JuJu knows exactly who you are. She's known about you for years, followed your career, replayed your highlights; you were it for her.

In a way she hadn't thought about, it was kind of weird that JuJu “admired” someone who was only a year older than her. But, in her defense, you were basically the second coming of A'ja Wilson.

And it was also a little strange for JuJu to “admire” someone whom she could never seem to beat.

There was only one player who could block JuJu's shots, and it was you.

Every match-up between you and JuJu, you had always managed to block half her shots and walk away with the win.

It drove JuJu crazy—in the best way.

After 4 state championships and whispers about you committing to USC—which excited 17-year-old JuJu—you instead committed to UConn.

Despite being initially upset that you chose a college hours away, JuJu followed your entire freshman year. But something else happened during the year you were gone.

JuJu started dreaming about you.

And not just a pop-up of you in her dream—though that was weird too. Her dreams were literally about you.

Her sitting courtside, watching your game, then all of a sudden JuJu's on the court and you're walking towards her with a big grin.

Or, late night drives, windows down, music playing softly in the background, JuJu thinks she's by herself, then she feels someone grabbing her hand, and there you are. Holding JuJu's hand, smiling softly at her and leaning in. Then she wakes up.

It drove JuJu crazy—and not in the best way.

You led UConn to the final four, but with Paige and Azzi and the other players out with injuries, your run was ended by the Stanford Cardinals.

Still, you had an outstanding freshman year, being named Freshman of the Year, with WBCA, The Athletics and BIG EAST, along with receiving many other awards—almost as much as Paige, which you constantly bragged about.

JuJu, of course, liked every post about it, and she had fully accepted that her dreams were now full of you and were not going away. Not that she wanted them to, JuJu knew that her dreams were the only way she could be that close to you.

She hadn't planned on telling anyone about her dreams of you, but after Rayah suggested truth or dare as team bonding and Dominique asked JuJu what was an embarrassing secret she had, the dream thing just slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

And yes, it was embarrassing that JuJu still dreamt about you, even though she was technically grown now.

The team went crazy, and from then on, they constantly poked fun at JuJu by playing your highlights or turning on your games.

The first time USC faced UConn, you were out with a sprained ankle, JuJu knew you had been hurt, and even though she had tried to stay focused, she couldn't help herself and kept glancing over, something that your teammates took advantage of, and they pulled through, advancing UConn to the Final Four.

After the game, your teammates told you about JuJu constantly looking in your direction, and even though you didn't know JuJu that well, you remembered that getting to play against her was always a good time.

You hugged her after Paige, telling her that she did good, and that you looked forward to playing against her next year. JuJu kind of froze, having your hands on her waist, but she snapped out of it and smiled back at you.

JuJu won many awards and Freshman of the Year, which you liked and reposted—you were just returning the favour, you know?

That off-season, you and JuJu seemed to be meeting everywhere. Filming videos, ads and doing collabs, but JuJu still couldn't quite find the courage to actually talk to you.

She would talk around you. Then, when you were asked a direct question, she would tune out and stare somewhere else so that she didn't draw attention to herself by staring at you like a puppy.

The season started again, and you knew. It was time to win a National Championship.

It was Paige's last year, and after the devastating loss just months ago, you knew Paige wasn't leaving without a natty.

Then it was time. USC was playing against UConn.

JuJu couldn't wait. She dreamt about the moment she could play against you, remembering what you had said all those months ago. She was counting down the days till she could see you.

You were excited.

You haven't played against JuJu since high school. But you do remember always walking away with the win, and you had no doubts that this time was no different.

Practice that morning was intense, but in a good way. A way that had your muscles moving, and your brain was already starting to enter game mode.

In the locker room, KK and Paige had zeroed in on you and had started talking about JuJu.

KK slid up to your locker and said, “Soooo…”

You raised your eyebrows, “Can I help you, KK?”

Paige stood on the other side of your locker. “So, how do you feel about going up against your admirer?” Paige wiggled her eyebrows, clearly insinuating something.

You frowned, “Admirer?”

“You know, JuJu,” KK grinned

You stopped frowning, and your face settled into something between recognition and amusement, “Ohhhh, JuJu.”

Paige and KK shared a look, clearly looking for something juicy.

“What about her?” You shrugged

KK gave a deadpan look, “Girl, boo, what do you mean ‘what about her?’ ”

Paige quickly cut in, “She has a crush on you.”

You shrugged again, “So?”

Paige and KK shared another look, then in unison they yelled, “So?!”

“She doesn't have a crush on me.” Paige and KK opened their mouths to interrupt, but you ignored them and continued, “Just because you caught her staring at me during one game, doesn't mean she likes me.”

“Uh—” KK went to say something, but you cut her off again.

“And, even if she did, it doesn't matter.”

Paige and KK stared blankly at you, KK in slight annoyance from being interrupted so many times.

“We're just playing basketball, and that's all that matters when we're on the court. Not some silly crush you two think JuJu has on me.”

You looked between them, making sure the message got across, then you grabbed your stuff and walked off.

Later in the day, the team had one last shoot around before heading back to their dorms to nap, eat, shower, whatever.

You did all those things, getting well rested before the game, then fuelling your body with good food before jumping in the shower. While in the shower, you started thinking about what Paige and KK said. Did JuJu actually have a crush on you?

You weren't dumb enough to let your thoughts be all about JuJu before a game (knowing it would only distract you), but you gave yourself a couple of minutes to really think about it.

You had convinced yourself she didn't like you, especially because in the past, she seemed dead set on not having any interactions with you at all. And if you did have to talk, it was limited. You had thought that maybe JuJu didn't like you, but what if it was, in fact, the opposite, and she really liked you?

Getting out of the shower, you wiped all thoughts about JuJu from your mind and got ready for the game.

Showing up in your team gear, lash extensions brushed out perfectly, hair sleeked into a tight ponytail, your hair swinging satisfyingly behind you. Your lip gloss caught the light just right, and you took some quick pictures before the game with some early fans, then headed inside.

The girls were inside, most of them doing their pregame rituals. You did yours, then CD told you it was time to leave and start warm-ups. You all lined up and ran out.

Warm-ups were solid. Despite the initial nervousness you always get before every game, it, like always, went away by warm-ups as you got distracted by Paige yelling “Butterfly” right in your ear.

JuJu's eyes were trained on you as she watched you during your warm-ups. She had to be knocked out of it multiple times by her teammates because her staring was starting to get concerning looks from everyone around her.

Soon enough, the game started.

It was a bad game from the start. UConn just wasn't connected like they usually were. But thank God for you, right? Or thank A'ja Wilson?

You were blocking shots like they were nothing. Swatting them into the stands like it was the championship game. When you blocked the shots, you quickly grabbed the ball, kicking it out to your teammates and hoping they pulled through.

The team fed off your energy, and UConn started making a comeback. For the first two quarters, Geno had put Paige on JuJu, but after seeing the shots you were blocking, he swapped the two of you.

And then, the viral moment.

Someone on USC's team jumped for the rebound, then kicked it out to JuJu, who was on the three-point line. You knew she was gonna shoot it and had already jumped up, and just as she released the ball, you swatted it, sending it flying to the other side of the court.

And, usually, that would be the viral moment. “#15 blocks #12 JuJu Watkins,” but instead, it was the next moment that went viral.

Because of the direction you jumped, you landed on the other side of JuJu, but the force of you (basically) flying past JuJu, sent her tumbling onto her back.

The whistle blew, and you turned around to see the ref call a shooting foul on you. Now, you knew you hadn't touched JuJu, but judging by where the ref was standing, you could see why he thought it was a foul, but that didn't stop you from getting angry at how blind the ref was.

You stepped over JuJu's body, one foot planted between her legs, the other planted by her side. You stood over her, waving your hands, yelling at the ref.

JuJu was leaning up slightly, shamelessly looking up at you, like you were some kind of goddess from another dimension. From JuJu's perspective, she could see the sweat dripping down your face, and it made you look like a glazed donut. Your legs were smooth, and JuJu could see the muscle definition in them, even in your arms. Thank God for the gym. Or thank Geno? Or thank you? Either way, thank you for blessing JuJu.

Your hair was swaying slightly and JuJu couldn't stop staring, mouth agape as she half-listened to you yelling at the ref.

You didn't want to get a tech, so you turned to Geno and gestured to the ref, only to see that Geno was already making his way over, nodding his head and walking over to challenge the foul.

You calmed slightly at that and turned to JuJu, who was still staring at you like you hung the stars and the one you were still standing over. You moved back slightly and extended your arm down to her. JuJu snapped out of her awe and grabbed your hand. You pulled her up and placed your hand on her hip, tapped her twice and muttered, “Sorry.”

JuJu's face flushed as she felt your hands on her, then you grabbed her waist and moved around her, walking over to Geno and the gathered refs.

JuJu gulped, then grabbed her jersey and started fluffing it to calm herself down.

Yeah, that was the part that went viral. “#12 JuJu Watkins flustered from #15?”

She walked over to the huddle with her teammates, but gazed back at you and watched as you stood watching for the results of the challenge.

That moment. The feeling of your fingers pressed into her waist, and the slight rasp in your voice when you apologised.

JuJu was obsessed. Her dreams were nothing compared to real life. And now she wanted—no, needed—more.

UConn ended up winning. By one. 72 - 73.

It was close, but after another block from you, the ball fell right into Paige's hands. You immediately sprinted to the other end, and after Paige sent a no-look pass to you, you hit a 3-point shot and got the win.

It seems even in college, JuJu still can't seem to beat you—and she loves it.

it’s been almost five months since you and juju broke up, but no one in her family seems to accept that it’s been over.

you and juju’s breakup was super unexpected to everyone. you guys were like a match made in heaven. everyone around you knew you loved each other deeply.

juju wasn’t a bad partner, she just was never there for you. not physically, she was always there, but emotionally she’d shut down when things got hard. whenever you needed reassurance, she could never give it. she’d just get quiet.

when you’d ask her about it, she’d try to change the subject. the more you tried reaching for her, the more she pulled away, so you just decided to end things.

even after that, juju’s parents still love you and they still invite you places, whether it’s their house, a restaurant, or some type of gathering. you’re always invited.

sari still calls you every day to see if you’re doing okay. robert always looks forward to you coming by, and with her siblings, you talk to mali like you guys are best friends.

juju can’t stand it, and it doesn’t help that her parents and siblings adore you. she feels like it just makes everything awkward and weird.

tonight sari and robert are hosting a family dinner, and sari decided to invite you. and juju is trying to persuade her to uninvite you.

“mom, why did you invite her?” juju says.

“juju, it’s a family dinner. why are you so upset about it?” sari says as she’s setting the table.

“yeah mom, keyword family.”

“she is family, juju,” sari says sternly.

“no, she is not, mom. why are you inviting my ex to have dinner with us?”

robert walks into the kitchen. “what’s all the commotion about?” he asks.

“she’s upset about me inviting y/n,” sari says.

“it’s not that big of a deal, juju,” he says.

“that’s exactly what i told her. she keeps acting like it’s such a big deal though,” sari adds.

juju puts her hands on top of her head and lets out a sharp breath. “oh my gosh. why does no one see the issue here? why would you invite my ex? that’s so weird. it’s going to be awkward.”

she turns and walks upstairs, heading straight to her bedroom. she drops onto her bed, staring at the ceiling as if it’s going to give her an answer that makes any of this make sense.

for a moment, it almost works. her eyes start to get heavy, the tension finally loosening just a little.

then her mom’s voice cuts through from downstairs.

“juju, come open the door for your sister.”

she doesn’t move right away. just lies there for a few seconds, staring at nothing.

then she exhales, pushes herself up, and drags herself out of the room.

by the time she gets downstairs, she already feels drained in a way she can’t shake off.

she reaches the front door, unlocks it, and swings it open.

mali is standing there, purse in hand. she pauses for a second before stepping inside.

“you good?” she asks, closing the door behind her.

juju stands there with her arms crossed.

“no,” she says flatly.

mali raises a brow, already knowing what this is about.

“juju, it’s not that serious.”

“it is that serious,” she shoots back, voice tightening. “y’all keep acting like it’s normal.”

“you’re the one making it weird,” mali says casually, hanging her purse up on the hall tree before walking toward the kitchen.

juju follows her. “i’m making it weird?” she lets out a short laugh. “she’s my ex, and she’s coming to our house for dinner.”

mali shrugs. “you guys were dating for so long she’s practically part of the family now, juju. get used to it.”

that hits something sharp in her, and she doesn’t respond.

because that’s the part she hates the most.

they walk into the kitchen and juju takes a seat at the island, watching as mali greets their parents like nothing is wrong in the world.

“you guys are in—” mali starts, but she’s cut off by a knock at the door.

“she must be here,” sari says.

sari wipes her hands and walks out of the kitchen, heading to the door. she opens it.

and there you are.

“hi, mrs. watkins,” you say softly, hugging her.

“hi, honey. you look so beautiful today. come inside so we can get ready to eat.”

you step in and close the door behind you.

the house shifts immediately, like it always does when you’re there.

you walk into the kitchen. mali smiles and greets you, robert does too.

juju, on the other hand, avoids your eyes completely.

everyone eventually moves to the dining table while sari finishes bringing out the plates.

mali and robert are talking to you, asking how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, like time didn’t split anything in half.

sari sets down the last plate. everyone starts eating.

except juju.

she takes a few bites, then just starts picking at her food, eyes distant, jaw tight.

then mali, too casually, like she doesn’t feel the weight of what she’s about to say, speaks up.

“i hope you two figure it out. you guys were an amazing couple.”

sari and robert glance up.

the air changes.

you freeze.

juju freezes.

for a second, she just sits there, processing it, staring at the table like she can rearrange the moment if she looks hard enough.

then she exhales.

“why are you doing that?” she says, voice low.

mali blinks. “doing what?”

juju shakes her head slightly, like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“being weird.”

“you know what?” she says suddenly, pushing her chair back. it scrapes loudly against the floor. “i’m not doing this.”

she stands, grabbing her phone from the table.

for a second, she pauses, like she wants to say something else but can’t find a version of it that won’t come out wrong.

then she looks up.

“and so everyone is aware, i’m done.”

she turns and walks out of the dining room.

no one stops her.

before anyone can say a word, the front door slams shut.

the way you'd tend something you weren't sure would survive being looked at too hard it started as texting that went too late, then it was her jacket in your car and you not giving it back on purpose, then it was a night in march you don't talk about because talking about it makes it feel like it needs a name, and you weren't ready to name it yet still aren't, technically six months in and you still don't have a word for what you post, if you post anything, which you don't.

it isn't that you're ashamed you want to be extremely clear with yourself about that, standing here in a ballroom with a signature cocktail sweating in your hand, watching juju laugh at something one of her teammates said from fifteen feet away like she isn't also tracking exactly where you are in the room. 

it isn't shame it's math it's the fact that the second this becomes a known thing, it becomes a discussed thing, and discussed things get dissected, and dissected things get ugly, and you have watched it happen to enough people you know to understand that "ugly" isn't a worst-case scenario, it's a baseline expectation some slice of the internet is always going to have opinions about who a girl like her should be seen with you'd rather not test how big that slice is.

so; the orbit of the careful four-second math, the not-touching in public that has become its own kind of intimacy, actually  a whole vocabulary of look and don't look, stand near but not next to, laugh at the joke but don't laugh at her.

you're good at it, you've had practice what you have not had practice at is three vodka sodas on an empty stomach at a party that started at eight and somehow it is now almost midnight, and someone's phone is playing a song that goes straight into your sternum every single time, and juju is standing under a string of gold lights looking like this is just a regular tuesday for her, unfairly gorgeous, laughing with her head tipped back, and you are for the first time in six months of careful math not doing any math at all.

you're just looking at her, the studbudz stream is not supposed to be your problem it's set up in the corner of the after-party a ring light, two mics, a couch, a rotating cast of players stopping by to talk trash and do bits for the fans watching live and you clocked it hours ago the way you clock every camera in a room, which is to say; know where it's pointed, stay out of the frame, treat it like a landmine with a very generous blast radius.

you were staying out of the frame you want that on the record, later, when you're replaying this in your head at 3am you were staying out of the frame, for hours, doing the geometry perfectly, keeping the couch and the ring light and the two mics in your peripheral vision at all times like a very well-trained dog and then the song happens.

you don't even clock it as a decision that's the part that will keep you up it's not like you thought i am now going to do something it's more like the second vodka soda had worn a groove into your brain smooth enough that when the opening bars came through the speaker that low, slinky bassline, the kind of song that sounds like it was written specifically to be sung to someone across a room your body just went you swayed before you decided to sway. 

your mouth was already shaping the first line before you clocked that your mouth was doing anything at all and juju was right there eight feet away, laughing at something, half turned toward you without fully turning, the way she does when she's performing not looking at you as hard as you're performing not looking at her.

you don't remember choosing to look at her instead of away you remember the moment after that the moment where you were already singing, already halfway through mouthing the first line, hips already moving on their own recognizance, and you had a single, sober, horrified thought; you are singing this out loud, to her face, in public and then the vodka soda and the string lights and the way she was looking back at you, like you'd hit a switch in her she didn't have full control over either, just steamrolled the horrified thought completely.

so you kept going you sang the part about wanting somebody enough to risk everything sane for them, and you swayed your hips like the floor was tilting toward her specifically, and you made eyes actual, unmistakable, movie-poster eyes across eight feet of ballroom, at juju watkins, at all-star weekend, while a livestream ran twenty feet to your left with a couch full of players doing bits that nobody at home was watching anymore, because something in the corner of the frame had gotten a lot more interesting.

you didn't know that last part yet you were still just singing juju's whole face changed you watched it happen in real time the careful, practiced, we don't do this in public stillness cracking down the middle, replaced by something dumbfounded and delighted and just slightly panicked, like she was watching you set fire to something she'd been protecting for six months and couldn't decide if she wanted to help you fan the flames.

she laughed a real laugh, surprised out of her, hand coming up to cover her mouth like that would undo it and mouthed something back at you that you'll never be able to prove in a court of law but that you are ninety percent sure was you're insane, and forty percent sure was also i love you, because juju's face does this thing when she's overwhelmed where every emotion just runs together into the same helpless grin.

you did a little spin you want it on the record that you did a little spin, unprompted, because the song asked for it and you had, apparently, stopped being a person who says no to things and behind you, twenty feet away, the studbudz camera which had been pointed at the couch the entire night, faithfully documenting a conversation about somebody's rookie season free throw percentage caught, in the soft-focus background of its frame, eleven full seconds of you.

you find out at 12:41am you're in the bathroom, the good kind of tipsy where the room is warm and pleasant instead of spinning, reapplying lip gloss you don't need because your hands want something to do, when your phone buzzes against the marble counter hard enough that you jump it's your group chat with six unread messages in the time it took you to walk from the ballroom to here.

azzi: WAIT azzi: WAIT WAIT WAIT azzi: are you singing to juju watkins on the studbudz stream right now azzi: i am SCREAMING azzi: send help i am on the floor azzi: ARE YOU OKAY BECAUSE THE INTERNET IS NOT

you stare at your phone for a full four seconds before the words rearrange themselves into something your brain can actually process.

studbudz stream.

you thought you were background you thought genuinely, sincerely thought, in whatever alcohol-softened corner of your brain was doing risk assessment that you were eight feet outside the frame, safely tucked into the part of the party that wasn't anybody's business you open twitter with fingers that don't feel like your own.

the clip has forty-one thousand views it is one minute and eight seconds old, according to the timestamp on the earliest repost, and it already has forty-one thousand views, and the caption on the top quote-tweet eleven thousand likes, still climbing while you watch, the number ticking up like a stock price just says; ok so who is she and why is juju watkins looking at her like THAT

you watch the clip, you make yourself watch the whole clip, all eleven seconds of it, hand pressed flat against your own sternum like you can hold your heart in place through sheer physical pressure it's you have to be honest with yourself it's bad not bad like ugly, bad like undeniable. 

the camera isn't even fully on you; you're soft-focus, half-cropped by the edge of the frame, but the choreography of it does all the talking anyway. you, swaying, singing, unmistakably at someone and then the camera doesn't even have to cut to juju for the internet to know exactly who because for one full second, right at the end, right when you do the stupid unplanned spin, the frame catches her too catches her face doing the thing it did catches her not looking away.

eleven seconds that's all it took eleven seconds and six months of very careful math evaporate into forty-one thousand views and climbing your hands are shaking you set the phone down on the marble counter face-down like that will make it stop existing, and you look at yourself in the mirror flushed, gloss half-applied, eyes too wide and you think, with a clarity that cuts straight through the vodka; oh my god. what did i just do.

juju finds you four minutes later you haven't left the bathroom you've locked yourself in the single-occupancy one at the end of the hall, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with your phone in your lap, doing the thing where you refresh a number over and over even though watching it climb is actively making everything worse.

fifty-eight thousand views there's a soft knock. "hey it's me."

you almost don't want to open the door some small, cowardly part of you wants to just sit in this bathroom until all-star weekend is over and pretend this whole night happened to somebody else but it's juju, and you have never in six months not opened a door for juju, so you get up on legs that feel unreliable and let her in.

she looks okay, first; she looks like she ran here, a little, hair slightly less perfect than it was twenty minutes ago, and second; she looks like she's trying very hard to arrange her face into something calm for your benefit, and third; underneath the calm, she looks scared you know her scared face you have seen it exactly twice before; once during a game she thought she'd lost before the buzzer, once during a phone call from her mom that she wouldn't talk about after this is a version of that face.

she shuts the door behind her and locks it and for a second neither of you says anything. "okay," she says finally, low. "okay. so."

"i know." your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. "i know, i'm so sorry, i wasn't even thinking, i didn't realize the camera was—"

"hey. hey." she crosses the bathroom in two steps and takes your face in both hands, tilting it up so you have to look at her instead of at the floor. "i'm not mad at you."

"you should be. i just —" your voice cracks embarrassingly. "i just outed us to the entire internet because i had three vodka sodas and a song came on." something flickers across her face and here's the thing you'll turn over later, in the dark, trying to catalog it honestly instead of how you want to remember it, it isn't only fear. 

there's a beat, half a second, where something in her just lights up like some part of her that's been holding its breath for six months finally got to exhale but then the fear catches up and swallows the light whole, and her thumb brushes your cheekbone, and she says, quiet: "i'm not mad. i promise i'm not mad. i just —" she exhales, long, through her nose. "i need like five minutes to figure out how scared i'm supposed to be right now. is that okay? can you give me that?"

you nod, because it's the only thing you can do, and you watch her pull out her own phone with hands that are not quite steady, and you watch her face do the thing your face has been doing for the last four minutes the scroll, the flinch, the swallow.

"okay," she says again, mostly to herself. "okay, it's — it's not as bad as it could be. people are mostly just —" she huffs something that's almost a laugh. "people are mostly just losing their minds in a good way. there's a whole thread doing a timeline of, like, old photos. someone found a picture from your friend's birthday in march where i'm apparently 'looking at you like a whole meal.'" a real laugh escapes her this time, short and disbelieving. "i don't even remember that photo being taken."

"judea."

"i'm not — i'm looking, okay, i'm being honest with you, i'm not gonna pretend it's all good, there's some stuff that's not —" she stops herself. "what stuff."

she hesitates as that hesitation tells you everything. "judea."

"there's some stuff," she says carefully, "that's not about you being a girl who sang to me. there's some stuff that's about the fact that i'm gay and public about it now, whether i chose that or not, tonight, in about an hour." 

her jaw works. "and there's people who have opinions about that. there's always people who have opinions about that. i knew that going into this — i've known that since i was fifteen and figured out who i was — but knowing it in the abstract and watching the first ugly reply come in are two different things." your stomach drops somewhere below the tile floor. "i did this to you."

"no." her voice sharpens, just slightly, just enough to mean it. "no. don't do that. you didn't do anything to me you sang a song at a party because you love me and you'd had a couple drinks and your guard was down. that's not a crime. the ugliness isn't your fault, it's theirs. i need you to actually hear that and not just nod at me."

you nod you're not sure you actually hear it but you nod you don't go back to the party juju texts someone you don't ask who, you're too tired to ask who and ten minutes later a car is waiting at a service entrance you didn't know existed, and the two of you are in the back seat of it, not touching, because even now, even in the middle of the wreckage of six months of careful math, some old habit keeps your hands folded separately in your own lap.

it's juju who breaks it halfway through the ride, in the dark, with the city sliding by gold and blurred outside the window, her hand finds yours on the seat between you and laces through it, and you both just look straight ahead, holding hands like it's a secret, in a car, alone, when the entire internet already knows.

it feels stupid it feels like muscle memory that hasn't caught up to the new reality yet you don't let go anyway. "my phone's been going off," she says quietly, eyes on the window. "team group chat found out. coach knows. my mom texted." your stomach lurches. "what did she say?"

a pause. "she said, and i quote, 'well it's about time, i was wondering when you were going to stop being weird about her.'" juju huffs something that's almost a laugh, almost. "she's known about you since april. i just never told you that because i didn't want you freaking out about one more person knowing."

"your mom knew?"

"my mom notices everything. she saw one photo of us from a distance and just knew. she's been very patiently waiting for me to say something for four months."

you don't know whether to laugh or cry, so you do a strange, hiccupping combination of both, and juju's hand tightens around yours, and for a second just a second the fear recedes far enough that you can feel the other thing underneath it. 

the thing that's actually funny the thing that's actually, in some upside-down way, a relief it doesn't last by the time the car pulls up to the hotel, you've checked your phone four more times, and the number has climbed to two hundred and something thousand, and there's a screenshot circulating of your face clear enough this time, someone did the work of stabilizing and zooming captioned with your first name, which someone dug up from god knows where, and the fear comes rushing back in all at once, cold and total.

the hotel room is dark except for the city coming in through the window, all that gold and glass climbing up into a sky that doesn't have any real stars in it, just satellites and planes and the specific insomnia-glow of a city that never actually goes to sleep.

you sit on the edge of the bed with your shoes still on juju, stand by the window for a long minute, arms crossed, phone face-down on the dresser like she's trying to physically distance herself from it, and neither of you talks for a while. "can i say something," you finally manage, "that's going to sound stupid."

"always."

"i keep thinking about the part where it was before i knew anyone saw. like, there's this eleven seconds in my head that's just you, and me, and a song, and it was the best eleven seconds of my whole life, actually, no exaggeration, i have never in six months felt as unguarded as i felt in that eleven seconds. and now that same eleven seconds is a thing two hundred thousand strangers have opinions about, and i don't know how to hold both of those at the same time. i don't know how the best moment of my year and the scariest moment of my year are the exact same eleven seconds."

juju turns from the window in the low light, her face is unreadable for a second, and then it isn't then it's just open, just tired, just twenty-something and scared and in love, all at once. "i know," she says. "i've been sitting here trying to figure out the same thing."

she crosses the room and sits next to you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your knees touch, and for a long moment neither of you says anything else outside, the city keeps doing its indifferent glittering thing, unaware that anything in your life just changed.

"can i tell you the honest, ugly version of what's in my head right now," she says. "not the reassuring version. the real one."

"please."

"okay." she picks at a loose thread on the comforter, not looking at you. "the honest version is: i'm scared about my family not my mom she's fine, she's been fine, she's ready. but my grandma's a different story, and i don't know how she's gonna take it, and i don't want to find out over a viral clip instead of me telling her myself, on my own time, in my own words. that's already been taken away from me and i'm still figuring out how to feel about that." your chest aches. "i'm sorry."

"i know you are. let me finish, though, because there's more, and some of it's not sad." she looks up at you now, and there's something steadier in her eyes. "the honest version is also: i've been performing carefully for five months and some tiny, exhausted part of me is relieved. i'm tired of doing the geometry. i'm tired of not being able to hold your hand at a party. i'm tired of being asked in every single interview if there's 'anyone special' and having to build a whole careful sentence around the fact that yes, obviously, there is, and i'm not allowed to say her name."

"judea—"

"and the honest version is also," she goes on, quieter now, "that i'm scared about my career. i'm scared about sponsors. i'm scared about the two percent of every comment section that's going to say something genuinely cruel, and how it's going to feel to read that while also trying to play basketball on national television. i'm scared about being the story instead of being a basketball player who happens to be gay, because i've watched that happen to other people and it swallows them whole for a whole season. that's the scary, ugly, real version. i'm not gonna pretend i don't feel all of that just to make you feel better." you sit with that for a second it's heavier than the reassurance you wanted, but it's honest, and honest is worth more right now than comfortable.

"and the other part," you say slowly. "the relieved part. tell me more about that part."

something in her face softens, just at the edges. "the relieved part is that i don't have to pretend anymore that the way i look at you across a room is nothing. i've been doing that for six months and it's genuinely exhausting, holding my own face still like that. the relieved part is that my mom already knows and she's happy for me. the relieved part is that somewhere in that clip, underneath the panic, there's a version of tonight where a girl sang a whole song at me in front of god and everybody because she loves me too much to keep doing the math. and i don't actually want to go back to a world where that never happened. i just wish it happened on our terms instead of the internet's."

you reach for her hand again this time neither of you hesitates you don't sleep much you lie in the dark with your head on her chest, her heartbeat steady and a little too fast under your ear, both of your phones face-down and buzzing periodically on the nightstand like something feral that hasn't quite been put down for the night.

around 2am you break and check yours anyway it's not all bad that's the thing you weren't braced for you were braced for a wall of ugliness, had steeled yourself for it, and what you actually find, scrolling with your thumb shaking slightly, is mostly noise, and the noise is mostly delighted. 

there are entire threads doing forensic archaeology on your friendship group's instagram, finding a photo from a birthday in march, a blurry background shot from a wnba game in may where you're apparently visible in the crowd wearing her number, a comment she left on a photo of yours in june that someone's now dissecting word by word like it's the dead sea scrolls. 

there's a fancam there's already, unbelievably, at not-quite-2am, a fancam, cut to a pop song, of the eleven seconds looped four times with hearts drawn around your faces in bad photoshop.

"the way she just STARTED SINGING i'm never recovering," one reply says. "juju's face in the last second i am NOT okay." "pls be soft with them you guys they're just two girls in love let them cook."

and then, threaded in between all of that, the other kind fewer than you feared, but present, unmissable once you see the first one; a reply calling it disgusting. a quote-tweet with a bible verse and nothing else, someone dragging up an old, cruel joke about women's sports that has nothing to do with either of you specifically and everything to do with the fact that the internet has never needed a real reason.

you feel juju's chest go still under your ear she's awake she's been awake this whole time, and she felt you tense, and now she's looking at your screen too. "don't read those," she says, low. "you're reading them too."

"i've had longer practice at not letting them land." a beat. "doesn't mean they don't. just means i've got scar tissue you don't have yet."

"i don't want you to need scar tissue for this."

"i know. i wish that for both of us too." she takes the phone gently out of your hand and sets it face down again, and pulls you in closer, chin resting on the top of your head. "can we just — not do this part tonight. can we let tomorrow be the day we deal with the ugly stuff, and let tonight just be the day we admit we're happy underneath all the scared. i think we're allowed to have that. one night. before the discourse cycle really gets going."

you let yourself exhale for what feels like the first time in three hours. "yeah. i think we're allowed to have that."

so you let yourselves have it somewhere around 2:30am, still tangled together, still half-lit by the useless glow of a city that never sleeps, juju hums the first few bars of the song quiet, almost to herself, like she's testing whether it still feels like something you can touch without flinching you still go against her chest. "too soon?" she asks.

"no." your voice comes out thick. "no, i just — i can't believe you remember it well enough to hum it."

"i've had it stuck in my head since you started singing it at me in a ballroom. it's not exactly a song i'm gonna forget the melody of anytime soon." she hums another bar, and this time you feel her smile against the top of your head. "you know you can't ever sing to me in public again, right. legally. it's a liability now."

you laugh a real one, surprised out of you the way hers was surprised out of her, eleven hours ago and a lifetime ago, across a ballroom. "i genuinely didn't decide to. my body just did it."

"i noticed. i almost dropped my drink."

"you did not."

"i absolutely did. ask literally anyone who was standing near me. i had a whole conversation with paige about free-throw percentage and i don't remember a single word of it because i was watching you do a full spin like you were auditioning for something."

"i wasn't auditioning for anything, i was just —" you stop.

"just what." you're quiet for a second, turning it over honestly, the way she asked you to turn over the scared parts honestly. 

"just done pretending i didn't want everybody to know," you admit. "i think some part of me has been done for a while. i think some part of me heard that song and thought good. let them see. i'm tired too. i just didn't let myself know i was tired until three vodka sodas made the decision for me."

juju's arms tighten around you. "that's the part i keep coming back to," she says, quiet. "underneath the scared, underneath everything i'm gonna have to deal with tomorrow with my team and my sponsors and my grandma there's a part of me that's just so happy someone loves me enough to make a fool of herself over it in public. i don't think i've had that before. i don't think anybody's ever wanted me like that, out loud, where people could see."

"i've wanted you like that the entire time. i just kept doing the math instead of saying it."

"i know. i was doing the same math. i think we're gonna have to learn how to stop." morning comes anyway, the way it does, indifferent to how little either of you slept.

it comes with juju's phone buzzing itself half off the nightstand her agent, her PR contact, a group text from three teammates variously supportive and losing their minds, a missed call from her mom that turns out, when she calls back with you sitting cross-legged beside her on the rumpled comforter, to just be her mom laughing so hard she can barely get words out, saying something like "i TOLD you, i told you back in april, you two are about as subtle as a marching band"— and it comes, for you, with a single text from your own mother that just says: you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend. we'll be discussing this. i'm proud of you. call me later.

you cry a little at that one good crying, the kind that doesn't need explaining by ten am there's a statement not from either of you, from the league's official account, a bland, professionally warm little post about "celebrating our players' full, authentic lives on and off the court" that both of you read together, propped up against the headboard with coffee neither of you has touched, and juju snorts. "that's corporate for 'please stop asking us to comment on this.'"

"is that bad?"

"no. actually that's — that's them not making it weird. that's them not making me issue some big coming-out press release i didn't write and don't want. i'll take vague and warm over a headline any day." by noon, her actual, personal instagram the one she barely posts to, four photos a year, mostly gameday fits and one dog picture has a new post. 

it's not dramatic it's a single photo, one you didn't even know she'd taken; you, from the side, mid-laugh at some point earlier in the weekend, unposed, unaware, before any of this happened, before the song, before the eleven seconds, before the two hundred thousand strangers with opinions.

the caption is four words. she's the whole thing.

no hashtag, no grand statement, no acknowledgment of the clip at all, which is, you realize, watching the comments flood in within seconds, exactly the point she's not confirming a scandal, she's just quietly, unbothered, letting you be real your phone buzzes in your hand a text from her, even though she's sitting eight inches away from you on the same bed.

i figured if the internet's gonna know either way, i wanted the first real thing they see from me about it to be true instead of somebody else's clip. hope that's okay.

you look up at her she's watching you with the same face she had in the ballroom, dumbfounded and delighted and just slightly scared, all running together and you don't have a single careful, mathematical thought left in your entire body. "it's okay," you tell her. "it's more than okay."

the discourse doesn't die that day you don't expect it to, not really juju was honest with you about that, and honesty means you know there will be a cycle of it, days maybe weeks of strangers having opinions about a relationship that used to belong only to the two of you. 

there will be the ugly comments, thinner than you feared but not zero, and there will be interviews where she has to find careful new sentences that are the opposite of the old careful sentences, sentences that finally get to include your name.

there will, probably, be a conversation with a grandmother that neither of you is looking forward to, and a longer conversation with sponsors, and a slow unlearning of six months of practiced distance that neither of your bodies will forget overnight, the way you'll probably still flinch, just slightly, the first few times you reach for her hand somewhere public and open, before you remember you're allowed.

but that's a tomorrow's problem, and several tomorrows after that right now, it's just early afternoon, hotel light slanting warm and gold across a bed neither of you have made, and juju is teaching you the second verse of the song properly this time sober, unhurried, no vodka soda involved, just her voice low and a little off-key, laughing every time she messes up the words, you laughing harder at her getting them wrong than you ever laughed at yourself getting them right.

"okay but you have to actually sing it back to me now," she says. "properly. sober. no excuses this time."

"i already sang it to two hundred thousand strangers, i think i've filled my quota."

"you sang it to me," she corrects, pulling you closer by the hand until your knees are tangled together on top of the comforter. "the two hundred thousand strangers were just an accident. i want the version that was actually for me."

so you sing it again quieter this time, no ring light twenty feet away, no accidental audience, just her face six inches from yours, still doing that helpless, overwhelmed, all the feelings running together thing it did the first time, and you understand, singing it slow this time, on purpose this time, exactly what the song was asking for all along not the eleven seconds the internet got, but this: the version where you mean it, and she gets to hear it, and neither of you has to do the careful math anymore.

when you get to the end she doesn't say anything clever she just leans in and kisses you soft, unhurried, the kind of kiss that isn't performing anything for anyone, that exists purely because two people who love each other are finally, finally allowed to be looked at doing it. "for the record," she murmurs against your mouth, "i would let you make a fool of both of us in public again. any day. any song."

"even though it's a liability."

"especially because it's a liability." she pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes soft, the fear from last night quieter now, not gone, just sitting alongside something bigger. "i spent six months being careful and it turns out i didn't actually want careful. i wanted this. i wanted you brave enough for both of us."

"i wasn't brave. i was tipsy."

"you were tipsy and brave," she says. "those aren't mutually exclusive. and for what it's worth — i've never in my life been so glad somebody risked it all on me."

months later after the discourse has mostly gone quiet, after the grandmother conversation turned out gentler than either of you feared, after the sponsors issued their own bland warm statements and moved on, after "she's the whole thing" became a phrase your friends won't let either of you live down you'll still find the original clip sometimes, resurfacing in some corner of the internet during a slow news week, eleven seconds looped and re-looped, captioned by strangers who will never know the half of what came after it.

you'll watch it, sometimes, just the two of you, curled up on a couch that's actually yours now, in an apartment you actually share now, and juju will laugh every single time at the exact moment you do the unplanned spin, and you'll groan and hide your face in a pillow every single time, and neither reaction will ever get old. "i still can't believe you just started singing," she'll say, for maybe the fortieth time.

"i still can't believe you didn't drop your drink."

"i told you, i almost did." and somewhere in there, underneath the teasing, underneath the running joke you'll probably still be making a decade from now, there's the quieter truth neither of you says out loud very often, because you don't have to anymore that the scariest night of your relationship turned out, eventually, to also be the best thing that ever happened to it. 

and because your schools were practically neighbors, the comparisons started early. rankings, records broken, stats— before you could catch your breath, you were competing with a girl you’d never even spoken to. you never wanted to hate her, but the colors on your jerseys demanded it. 

the rivalry only worsened when ucla and usc finally played against each other. you could feel it in the air. a heavy pressure to dominate and make your school proud… and prove to her, and everyone watching, exactly where she stood. 

you gave it your all, highest scorer on the roster. yet it still wasn’t enough. juju walked away with another win, but this time with something new: respect for you, not ucla, because fuck 'em.

after that, shit changed. 

she followed you on instagram that night. you followed her back.

then, a dm. "ass still hurt from that bta?" bold, cocky, and twisted the knife even further...but it made you laugh. it shouldn't have, as fucked up as it was, but you couldn’t help it. 

if she wanted to make jokes, you could joke around too.

"i should be asking you that. it was my block that had you on the floor."

suddenly, the messages escalate. what started as a joke turns into a “good game” after every match, sending each other reels you thought were funny late at night, check-in’s during the day, and talking about whatever’s on your mind— class, practice, and worries of the future.

the rivalry is still there, because of the competitive nature you both can’t shake off, but with an underlying care for each other. trash talk isn’t meant to hurt anymore, but to encourage. 

one day, she says, 

"if i win, i wanna see you after the game."

it scared you then. thumb hovering, wondering what to say. it felt too real, way past the back and forth you share between a screen. what would you even do together? where, without people seeing you?

but your fingers move faster than you can think.

"you won't. but okay."

and usc does win that night. you wonder if it's because you weren't enough, or if you really wanted to see her.

juju walks off the court wearing a deep smirk, one people would see as her being proud of handling business, but you knew what it truly meant.

"i told you so."

it's not the last time you see her. whenever she's in town, and even after the season is over, you go to her off campus apartment like clockwork. you keep these secret meetups going, despite your mind at you screaming to stop this. it's wrong. what would they think?

but you push those thoughts to the back of your mind every time, especially when she pushes you down her bed, her face in your neck breathing you in deep, hand trailing down your stomach and into your pants while she mutters about how she's going to take care of you.

but that was then. not now.

you've learned your lesson. you fucked around, found out, and got your heart broken. shocker.

there's 30 minutes before tip off now, nerves already crawling all over your skin. coach tells your teammates to go to the bathroom, get some water, breathe, stretch— whatever it is you need to do to get ready before warmups.

it's a big game against...you don't even want to say their name.

the locker room is lively, hyped and ready to head to the court, but you push up from where you sit. "i'm going to the bathroom," you mutter, shakily. lauren studies you worriedly, "you good?"

but you leave before she can prod any further.

you walk down the hallway, trying to drown out the storm in your mind. you're okay. it's okay. focus.

through the static, you hear slow footsteps behind you. you're tempted to look back, but don't. it's none of your business. focus.

when you stop in front of the bathroom, the footsteps stop into a deep silence. you turn your head, expecting lauren or literally anyone else, carelessly glancing back and ready to say the usual, "i'm fine".

until you freeze completely.

juju stands a few feet away, that signature bun styled on her head, her face unreadable. no smirk or attitude this time— standing like a ghost of your past coming back to haunt you.

of course she’d end up here.

this hallway is practically abandoned, far from both locker rooms. nobody uses it for anything but privacy and that’s exactly why it became your spot. the one place where you and her used to meet up before games, sneaking away from teammates, coaches, cameras… away from everything.

"hey." she says, hands in pockets, trying to act nonchalant.

"...hi."

"nice seeing you here."

“hm.” you say, simply, not buying it. “because you followed me here.”

her eyes quickly dart around the hallway, looking for an excuse to justify her presence— “i needed to go to the water fountain.” she shrugs, cooly. you turn your head, and see it behind you, next to the girl's bathroom door.

“sure. and where’s your water bottle?” you question her, eyes filled with amusement. her eyes narrow at you, but you don't stand down. she fires back, annoyed at how you absolutely see through her. “ever heard of someone using their mouth?”

“oh, i’ve heard of it.” your words hit exactly how you wanted it to. juju freezes for half a second. it’s quick, but noticeable and it lets you know it worked.

what you really wanted to say was that you felt it. with her tongue. last summer in california, when she snuck you in her apartment, rivalry discarded just like the clothes thrown across the room.

“you really gon' do this before the game?”

“do what?”

“get smart with me like i’m not capable of beating y’all.”

“wow, judea. still delusional?” you never call her by her actual name. not in messages, not on the court, not even when you try to get under her skin. it’s always juju. from the way her hand clenches, another hit lands. but she recovers like she always does, acting like it doesn't hurt her. “more like realistic.”

you give her a glare, walking off, trying your best to pretend she isn’t there. just go to the bathroom, you think, you have a game to win. to beat usc. to beat her. juju doesn’t miss the fire in your eyes— this is more than just basketball to you, it’s personal now.

“you’re still mad about it, aren’t you?” she calls out. you stop abruptly.

she was linked with some girl after your week-long sleepover you tried so hard to hide from your teammates over the summer. the one where she kissed every part of your body, whispering sweet nothings you shouldn’t have let yourself believe.

wbb tea pages thrive on exaggerating drama with their headlines, but the pictures spoke louder than anything else.

the way juju smiled around her— eyes crinkled with that familiar shine. her arm was wrapped around her shoulder, resting like it belonged there. it wasn’t about the girl. not really.

it was about that fact that you and juju could never be posted up together like that in public, because of what the two of you represent. ucla and usc don’t fuck with each other.

and their superstars shouldn’t either. period.

for the next 3 years, and maybe even beyond that, what the two of you have isn’t real. you’ve got to shove it away, for the sake of both your careers.

and if this is what love is, it’s making you feel sick.

you whip around, turning back to approach her. with a pointed finger to her chest, “you can fuck whoever you want, judea. that’s none of my business.”

“what—?“ she stutters, brows knitting together. her hand reaches for you, but you step back. “first of all, stop calling me judea, you know better. second of all, who said anything about fucking?”

you feel tears building, and look away. you can't do this, not now. “you ever consider that she’s just a friend?” she finally says, voice quieter, hoping you'll see past all the drama and realize.

“i don’t want to know.”

her softness disappears, replaced with a scoff. ah, you just want to be stubborn. “right, right. of course not, because hating me is easier than accepting the truth.”

you don’t say anything. juju fills the silence anyway.

“you ignored me for weeks, and somehow you’re the victim?”

“i never said—"

“but you’re acting like it!” she raises her voice, but quickly lowers it, aware of who she is, who she's with, and of what someone hearing could do to the two of you. “listen to me. she’s nothing to me, nothing like what we have.”

“what exactly do we have, juju?” you snap. “it’s not friendship. we’re definitely not a couple, so what is it?” you wait, hoping for an answer, something real...but it doesn't come.

you scoff, not knowing if it's because she can't say anything or because you actually expected something more this time. maybe both.

“you can’t even give me an answer.” juju lowers her head, ashamed. of what? you wish you knew. the clock behind juju glows bright red, numbers blaring at you: twenty minutes left to warmup. you can feel your stomach tighten at the reminder.

you’re not wasting another second with her.

you pivot, ready to leave, to forget this moment and focus on the game. but she’s faster this time. her hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist, stopping you before she loses you for good.

“i’m coming over.” she says, not hesitating. “after the game. win or lose.”

“juju…you can’t.“

“please. i need you. i miss you." you try to ignore it, how she's saying everything you wanted to hear that summer, the reassurance you needed. "i’m sorry— what else do you want me to say?”

that you'll show me off. to your parents, friends, and the whole world.

instead, you stick with, “it’s gonna complicate shit.”

“no one will know.” she says, stepping closer, her fingers on your wrist now intertwined with yours, “just give me one more chance, and i’ll prove it to you.”

but it’s never one more chance. she’ll text you “i’m here” again— knowing without a doubt you’ll answer, opening your door wide, letting her in. and you'll forgive her. she'll hurt you again, and you'll go right back to hating her. a cycle you can't break out of.

you don’t have the strength to speak, so you slam your lips against hers. juju stiffens, but slowly returns the kiss, giving back the same intensity. it’s not a loving kiss— it’s hate, annoyance, and lust all mixed up into a toxic feeling. "if someone sees—"

"i don't give a fuck." you spit out, lying straight through your teeth. you bite her lip, and she groans, ripping her hand out of yours just to place them on your waist. red and blue clash together, jerseys rubbing from the closeness. juju's thigh comes in between your legs, you gasping at the sudden pressure, breaking away from the kiss before you find yourself grinding on it.

"this doesn't mean i forgive you," you mutter against her lips. another lie.

"i know." she breathes. "but you will eventually.”

you're not able to respond, interrupted by a third voice.

“juju! girl, where are you? warmup’s already started!”

you pull back immediately, racing into the bathroom and closing the door behind you with a click. juju doesn’t wipe her mouth, leaving the hint of your kiss there, pretending it was from the water fountain. she hopes when you're pressed against her on defense, you'll notice you're all over her lips. her teammate comes up behind her, scolding her lightly, “coach is pissed, c’mon!”

you peek out, cracking the bathroom door open, watching them walk away, their backs to you. before she turns the corner, she looks back. her eyes meet yours and there it is. that soft, knowing smirk, glossed up because of you.

you tried to be good, but she pulls you back in, every time.