it for years.

except this time every little thing feels different when she brushes past you fighting through a screen you notice the familiar scent of her shampoo from that night in the diner and it throws your concentration off for half a second.

half a second is enough for her to steal the ball, she’s already sprinting down the court before you can react when the crowd erupts when she scores on the other end as she jogs back she passes close enough to you that your arms almost touch.

“you’re distracted,” she murmurs, you glare at her. “you wish.” but the truth sits heavy in your chest because she’s not wrong.

the game gets rougher as it goes on, the rivalry snapping back into place piece by piece, the trash talk returning, the frustration building every time one of you gets the better of the other.

late in the fourth quarter the score is tied, the possession ends up in your hands.

you drive hard toward the lane and juju steps in front of you instantly, bodies colliding as you both fight for position, the contact sharp enough to send you stumbling slightly as you throw the ball toward the rim.

it misses the whistle blows, the crowd groans as you and juju end up standing under the basket facing each other, both breathing hard yet a moment neither of you speaks then she shakes her head slightly.

“that wasn’t your shot.” you scoff. “like you’d know.” her gaze lingers on your face for a second longer than it should. “i do,” she says quietly, the look in her eyes is different again, something complicated sitting behind the usual competitive fire, and for half a second the noise of the arena fades into the background then a ref calls for the inbound and the moment disappears.

the game ends with usc winning by one as the buzzer sounds and the arena explodes while your chest feels hollow. you walk through the handshake line automatically, barely hearing what anyone says until you reach juju.

she takes your hand, her grip is firm but not rough. “good game,” she says. it’s the same thing she always says but this time it sounds different. you nod once, pulling your hand away.

“yeah.” moment it seems like she might say something else she doesn’t the line moves and the two of you are pulled apart by teammates and coaches and cameras later when you step out of the arena the night air feels colder than it should.

your phone buzzes in your pocket, you pull it out expecting a message from lauren about the bus but instead it’s a text from a number you saved after that diner night.

juju: guess we’re even now.

you stare at the message for a long moment before typing back.

you: still one more game this season.

three dots appear almost instantly, then disappear, then appear again.

juju: yeah.

another pause then one more message.

juju :just basketball though.

the words sit heavy on the screen, just basketball like the diner never happened, like the way she looked at you across that small table didn’t mean anything.

your fingers hover over the keyboard before you finally lock your phone and slide it back into your pocket without answering because maybe that’s all this was ever supposed to be.

a rivalry.

two players chasing the same win and the worst part is when you look back toward the arena doors, half expecting to see her standing there again under the streetlights like she was that first night.