lightsgore

Latest Posts by lightsgore

3 FUCKING POINTS FROM WINNING AND YALL FUMBLED WHAT THE FUCK

can we like win this game, please.

azzi get on the court.

Lynx really said “everyone on paige— that’s it— that’s the game plan”

the wings play today

JUJU OHHHHH MY GOSH

YESS

poa isn’t mixed ..? 😟😟

polynesian wbb players after a long day of stealing black aesthetics and hairstyles

everyone moved on but I stayed here.

may every racist tongue that speaks against angel reese drop fucking d3ad

please get kate of the valkyries so i can hate them fully.

The hair gives them away 😭😭

YOOOOOOOOO?

T ME TF UP THENNNNN

oh oliva you’re messy.

someone go ask pink sweater and the security guard for their POV🫣…….

i hate sophie cunningham i hate sophie cunningham i hate sophie cunningham i hate sophie cunningham i hate sophie cunningham i hate sophie cunningham i hate sophie cunningham i hate sophie cunningh

juju pls come back we miss you 💔💔💔💔

HEY GOAT! so ik you have finals rn so just ignore this until ur done BUT i have a long (as usual) paige x reader request for you this time👅 for some backround paige and reader went to uconn together and have been dating for a bit like 3 years and they both get drafted by the wings (reader being 12th pick) and they are super excited whatever. OKAY SO basically reader is like the first person in her family to graduate college and it was really important for her to be there in person and walk with her family watching but she didn’t expect to be drafted in the first round let alone so far away. so she goes to ask the head of whatever at dallas if she can go to her graduation and they say prolly not so she gets super upset and paige decides to plan something with the team and flys her parents out and stuff like that one video with mika and the storm last year. ykwimmm like something super fluffy and just a littttlleee bit angsty.

-⬇️

LOVE IS THE WAY

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: language, 1% angst (like there's more fat content in some milk than there is angst in this story), unfathomable plot

wc: 5.4k

synopsis: As a first generation college student, graduation meant everything to you and your family. Your entire high school career was spent studying through the night, devoting yourself to academics, extracurriculars, and basketball, and reminding yourself that college was the goal. But basketball was your passion – your home away from test prep and the rigor of your courses, and the athletic scholarship from UConn saved your life in more ways than one. When you’re drafted 12th overall alongside your girlfriend of three years, it devastates you to find out that you wouldn’t be able to make it back to campus in time to walk across the stage. Luckily for you, Paige was more than willing to move mountains just to see you smile.

notes: HAPPY GAMEDAY CHAT (i deleted twitter this morning in honor of it) and HAPPY PB5 HOOPS DAY!!!! everyone lock in. this is generational. but real talk, as a first gen student, this request actually means the world to me 🤞 hoping i did this justice for u ⬇️ and i cannot thank u enough for these banger requests 😛 as alwaysss lmk what we're thinking and i hope y'all enjoy 🫶

Basketball wasn’t always the goal.

Anyone who sees you might not believe that at first glance. Your game is clinical – smooth, effortless. Your jump shot is perfect, technical in a way analysts have described as academically precise. You play like you were destined for the professional leagues, like you dribbled a basketball for the first time at three years old instead of in the sixth grade.

Growing up, you didn’t have a lot. Your parents weren’t well off but they worked hard to give you a good life. You excelled in school, got exceptional grades, and by eight you knew you would do anything to get into college after touring the local university on a field trip. Your parents weren’t able to go to college, coming from families where they had to prioritize working. College, while impossible for them, became something that was within reach for you. College – an education – was the goal.

When you first started middle school, you knew you needed an outlet, something more than your grades and wit. You tried a few things. Art, while pretty, wasn’t for you. You were a little too restless for it, too much of a perfectionist to fully appreciate the abstract. You briefly considered band but your parents had to make the decision for you when they looked at the cost to rent an instrument from the school.

Sports was your last option. You liked the discipline, the structure, and how you could get all of your energy out. You showed up to softball tryouts, but again – the price tag attached to the glove, the cleats, and the gear was too much. It was the same story for soccer. You arrived at basketball tryouts, not really having much of an interest in it, but figuring you could suck it up if there was any option you could play.

As soon as you picked up the ball for the first time, dribbling it a little clumsily around your body, and following the coach’s instructions on how to shoot it, it was like something ignited in you. You put a little too much spin on the ball and it clanked off the rim, but you knew you could perfect it with a few more shots.

So you tried again. And again. And again. Until you finally sunk the shot from the three point line. That was satisfying.

“It’s not a lot,” you remember Coach Kerrigan telling your parents – clearly in what he thought was a hushed tone of voice. “Just $50 for the entire season. It covers the uniform and tournament fees.”

Your parents had paused, clearly contemplating – and selfishly, you’d hoped they’d give just this once. You had done everything right. You kept your grades up, your room clean, and you’d exhausted all other options.

“I don’t know,” your dad admitted. Your heart sunk to your stomach.

Even years later, you recall the weight of your coach’s stare, how his eyes traced the arc of the basketball as it left your hands. The accompanying swish of the net, how you chased after the rebound, settling in to shoot again. “She has so much potential,” he’d said. “I’ve never seen anything like her.”

Your parents remained silent. You shot the ball, hoping, praying that just this once – you could try to find who you were outside of academics. Then, Coach Kerrigan spoke up. “Actually, I think we’ve got a little extra funding this year. So if you’d let her play…you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Your parents let you play. It took you years to realize the girl’s basketball team at your middle school hadn’t actually gotten any extra funding and that Coach Kerrigan paid the season fee out of his own pocket. And the next season’s. And when the high school coach approached you during your eighth grade year and asked if you’d be willing to give varsity a shot, Coach Kerrigan paid for that one, too.

High school basketball is where you truly flourished. It was a simple agreement with your parents – you could continue playing ball as long as you didn’t put college on the backburner. You pointed out that if you got recruited, you would be on scholarship and you truly didn’t have to worry about money anymore. Your parents believed in you. They’d seen what you were capable of, but when you grow up with so little, it’s hard to lose that worry that it could all slip away if you weren’t careful.

You upheld your end of the bargain. You kept your grades up, enrolled in AP courses, joined student government to round out your application. High achieving student. Honored athlete, Team USA gold medalist averaging 26.4 points a season and improving. Student body president. With a resume like that, you were sure you had a solid chance, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t keep working.

Geno Auriemma showed up to one of your games in sophomore year. So did Dawn Staley and several other college basketball coaches. Coach Auriemma kept showing up, though. After an electric win against a conference opponent, he’d pulled you aside and glanced at you like he was unimpressed, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes that reminded you of Coach Kerrigan’s unwavering confidence. Then, Coach Auriemma said, “You play like you’ve got something to prove.”

It wasn’t unkind. Just an observation. Your face was slick with sweat, your feet hurt, and you had a paper due for AP Lang that night. Your teammates were celebrating the win, but your job was far from finished. Isn’t that how it always is, though? Having to work a little extra harder now so you wouldn’t have to in the future. Sacrificing every day to prove to your parents that everything they poured into basketball wasn’t for nothing. Success was hard, exhausting, but God did it taste good.

Simply, you responded, “Don’t we all?”

Coach Auriemma paused. A slow smile spread across his face. He wished you a goodnight.

In junior year, you committed officially to UConn. Full ride athletic scholarship. Your mother cried and your father grinned proudly when the three of you got off the phone with Coach Auriemma.

Being a Husky didn’t mean you could rest easy. The draft was competitive and there was so much talent in the country. This time, there was no “agreement” between you and your parents. You were an adult, but they did have one simple request to get a degree in something versatile. A just in case.

So here you were – a biology major and student athlete. When you weren’t in lab, you were in practice. When you weren’t in practice, you were studying for calculus. And when you weren’t studying for calculus, you were a little busy falling in love with the sophomore point guard from Minnesota who made you realize that there’s a little more to life than ball and school. You had plenty of room for her – for Paige Bueckers – even though you didn’t make it official until your sophomore year at UConn.

It was her junior season. She’d suffered an ACL tear in August, right before classes started. It was a huge blow for morale – she was the heart and soul of the team, the leader on and off the court. But you were the glue who held everything together. Coach shifted you into a more traditional point guard role. You brought a quiet efficiency to the court and confident play-calling. You weren’t there to replace her. That wasn’t possible.

The feelings between the two of you had been growing since your freshman season although neither of you acted on anything. You were close friends but her injury, somehow, pushed you even closer. She texted you reminders to eat when she knew you had a gap in your schedule. You warmed up her heating pad and let her choose the movie on the nights you gave up the textbooks to stay in with her. You and Paige worked so well together and it became harder and harder to deny what you felt for her.

But when she kissed you for “good luck” before the first game of the season? You dropped a casual 23 points with 11 assists to take home the win and made her ask you out for real after the press conference.

That year, the early Sweet 16 exit in the NCAA tournament stung. So did the Final Four exit in your junior year. Paige was staying for a fifth year and you knew that the both of you had one more chance to reel it in for the last time.

And you did. Your senior season was hard but you loved (almost) every second of it anyways. When Azzi was cleared to return from injury. When Aubrey and Carol did, too. When Paige and Azzi tested every bit of your patience by spraining their knees at different parts of the season. When you lost to USC, Notre Dame, and Tennessee but blew out South Carolina – twice, once in the regular season and the second when it mattered the most. When your teammates had your back, unconditionally, just as you had theirs.

Your name started creeping into the mock draft predictions. Third round. Then second. Then first. You were hard to place – nobody could ever agree on whether or not you were a Sun, a Sky, or a Mystic. The only thing that was guaranteed was the fact your girlfriend would be a Wing and you’d cheer her on from wherever the draft took you.

Getting invited to the draft was a different feeling entirely. You had a shot. You were going to be selected, and for once, you truly allowed yourself to reflect – through thick and thin, for worse or for better, you’d made it here. Not just to the draft, but you made it through college, too, which had seemed so out of the picture. Everything your parents had ever sacrificed for you, you’d be able to give it back with interest. You got your degree, your education. You have your career in basketball. You have Paige. That was more than enough for you.

You flew your parents out for the draft in New York. They were ecstatic for you, nearly in tears when you showed them your dress for the first time – styled by Brittany Hampton, of course, because Paige was so keen on matching. It was made of a dark, lace material that glimmered under the lighting in the room, the bodice fitting you just right, and the skirt billowing out around your ankles, cut at the side to reveal one of your legs.

Paige nearly fell out the moment she saw you. You weren’t any better, either. Your eyes lingered (she was wearing her hair down – you might have fallen in love for a second time if you weren’t so drawn to the way her suit sparkled, too) while her hands traveled, linking her fingers at the small of your back and pulling you in. “You’re unreal,” she’d murmured as you wrapped your arms around her neck, smoothing out some of the baby hairs at her nape.

You just grinned, self-satisfied at her obvious speechlessness. Knowing you couldn’t ruin your makeup without your respective teams losing their mind, you press your temple to hers, relishing in the closeness before you’d be pulled away for interviews and to sit at your separate tables. “I could pinch you, if you’d like,” you offered. “Just to make sure you’re not dreaming.”

“Hands to yourself, aight?” she grumbled. “Sum’ about that biology degree makes you evil.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” you cooed softly. “Like at all.”

Paige just squeezed you around your waist, not saying much else, and the two of you made your way to the draft venue. Interviews were quick – pictures, not so much, especially when your entire team was in attendance to watch you, Paige, Aubrey, and Kaitlyn get drafted. You and Paige go your separate ways after the photo on the draft stage. She had a second outfit and you had to find your family – which leads you to now.

Your parents, CD, and Coach Kerrigan are waiting for you and you hug each of them one by one, although you linger on Coach Kerrigan. He doesn’t say much other than a “Proud of you, kid,” and you don’t either – not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down. You’re not sure if he knows the kind of impact he made on your life by welcoming you onto his team when he did, but he grins at you like he understands it just the same.

When Paige makes her way through the crowd, having changed into her second outfit, you almost fall out again. Somehow, you manage to keep it together, even as your jaw hangs slack in near awe while you’re examining the rings on her fingers, the fact that this suit sparkles too, and the devastating lack of an undershirt that has you ready to give up on the draft completely so you can run a few laps around the block to control yourself.

Obviously, she’s the first pick overall. She hugs everyone at her table before finding you and your family. You tell her that you love her and that you’re proud of you. She winks at you and asks you to keep an extra draft hat for her.

The next few picks go by agonizingly slow. You don’t think it should take this long for teams to settle on their next pick and the way the cameras linger on you makes your skin prickle. The Sky have the two picks late in the first round followed by the Wings with the last first round selection. When Hailey Van Lith is taken at #11, you deflate a little, thinking you’ve fallen to the second round. Truly – it’s not the end of the world. It just means you’d have to fight a little harder for a roster spot. That’s a challenge you’d be willing to take head on.

But when the commissioner steps up to the podium again to announce the 12th pick in the draft, you freeze when it’s your name that is called. You, to the Dallas Wings, the same organization that selected Paige only moments ago. Stunned, you hug everyone at your table, then your girlfriend’s family, before making your way up to pose with the Wings jersey. You’re only half-listening to the interview with Holly Rowe, too concerned about making it to the back for media and seeing Paige.

When you finally do, Paige’s expression is one of disbelief and awe and you fall into each other with breathless giggles. Your hat jostles from the force of her body against yours, but she reaches up to steady it, her hands cupping your jaw as she looks at you with something like wonder. Her eyes are the most disarming shade of blue you think you’ve ever seen – and this right here, this feeling of contentment, of knowing that you get to live out your professional dreams with your girlfriend? You want to live in it forever.

“Guess you didn’t need to save an extra hat for me,” she comments coyly.

You laugh, not even bothering with a response as you grab her face and kiss her. Paige sinks into you like you’re the only thing she’s ever been sure about. For a moment, you think that may be true. In a world full of ACL injuries, of never really knowing if you’ll be able to make it unless you work for it, the relationship the two of you have is something steady. Constant. You’ll always have space for each other, just like you’ll always know that loving each other is the easiest part of living.

After the draft, you and Paige don’t immediately fly out to Dallas. You have a final exam or two, shared victory tours and talk show appearances, rallies and loose ends to tie up. You’re booked and busy until the very last minute. Packing is difficult – you’re not quite sure how you’re supposed to fit the last four years of your life into a box and tape it shut. You just have to remind yourself that you’re not closing this door. Maybe you leave it cracked, because you’re not the type of person to abandon your past in search of your future.

But you do come across your graduation gown while you’re packing away your closet. It’s neatly ironed, ready for the big day – May 10th. There’s something about that day that gives you pause, so you pull out your phone to scan the email sent to you by the Wings front office. Your first preseason game was on May 2nd against the Aces.

The second preseason game? May 10th. In Dallas.

Your face falls. Your phone screen goes dark from disuse while you stare in silent disbelief at your graduation gown.

Basketball wasn’t always the goal.

It was a reprieve before it was your passion before it was the best part of your life. You didn’t know if you’d be able to play in middle school, didn’t think you’d get recruited to the best basketball college fresh out of high school. You didn’t know if you’d win a national championship or meet some of your best friends ever. You didn’t know that you’d get drafted.

College was the goal. The goal was beating the odds, of getting a degree and an experience that your family wasn’t lucky enough to put time away for. The goal was succeeding despite every barrier and obstacle that made it difficult for you. The goal was walking across the stage after four years, officially becoming a college graduate, making your family – and yourself – proud, to be able to say that you did. And, sure, walking across the stage doesn’t take away the fact that you did the time. That you excelled. That you sacrificed so much to be a student athlete and a STEM major. Whether or not you walk across that stage has no impact on whether or not you get the degree in the mail certifying that you did everything you wanted to and got something special out of it.

But walking across that stage was a physical reminder that you refused to quit – that you held out hope even when you missed out on so many opportunities because you lacked things out of your control. It’s a reminder for you, for your parents and your family who would fill the stands, a reminder that this is possibly the most important thing you’ve ever done in your life. No one would ever understand it if they haven’t lived it.

You knew you were stuck between a rock and a hard place. You couldn’t miss graduation – you didn’t want to. You knew that you couldn’t miss the preseason game, either. Not if you wanted to keep your roster spot. Not if you wanted to prove you had more determination than the other hopeful rookies on the team. Not if you wanted to prove you were an invaluable piece to the Dallas Wings roster. The most devastating part of the situation is that you truly don’t have a choice at all.

You’re still when Paige walks in, her voice startling you. “Hey, baby. You got another roll of tape? I completely fucked up and used like, half of it on one box, but it just wouldn’t shut–” She falters, her gaze meeting yours when she realizes that you’re barely listening and you’re staring catatonically. “You okay? What’s going on?”

“Graduation is May 10th,” you tell her, and she nods – because she’d had that date saved in her calendar the moment you submitted the documentation stating that you had all requirements and would be participating in the ceremony. “And so is our second preseason game.”

Paige’s body softens with regret and understanding all at once. You swear you see something curiously like guilt as if it’s her fault at all. Like she feels bad that she got the opportunity to graduate and walk across the stage when that was the one thing you’d set out to do with your life.

She doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arms around you, letting you sink into her embrace while you try not to fall apart. Paige knows how important this is to you.

“I don’t think I can miss the game,” you confess, not having to look up to know Paige is listening as you rest your chin on her shoulder. “Not when I’m competing for a roster spot with Aziaha and Madison and JJ and everyone who’s not you, Arike, Ty, Dijonai, NaLyssa–” Your voice breaks, and you inhale sharply, feeling the familiar sting of tears. Paige runs a soothing hand down your back, comforting you enough to keep talking. “But my parents were supposed to see me walk.”

“They will, okay?” she murmurs, like she’s never been more confident than anything in her life. “It’s not over. You’re you. You wouldn’t make it this far just to give up now. Have you called Curt?”

“Well, I was a little busy having a mental breakdown before you walked in complaining about tape, so no, I did not call Curt,” you say dramatically.

“I’m so sorry I interrupted your spiraling,” Paige deadpans, which makes you laugh a little. She gives you one more squeeze before you extract yourself from her body, turning your phone on again as you take a seat on your bed. She follows suit as you scroll through your contacts for Curt’s number.

The line rings for a few moments. Paige, as if sensing your nerves, rests her hand over your knee for encouragement before Curt’s voice clicks through, greeting you. You remember your manners before you explain the situation to him. Graduation on May 10th. Preseason game too. Can I please miss the game so I can walk the stage and not crash the fuck out? You don’t say all of that – you use your professional voice, but the sentiment is the same.

Curt doesn’t respond for a moment. And when he doesn’t, you already have your answer. You deflate as he says, not unkindly, but clearly remorseful, “I’m sorry, I don’t think you’ll be able to miss it. The coaching staff needs you there for evaluation and your contract–”

You stop listening when he starts talking about contracts and roster spots and how he’s really sorry, but he just can’t make an exception right now. You can tell he genuinely feels terrible that it’s happened this way, but the league is competitive. You need to be there if you want to play basketball in May. Knowing doesn’t make the feeling go away, though, so you thank him for his time when he’s done explaining it to you and you hang up.

Paige doesn’t make you say anything, already reaching for your phone and turning it off. She pulls you into her arms again, her mood dampened as she murmurs an apology in your ear, pressing a consoling kiss to the crown of your head.

It does make you feel a little bit better, and maybe, one day, you won’t feel as bitter and as disappointed about missing your graduation as you are now, but you just can’t push the hurt to the side.

You let Paige hold you for a little longer, her hands rubbing soothing circles on your back as you curl up against her, your head tucked into her neck.

But she’s quiet – maybe a little too quiet, and you wholeheartedly miss the expression of sheer determination on her face like she’s plotting something that you’ll never know about until the time comes.

The move to Dallas goes better than expected. You and Paige lease an apartment not too far away from the facilities, but decently away from the bustle of the city. You spend a huge chunk of your time between Target and Costco and building furniture together – Paige has always been handy although a little…creative, when it comes to the instruction manuals, so you have to force her to follow them exactly. The last thing you want is your coffee table crumbling.

Between practice, shopping, and getting used to being in a completely different city, you hardly have the time to think too hard about how you have to miss graduation. You try to let yourself be happy, too. The Wings vets are incredibly kind and helpful, although they love to tease you and Paige, which is probably something you should have known was going to happen as soon as Cathy called your name at the draft. Despite the ache of missing Storrs, your teammates, and what you still consider home, you can see yourself loving it in Dallas, too. You can see the Wings becoming your family, too.

The first preseason game goes as well as it could have. Not wanting to risk injury, neither the Wings nor the Aces do anything too crazy, just wanting to get the rookies acclimated to playing professional basketball. Your coach runs different rotations, evaluating how everyone plays. It’s sad to know that by the beginning of the regular season, a few of your new teammates will be waived, even if you have to work extra hard just to make sure it’s not you.

Ultimately, the Aces take the win. Losing wasn’t something that you were used to in Connecticut, so you try not to take it to heart. You sleep on Paige’s shoulder the entire flight back to Dallas, blissfully unaware of the plans she’s making on her phone.

A few days after the first preseason game, you’re making your way through the tunnel in the Wings facility to get ready for another grueling day of practice. Before you can enter the locker room, Paige catches your wrist at the door, taking your bag gingerly as you stare at her in confusion.

“Do you trust me?” she asks you in a tone of voice that is screaming Don’t trust me!

“Under most circumstances, yes,” you respond. “What–”

“Wait here,” she says softly. “And close your eyes, please.” You sigh, but you do as she asks, even placing your hands over your eyes for good measure. You hear shuffling inside of the locker room before she comes out again. “Keep ‘em closed, but hold out your arms.”

You do, and she helps you into what feels like a large coat. You hear the sound of a zipper and then she’s carefully fitting a hat over your head. “You comfy?” she checks in.

“Just hoping my girlfriend didn’t team up with the vets for some weird rookie hazing ritual,” you mutter, listening to her laugh.

“Something a little better than that, I promise,” Paige swears. She links her fingers with yours, giving you a gentle squeeze. “Don’t open your eyes. Just follow me.”

You let her lead you through the facility, hoping that she remembers she’s an athlete with coordination and that she doesn’t run you into a wall accidentally. Before you know it, she comes to a stop, and nervously, she says, her voice echoing, “Okay. Open your eyes.”

When you do, your breath catches in your throat. You’re dressed in your cap and gown and you’re in the practice gym, but what truly captures your attention is the makeshift stage that’s been assembled at the center of the court. There’s a podium, where one of the coordinators from UConn’s Department of Biology stands – you’d worked with her a lot when it came to your academics since you were always booked and busy with class, studying, practice, and games. Your entire team sits in neat little rows in front of the stage dressed in their practice jerseys, but most of all, your parents are front and center, too.

“Paige,” you whisper, your voice catching, and she takes your hands in hers.

“Surprise!” she says, her tone soft. Despite yourself, you give a watery laugh, trying not to cry in front of everyone. “You weren’t able to go back to Storrs to walk across the stage. So…I pulled some strings and brought Storrs to you.” You take the scene in again, your heart full. You lock eyes with Arike, who’s holding a laptop. She lifts it slightly to show you the Zoom call she’s on. The screen is full of your teammates – KK, Morgan, Ice, Sarah – and you can hear their cheers through the computer speakers.

“Dr. Snyder agreed to speak and present your diploma,” Paige continues. “And I flew out your parents for the weekend.” She lowers her voice, ensuring that only you can hear her. Your lip trembles, the love you feel for your girlfriend almost overwhelming. “I know this means a lot to you. Graduating. I’m sorry we couldn’t be in Storrs to do this, but…you deserve to be honored. You deserve to do this.” Her eyes shine a little brighter, the affection almost stifling. “I love you, and I’m so proud of you. I hope you like it.”

“Like it?” you echo, disbelief lacing your tone as you laugh again. “Paige, I love this.” Her features relax a little, her grin widening as she pulls you into a tight hug. “This means everything to me.”

“Then let’s graduate.”

You pull away and your teammates, coaching staff, and trainers all clap for you as you make your way to the lone seat reserved for you in front of everyone else. You grin a little, shaking your head as Dr. Snyder steps up to the podium fully, taking her job incredibly seriously. She clears her throat.

“Esteemed graduate, friends, family, teammates old and new,” she begins, winking at you, and you let your smile grow without a care in the world. “We’re gathered here today to celebrate an extremely special individual who was unable to make it back to Storrs to receive her degree. But unconventional does not mean undeserving, and I certainly can’t name one other student who deserves this more than she does.

“I’ve guided many students in my career,” Dr. Snyder continues. “None of them are ever the same, yet she stands a caliber above the rest. She juggled a rigorous course load, a taxing athletic schedule, and she did this for four years with determination, wit, and unyielding perseverance. She has made such a profound impact on our university, on the basketball program, as well as in the lives of many people around her. I am proud to have advised her, but even more proud to stand here today to see her achieve her dreams. On behalf of everyone at the University of Connecticut, we are so excited to see you write this next chapter of your life.”

If there weren’t tears in your eyes during Dr. Snyder’s speech, then there are when she reaches for the degree cover and says your name. It feels like getting drafted all over again – but it’s even better than being drafted, because this has been your dream longer than basketball has been a reality. It was difficult, and most days it felt damn near impossible, but you did it.

You rise to the raucous applause in the gym, a beaming smile on your face as you make your way to the stage. Before you reach for your hard-earned degree, you give Dr. Snyder a crushing hug, thanking her profusely. Together, you hold onto your degree, smiling for the pictures that your parents, Paige, and the Dallas Wings media team take all at once. Even Arike is angling the computer towards you and you can vaguely hear KK over the computer screaming, “Screenshot it!” – which makes you laugh, because you know they’d have your back. Always.

You step down, degree in hand, and Paige grins at you with that soft, cheeky, scrunchy look of hers. You roll your eyes, the tears surging forward again and you wrap your arms around her tightly, burying your face in her neck and letting it all out. And when your parents step forward, too, wrapping the both of you in a large, crushing hug, you weren’t too sure how you were supposed to keep it together at all.

Graduation wasn’t how you thought it would be, but the knowledge that your family got to see you walk across the stage means everything to you.

You’ve accomplished one dream, and now, it’s time for the next.

recently discovered this ig page that's like the onion for women's sports news and i'm dying

Good morning to all, bust specially to KK🩷

excited to see paige have her 'welcome to the wnba' moment...sad that diana taurasi will have no part in it

ive been laughing at this for 5 straight minutes i had to share.

gaslighting myself into thinking im not nervous

hold on my shows on.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 2/3)

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MASTERLIST | PART ONE

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | she was born to be great—legacy inked in her blood, she was a taurasi. committing to usc was supposed to be her moment, her name, her story. but this is juju watkins' court. and kingdoms don’t like to be threatened.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited, lots of word vomit, SLOOOOW burn, sapphic yearning, enemies to lovers themes, juju being obsessed w reader and implications of mommy issues.

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | part two!! yaya!! i actually love this series sm. also would u guys fw a paige/uconn spin off of this? lmk!

The gym clears out slower than usual.

No one’s rushing to the locker room today. Not after what they just witnessed. Some of the freshmen linger by the Gatorade cooler, whispering to each other. A few upperclassmen give you and Juju side-eyes as they gather their bags, as if trying to process what just happened.

You’re not sure what just happened either. All you know is your chest is still heaving and your limbs are electric, like your blood’s been rewired.

And Juju… Juju didn’t look at you once after that final whistle. Not when Coach gave her praise, not even when you brushed past her on the way to the tunnel.

She’s avoiding it. You can feel it.

You’re not sure whether that pisses you off or makes you want to chase her down and force her to talk about it.

Instead, you do what you always do after an intense practice. You head straight to the training room. Your muscles are screaming, sweat still dripping down your back as you strip your hoodie and toss it in the bin.

The tub’s already half full when you get there — the water cloudy with ice, cold fog rolling over the edge like mist.

You grab a towel to wrap around your sports bra, slide off your shorts, and sink into the water with a hiss.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, legs disappearing into the freezing depths. Your jaw clenches on instinct.

The cold doesn’t scare you. You grew up in the Midwest. You’ve played through worse.

But still — the first few seconds are like needles.

You’re halfway through mentally counting down from ninety when the door creaks open.

You glance up.

And of course.

It’s her.

Juju Watkins. In a fitted black sports bra, her high ponytail loosened and clinging to her neck from sweat. She’s holding a water bottle, chewing on the edge of the cap like she doesn’t care who’s watching.

You do.

You wish you didn’t — but suddenly, you really, really do.

She pauses in the doorway when she sees you. Her eyebrows lift slightly. Her lips twitch — not quite a smile, but something like recognition.

You look away, dunking your shoulders a little deeper into the tub, letting the ice bite your collarbones.

“I didn’t know someone already claimed the tub,” Juju says, voice neutral, but her eyes stay locked on you.

“You can share,” you say flatly, not looking at her. “Unless you’re scared.”

That gets her. You hear the small scoff under her breath.

Juju tosses her water bottle on the bench and steps out of her slides. “Scared of you?”

You don’t respond. You keep your eyes straight ahead as she strips off her compression shorts, revealing strong, sculpted legs and black spandex underneath. She's tall, toned, and still somehow graceful even as she lowers herself into the tub beside you.

The water shifts violently. Ice sloshes against your thighs.

“Damn,” she mutters, teeth gritting. “Every time I forget how cold it is.”

You glance sideways. Just for a second.

Her legs are fully submerged, knees bumping yours under the water. You shift slightly, but there’s nowhere to go. The tub’s only meant for one.

Your shoulders brush.

Neither of you speak.

You stare ahead, trying to focus on your breathing.

But the tension — that buzzing, electric thread between you — is back, thick enough to taste.

Juju lets out a slow breath. “Practice was different today.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A pause.

You study her face. There’s a quietness there, something you haven’t seen before. Less pride, more calculation. Like she’s trying to make sense of you — this new version of you who knows exactly where she’s going to be on the court, who doesn’t flinch when she barks a command mid-possession.

“You always this intense?” she asks suddenly, her eyes scanning your profile.

You raise a brow. “Look who’s talking.”

“No, I mean…” She hesitates, biting her bottom lip for a second. “You play like it’s personal.”

You meet her gaze. “It is personal.”

That hangs in the air for a moment too long.

You watch her blink. Her expression shifts, softens, just barely.

“I used to hate that,” she admits, voice quiet. “When people brought emotion into the game. I thought it made them sloppy.”

“And now?”

Juju looks at you. Really looks.

And something passes between you — a current too sharp to ignore. Her mouth parts slightly, and for once, she doesn’t have a quick comeback.

The air between you turns thick. Hot, despite the freezing water. You can feel the heat radiating off her skin where your arms are brushing, a line of contact that neither of you dares to break.

You glance down for a second — a mistake.

Her thighs under the water, muscles flexed from tension. The way her stomach rises and falls, breath controlled but shallow. The way a single drop of water clings to the curve of her jaw before trailing down her neck.

You look away fast, heart hammering.

But she saw it. You know she did.

And for the first time, you feel the shift in her — in her posture, her energy. The smallest ripple of awareness.

You don’t have to say anything. Juju leans back against the tub wall, her shoulders tensing.

And then she mutters, low and almost annoyed, “This is stupid.”

You frown. “What is?”

“This,” she says, gesturing between you without meeting your eyes. “You. Me. Whatever this is.”

You laugh under your breath. “Then get out.”

She doesn’t move.

Instead, Juju’s jaw ticks. “It’s just… you’re annoying as hell, and arrogant, and you talk too much.”

You tilt your head. “But?”

“But you make me better,” she snaps. “And I don’t know how to deal with that.”

It’s the closest thing to a confession you’ve ever heard from her.

Your mouth curls at the corner. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes narrow — but there's no venom behind it.

Just frustration. And something else.

She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s seeing you clearly for the first time. And maybe she is. Maybe the adrenaline from practice hasn’t worn off. Maybe it’s the shared silence, the vulnerability of cold water and aching muscles and the way your knees are still touching under the surface.

But Juju Watkins is looking at you like you’re dangerous.

Not because of your game.

But because you’re starting to feel good.

Comfortable. Familiar.

Like something she could get used to.

And that, more than anything, terrifies her.

She leans back again, closing her eyes, trying to will the feeling away.

But it’s already there.

Planted. Blooming. Buried under frustration and rivalry and pride, but unmistakably real.

Juju Watkins doesn’t like you. Not really.

But she’s attracted to you.

And now that she’s seen it — seen the sweat on your skin, the heat in your eyes, the control in your voice when you told her it is personal — she knows she’s not going to be able to unsee it.

Not now.

Not ever.

--

After that, everything became different. At least, in Juju's head.

You're on the sideline, sweat still clinging to your skin, jersey riding up on your waist as you strip off your shooting shirt and tug your hair down from its braids. You're still catching your breath, chest heaving slightly, neck glistening in the early morning light filtering through the windows. You know how you look—have to know. Custom socks rolled to just the right length, diamond-studded studs peeking through your second holes, lashes curled, nails short but perfect.

You weren’t trying to serve. You just… exist like this.

Across the gym, Juju notices. She’s mid-laugh with one of the guards, towel slung over her shoulders, and you swear—swear—her eyes catch on your bare stomach for a half-second longer than necessary. Her laughter falters, just slightly. You pretend not to notice.

She looks away fast, muttering something under her breath and tossing her towel in the bin. But her jaw’s tight. Like she's annoyed at something.

Like she's annoyed at you.

“You good?” Kiki asks, eyebrow raised as she follows Juju toward the locker room.

Juju shrugs, but there’s a strange stiffness to her. Her usual loose, relaxed walk has a little more tension today. And even though her face is neutral, Kiki doesn't let it go.

“I saw the way you were lookin’.”

Juju stops mid-step. “Huh?”

“You stared, girl. Hard.”

Juju scoffs. “Please.”

“Please what? She’s literally fine as hell and you know it.”

Kiki’s teasing, but it hits a little too close to home. Juju spins around like she’s trying to shake something off, like just saying it out loud is enough to ruin her day.

“She’s too polished,” Juju says quickly, like that explains it. “Too clean. Probably dated half the damn football team before she got here.”

Kiki laughs. “You jealous?”

Juju’s head snaps toward her. “Hell no.”

You don’t hear this, of course. You're still on the court, talking to one of the assistant coaches about film study, sipping your water, stretching your hamstring. But you feel something shift.

Because that whole practice? Juju hadn’t been barking at you like usual. Hadn’t shoved you with quite as much bite. She’d still been Juju—hard screens, tight defense, trash talk under her breath—but it was different. Focused. Calculated. Like she was studying you, not just guarding you.

Like she was curious.

And for the first time, her mouth ran quieter than her eyes.

Because there was heat in her stare. You caught it during the second scrimmage, right after you hit a step-back three over the zone. You saw her watching you jog back, chewing the inside of her cheek, like she hated that she respected it. Like she didn’t know where the line was between irritation and something else.

And you?

You knew.

You’d been around enough to recognize when admiration turned sour in someone’s throat. You could feel her sizing you up—your game, your presence, your effect. You weren’t cocky about it, but you didn’t shrink either.

You weren’t gonna play down the boys who’d tried to claim you, or the cameras that followed your high school career, or the fact that you came to USC with a personal trainer and a highlight reel longer than the team’s media day video.

You weren’t gonna get smaller just to make someone else comfortable. Not even her.

So when you walk into the locker room ten minutes later, shoulders squared, skin still flushed from the workout, you know something's shifted. The team is already half-dressed, music playing low through someone’s speaker, but Juju doesn’t look up when you pass her locker.

That’s how you really know.

Because Juju always had something to say. A glare. A grunt. A rolled-eye comment under her breath. But now, she’s completely still—laces undone, head down, pretending to focus on her socks like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And you feel it.

You feel the burn of her eyes when you sit down across from her. Feel the tension zip across the room when your knees almost brush. You can practically hear her trying not to look.

Kiki raises her brows from the side, clocking all of it, lips curling like she’s just waiting for this to explode.

“You good?” you ask her casually, twisting open your protein drink. Not to be petty—just to say it. Just to remind her she doesn’t intimidate you.

Juju finally glances up, her expression blank.

“Peachy,” she says.

But her ears are red.

You smirk, turning away.

She hates it.

Hates that she looked. Hates that she liked what she saw.

Hates that the idea of you—so perfectly curated, so crisp and camera-ready—makes her jaw clench and her thoughts stutter. That there’s something in you that reminds her of everything she’s tried to push away: attention, spotlight, control.

And still, she can’t help but wonder what your lip gloss tastes like.

But she swallows it down, lets it simmer into something else—annoyance, distance, denial.

She goes back to hating you before her next thought can form.

Because if she doesn't, if she lets it sit too long in her chest, she might admit the truth to herself.

That you're fire. Blinding. Sharp. And she's already a little burned.

It starts later that afternoon.

Not with another game. Not in a moment of glory, when the adrenaline’s pumping and your instincts have the wheel. No—it hits Juju when she’s already stripped of the day. No hoodie, no lashes, no performance. Just her. Just her aching body, a protein bar in hand, dragging herself toward the locker room ice baths like it’s the gates of hell.

She’s sore in a good way. The kind of sore that means something got unlocked. The kind of sore you only get when you really go there. And she did today—because of you.

You. God, you.

The way you moved beside her today like it was nothing. The way you didn’t flinch when she pushed the tempo, when she cut hard, when she barked a command under her breath—you just followed. Or led. Or matched, somehow.

It was addicting.

But that’s not what’s really pissing her off.

It’s not the way you played. It’s what came after.

That smirk.

That effortless, smug little curve of your lips when she drained that last jumper off your no-look dime.

Like you knew. Like you always know.

And maybe you do. Maybe you see things before they happen. Maybe that’s why Coach won’t shut up about you, why the team is slowly starting to look at you the way they used to look at her.

Or maybe it's just that you’re hot.

She thinks that thought quickly, disgustedly, like it’s a roach she just crushed with her shoe. She tells herself it doesn’t count if it’s involuntary. If it bubbles up from somewhere dark and inconvenient. If she swats it down fast enough.

She steps into the locker room and peels off her shirt with a wince. Her body’s worked to the limit, muscles tight, breath a little uneven. She tosses the shirt into her locker and sighs. It's quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the thrum in her chest she’s trying not to name.

The ice bath sits there like a challenge.

She mutters under her breath and steps into the cold, hissing as it eats up her calves, thighs, hips. Her abs seize at the shock, but she exhales, settling.

And then the door opens.

She doesn’t have to look. She knows it’s you.

The footsteps are cocky. Not loud. But present. Like you’re announcing yourself without saying a word.

You walk in like it’s your locker room and everyone else is lucky to be renting space.

You have a towel slung over your shoulder, sports bra on, little black spandex shorts hugging you like they were tailored. You're not doing anything special—just existing—and Juju wants to punch a wall.

Because now she gets it.

Why people flock to you. Why the freshmen whisper when you walk past. Why Coach watches you with the kind of expression she used to reserve for her.

It's not just the game. It’s the way you carry yourself.

Like the world is already yours, and you’re just waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

You say nothing as you grab the other tub. You don’t even look at her. Just strip your hoodie, kick off your slides, and sink into the ice like it’s a pool at the Ritz.

Juju hates the way her stomach flips when your abs contract. When your hair drip into the water. When you lean back, resting your arms on the edge, eyes closed, jaw flexing as the cold settles in.

You're annoying. You’re arrogant. You’ve been a thorn in her side since the second you walked into training camp and refused to shrink in her shadow.

And now Juju can’t stop looking at your mouth.

She bites the inside of her cheek, turning her gaze away, but not fast enough. You catch her.

Of course you do.

Your eyes flick open and you glance over, and for a second—a dangerous second—your gaze drops to her shoulders, then back to her face. Your mouth twitches.

Juju rolls her eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“Stare harder,” you murmur, voice lazy and low. “Might see something you like.”

She scoffs, heat flashing in her chest. “Please.”

You close your eyes again. “Didn’t say it was me looking.”

And that—that—makes her want to scream.

Because she was staring. Because you know it. Because you're not even smug about it, not really—you're just calm. Settled in your skin in a way she used to be.

Now you’re the one who walks around like you’ve got nothing to prove.

And it pisses her off because you’re right. You’re good. You’re better than she expected. You make her play harder. Think faster. Reach deeper.

You make her feel—

Nope.

No.

Absolutely not.

She closes her eyes, leans her head back, and tells herself it’s just hormones. Or proximity. Or the adrenaline from practice that hasn’t worn off yet.

It’s not you. It can’t be you.

You're too much. Too loud, too smooth, too sexy in that careless way that people like Juju have to work twice as hard to fake.

You don’t fake anything.

You just are.

And worst of all—you made her enjoy today. Made her want to pass the ball, to share the spotlight, to laugh internally when you bumped shoulders on a fast break and didn’t even apologize, just grinned like you knew she wouldn’t mind.

She shouldn’t be thinking about that moment. The shoulder graze. The split-second warmth. The way you felt solid. Like someone who could take a hit. Like someone who could give it back.

She breathes in deep through her nose and exhales, hoping the cold will kill whatever this is growing in her.

It doesn’t.

It lingers. Quietly. In the silence between the two of you. In the way her body buzzes even in the ice. In the fact that you haven’t spoken again, haven’t pushed, haven’t smirked—because you don’t have to.

And that’s the real problem.

Because Juju doesn’t know how to play this game.

The one where wanting someone makes you worse. Or better. Or both.

The one where she has to be near you every day, and pretend like her pulse isn’t skipping when you tie your shorts tighter. When you towel off sweat with a twist of your torso. When you bite the straw of your protein shake and say something filthy without trying.

She hates you.

She hates you.

But now it's not because you're annoying.

Now it's because she understands the pull—and she resents the hell out of it.

She opens her eyes again. You're still reclined, a single drop of water trailing down your collarbone.

Juju looks away immediately, muscles locking, lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line.

And she tells herself this is just a phase.

Just tension.

Just adrenaline.

Not desire.

Definitely not that.

Because if it is, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s going to do about it.

And that’s the scariest part of all.

--

You felt it the second you stepped out of the tunnel.

The buzz. The flash of cameras. The sold-out crowd packed into the Galen Center like it was March already—like this wasn’t just a preseason game, but the championship itself. Phones up, kids in replica jerseys with your name and Juju’s scribbled in Sharpie across the backs, media crammed into the corners trying to get the best shot of the warmups.

You hadn’t even touched the ball yet and it already felt like a legacy night.

“Jesus,” Kiki muttered beside you, craning her neck to take in the stands. “It’s not even conference season.”

And it wasn’t. It was Stanford—ranked first, favored by every analyst, projected to steamroll every Pac-12 team on their way to the Final Four. But this wasn’t about rankings anymore. This was about you. You and Juju.

The monsters Coach had built.

Your name alone sold tickets. But together? You were mythology in the making.

The noise was deafening, even during layup lines. Your stomach flipped as you stepped onto the court, a little more aware of every movement, every camera flash that followed your stepback into a midrange pull-up.

You caught sight of Stanford on the other side—stoic, composed, polished like always. But there was a flicker in their eyes. Not nerves exactly. Uncertainty. Like they weren’t sure what to expect. Like they’d seen the clips, read the headlines, felt the weight of the whispers.

That USC had the two most dangerous players in the country.

And no one knew what would happen when they finally shared a real court.

The week leading up to the game had been hell, in the best way.

Coach had doubled practice time—film in the mornings, drills until sunset. Sprints. Trap reads. Zone breaks. You barely had time to breathe, let alone think about how this was your first college game. Your legs were heavy, muscles burning, but you felt sharper than ever. More dialed in. Like every rep was feeding something ancient in you. Something you hadn’t accessed since high school playoffs.

Juju hadn’t been any easier.

She was locked in. Mouth quieter, eyes meaner. If she wasn’t shooting, she was watching film. If she wasn’t lifting, she was in the gym, perfecting footwork until her socks tore. She didn’t talk to you much—barely acknowledged you except when you passed each other on the court—but when she did?

It was all heat.

Not rage anymore. Not hatred. Just friction. Electric. Wordless.

One afternoon, she hip-checked you going for a loose ball during a scrimmage, and you shoved her right back, both of you grinning before you realized it.

No one else could match you. No one else made you feel like that.

And maybe you hated that you loved it.

Game day came fast.

You were up early. Too early.

Hair was fresh—tight and clean, the way you liked it when it was a big night. Lashes curled, lips glossed, Jordan warmups on. Everything intentional. Everything curated for the cameras you knew would be watching. But underneath it all, your heart was beating fast. That old familiar rhythm of prove it, prove it, prove it.

You didn’t eat much at breakfast. Couldn’t.

Juju sat a few chairs down at the team meal, headphones in, hoodie up, stirring her oatmeal like she was somewhere else entirely. But you could tell she wasn’t.

She was right here with you. Vibing on the same adrenaline.

By the time you got to the gym, the team bus couldn’t even pull in the normal way. Fans were already crowding the back lot. Students. Kids. Parents. News crews. Signs waving, camera flashes going off, chants echoing before you even stepped out the door.

“What the fuck,” Avery whispered from the back of the bus.

You felt your pulse spike again.

They weren’t here for just any game. They were here for you and Juju.

Coach wasn’t even surprised.

She smiled the way a lion does before it eats.

“I told you,” she said, arms crossed as she stood by the locker room door. “You wanted smoke, we gave it to you.”

She waited until everyone was seated before she spoke again.

Her voice was low. Calm.

“You two.” She looked at you. Then Juju. “You’re the show. They came to see monsters. Give them hell.”

Warmups felt like a movie.

The DJ was blasting Rihanna, the student section was unhinged, and you couldn’t even pretend not to feel the energy vibrating through your sneakers. Every stretch, every form shot, every pass to Juju felt like choreography.

You didn’t speak to her. Not really.

But your eyes met more than once.

A nod. A look. An understanding.

We go. We take them apart. Together.

Coach called final huddle fifteen minutes before tip.

The whole team was sweating already, breathing hard, amped beyond belief. Some of the girls had never played in front of a crowd this big. Not even in high school state finals. It felt like a championship atmosphere—but Coach reminded you, steady as ever, that it was just the start.

“Don’t get caught up in the lights,” she warned, pacing slowly, voice even. “We’ve got a season to win. Not a moment. So stay sharp, stay fast, and for the love of God—pass the ball.”

That last part was directed at you and Juju.

Kiki snorted.

Coach rolled her eyes. “You two play nice or I’ll sit you both.”

You and Juju shared a glance. Just the ghost of a smirk.

You weren’t gonna play nice. You were gonna play lethal.

And tonight?

The world was gonna watch.

--

You could tell they were playing scared. Stanford wasn’t folding—not yet.

But they were rattled.

You saw it in the way their passes started to hesitate, in the way their eyes kept tracking Juju like she was a lit match and they were soaked in gasoline. You saw it in the way their star guard flinched every time you drove, like she didn’t want to get dunked on in a highlight that would run on Sportscenter before breakfast.

They hadn’t expected this. They thought you’d be green. Untested. All hype, no chemistry. They didn’t think you and Juju would actually work.

But you did. God, you did.

You didn’t even talk. You didn’t need to. The first half, it was all muscle memory and instinct, the invisible thread between you two pulling tighter and tighter until you moved like limbs on the same beast. One minute, she was taking the double team and dishing to you on the wing—the next, you were threading the bounce pass between two defenders like you knew exactly where she’d be cutting.

She finished it with a reverse lay-up that had the crowd losing its damn mind.

And still—still—it wasn’t enough.

Your team was flat. You and Juju were carrying. Carrying so hard your legs felt like bricks, chest already burning, jersey sticking to your back. And it was preseason. The first half wasn’t even over. They were all winded. Unsure. Eyes bouncing between you two like they didn’t know whether to follow or stay back.

You hit a buzzer-beating three to give USC the lead by three going into halftime, and when you jogged off the court, the crowd was standing.

You should’ve felt electric. But all you felt was pissed off.

The locker room was way too quiet. Coach was talking—whiteboard in hand, breaking down zone defense and rotations and shot selection—but you weren’t listening. You were pacing, chewing at the inside of your cheek, sweat dripping down your temple, jersey already tugged out of your shorts. You kept looking around, waiting for someone to be as fired up as you were.

Juju was slouched against the wall, sipping Gatorade, breathing hard but calm, her long legs stretched out in front of her. When your eyes met, she gave you the tiniest headshake.

Don’t lose it, it said.

You broke anyway.

“Okay, nah,” you snapped, stepping into the middle of the circle. “We’re not doing this.”

Some girls looked up. Coach raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop you. You didn’t care.

“This is our house,” you said, voice shaking but loud. “And we’re playing like we don’t belong here.”

No one said anything. You kept going.

“I don’t care if it’s preseason. I don’t care that it’s Stanford. I didn’t come here to almost win games. I came here to dominate.”

The silence stretched. Your hands were clenched.

“And if you don’t think we can do that, if you don’t think we can finish this game the way we started it, then sit the hell down and let the rest of us cook.”

Juju barked out a laugh. A real one. Low and surprised. You turned your head—and she was already nodding, eyes locked on yours.

“Say it louder,” she said, voice hoarse.

“This is our house,” you repeated, jaw tight. “And we don’t lose our first game on our own court.”

The second half?

Was legendary.

You opened with a steal and fast break, euro-stepping past their center for a clean finish off the glass. The crowd went feral. And from there, it was chaos. Electric, perfect chaos.

Juju caught fire—hit three straight jumpers from the top of the key like she was possessed. Every time you passed her the ball, she made it count. Her handles were disgusting, footwork elite, and the two of you ran that court like you’d been teammates since birth.

She’d look at you, and without saying a word, you knew what she wanted. Screen left. Backdoor cut. High-low action. It didn’t matter.

You gave it to her. And she gave it right back.

You fed off each other. Rebounded for each other. Trusted each other.

And somewhere around the 4th quarter, when you stripped the ball at half court and flung it ahead without even looking—Juju was already there. Caught it mid-air. Laid it in with a clean finger roll.

And the entire stadium exploded. Cameras were shaking. The student section was roaring. And the Stanford coach? She was pacing like she didn’t know what universe she’d landed in.

Because her girls were trying. And they were still down.

The final buzzer sounded. And for a second, you just stood there. Hands on your knees, chest heaving, jersey soaked, throat raw from calling switches. Your legs were jelly. Your arms heavy.

But you’d done it. You’d won. First game. Against Stanford. By six.

A narrow win on paper. But it meant everything.

You looked up through the chaos—confetti flying, fans jumping over rails, your teammates screaming and hugging and whooping—and caught sight of Juju across the court.

She was already looking at you. Just a nod. Just a smirk.

Like, we did that shit.

And for once—you didn’t hate her. You felt like you were staring at the other half of something unstoppable.

--

You were still trying to catch your breath when the door to the tunnel cracked open.

Your shoes squeaked as you slowed, wiping at your face with the hem of your jersey, skin flushed, hairline damp. The noise from the arena was still pulsing, echoing through the walls like a heartbeat—fans yelling, music thumping, lights strobing. You thought you’d imagined it at first. The creak. The shuffle.

Then you heard the voice.

“Well,” Penny said, her smile bright as ever. “That was one hell of a debut.”

You stopped short. Blinked. Swore your heart dropped into your shoes.

Standing just outside the tunnel, framed in the dim light like they’d stepped out of some fever dream, were Diana Taurasi and Penny Taylor—your moms. Not just legends, not just former pros, not just the ghosts of greatness past. But your ghosts. Your family.

And they were here.

You froze. “Wait—what—what the hell are you doing here?”

Penny beamed and stepped forward first, arms already outstretched. “You think we were gonna miss your first game? Please.”

You let her wrap you up, even though you were sticky and exhausted and probably smelled like a gym sock. You buried your face into her shoulder for just a second, trying not to crumple.

Because you hadn’t expected them. You’d told them not to come. Said it was just preseason, no big deal, you didn’t want the pressure, you didn’t want the noise. Diana had grunted something noncommittal on the phone earlier that week, and Penny had sounded like she was holding back tears.

You figured they were respecting your space.

You should’ve known better.

When Penny pulled back, she smoothed your jersey like she used to when you were twelve and playing AAU ball in oversized shorts. “You looked amazing, sweetheart. I mean it.”

Diana, of course, didn’t move. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, one brow cocked. Classic.

“Don’t get a big head,” she said. “Stanford played like crap.”

You scoffed. “Nice to see you too.”

She gave a slow shrug. “You had, what—twenty points?”

“Twenty-three,” you corrected.

“And how many turnovers?”

You opened your mouth and shut it again.

Penny gave Diana a light slap to the arm. “Di.”

“What? You want me to lie? She wants to play at this level, she better be ready for the feedback.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your chest wasn’t anger. It was something messier. Softer. The kind of love that sounded like criticism and felt like pride when you learned how to read between the lines.

Diana pushed off the wall and finally walked over, stopping just in front of you. She was quiet for a moment. Really looked at you. Like she was trying to decide what to say.

Then: “You ran that floor like you were born on it.”

Your throat went tight.

“…Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just reached up, smacked the back of your head lightly, and muttered, “Don’t let it go to your head, superstar.”

Then Penny leaned in, grinning like she couldn’t help it. “And that chemistry with Juju? Chef’s kiss.”

You groaned immediately, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh my god. Don’t start.”

Diana’s smirk was practically evil. “No, no, I want to hear about this. Because last week, you were crying on the phone about how that girl hated you.”

“She did hate me!”

“Did she?” Penny teased. “Because it didn’t look that way tonight. Looked more like mind reading. Or something intimate.”

“Gross,” you muttered, cheeks burning.

Diana made a fake gagging sound. “God, you’re soft.”

Penny bumped her gently. “Let her be soft. It’s a big night.”

You tried not to smile, but your face was betraying you. Your chest was still heaving. Your legs still ached. But they were here. Your moms were here. And no matter how many points you scored or games you won, that? That was the part you’d remember.

Even if they wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

Diana slung an arm over your shoulder, guiding you toward the locker room.

“You did good, kid,” she said quietly. “Real good.”

Penny followed behind, practically glowing.

“And Juju’s cute, by the way.”

You groaned again.

--

Juju couldn’t sleep that night.

It wasn’t the win. It wasn’t the noise. It wasn’t even the ESPN alerts lighting up her phone like a Christmas tree, headlines calling them the “duo to watch.”

It was you.

And the way you moved with her—like it was natural. Like it wasn’t supposed to work and yet it did, over and over again. She could still see the exact way your fingers flicked the ball ahead of you, the blind pass that somehow landed perfectly in her path. She could still feel the phantom echo of your palm slapping hers in celebration, still hear your voice cutting through the huddle like a blade.

You were the one who lit the match. She just followed the smoke.

And now?

Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

God, no. No no no. She rolled onto her stomach, muffled a groan into her pillow.

She hated this. Hated that she noticed your mouth when you talked, hated that she was aware of how your jersey clung to you when you were drenched in sweat, hated that she’d laughed in the locker room when you went off like that—because she liked it.

She liked your fire. Your chaos. Your shameless hunger to win.

She liked you, and that was a problem.

Because Juju Watkins didn’t like people like you. She didn’t trust them. You were everything she usually steered clear of—loud, confident, annoyingly talented, pretty in a way that made people go stupid. The kind of person people watched when they walked in a room.

She’d spent the last month trying to pin it on ego. Told herself she hated your vibe, your attitude, the way you always had something to say. That you were too much, too fast, too everything.

But now?

Now she got it. She understood why people liked you so much. You were magnetic.

Juju clenched her jaw, turned over again, and pulled her hoodie over her head like it could suffocate the thought away.

She didn’t want to want you. She wanted to outplay you. Wanted to win despite you. Wanted to keep pretending that you were an obstacle, not an obsession in the making.

But you kept making it harder. You kept showing up, matching her step for step. Glaring at her in practice, not flinching when she got in your face, feeding her passes so clean they made her jaw go slack.

You weren’t her enemy anymore. And maybe that was worse.

Because now she wasn’t mad because you were annoying. She was mad because she didn’t know what to do with this. With you. With the way you made her feel like maybe—just maybe—you were the one person who could match her.

Or worse… undo her.

And that? That scared the hell out of her.

--

You’ve always moved like that with her, ever since the moment you stepped on the same court as her.

It wasn’t something you talked about or even really noticed at first—not until people started bringing it up. But even in preseason, even in the mess of two-a-days and team meetings and learning a whole new system, you and Juju were in step.

You’d drift left on the break, and she’d already be launching the outlet pass. She’d cut hard baseline, and you’d know to hit the pocket before she even turned her head. You weren’t trying to prove anything to her then. It wasn’t about chemistry or connection. It was just instinct. Ease. Like your games knew each other before either of you had the chance to catch up.

But it didn’t look like much at the time—not to anyone outside those closed practices. Reporters wrote about you like a time bomb. “Two alphas, one ball.” “Fire meets fire.” “Can the Trojans survive the clash?”

You heard it all. Sometimes laughed about it under your breath in the locker room. Sometimes let it get under your skin. Not because they doubted you—but because they didn’t see it. What was already there. What had always been there.

But you didn’t care enough to make them see it. Not until Stanford.

That game changed everything.

Suddenly, the spacing was perfect. The tempo? Yours. Every screen she set gave you daylight. Every double team they threw at her, you punished. The two of you ran transition like a dance. You hit her in stride off a spin—no-look, no hesitation. She tossed you a half-court bounce pass with two defenders chasing her blindside, and it landed in your hands like magic.

The ESPN clip went viral within hours. Someone edited it to Beyoncé. “These two aren’t teammates, they’re telepathic,” the caption read.

And maybe they were right. Because from that night on, things were different.

The country stopped seeing you as separate.

You were a unit now.

They gave you names—The Ice Twins, Fire and Ice, The Coldest Backcourt. SportsCenter ran daily highlight reels with just you two. Not even the whole team—just you two. Breaking press, trapping defenders, throwing no-looks, clapping back on defense with chase-down blocks and swipes so clean they slowed the footage down just to catch it.

And the thing was… you liked it.

Not the spotlight, exactly—but what it meant.

It meant people were starting to understand what you’d already known. That it wasn’t just about talent or athleticism or who scored more. It was the way you played. How everything felt cleaner when she was on the floor with you. How your instincts sharpened. How your patience deepened. How you never had to wonder where she’d be.

By mid-November, you were undefeated.

And not just winning—dominating. Games were decided by halftime. Opposing coaches started building entire scouting reports around how to stop you and Juju. “Double the point.” “Force her left.” “Switch every screen.”

It didn’t matter.

You two adjusted mid-game like it was nothing. You’d fake the flare just to pull defenders away from her cut. She’d slip the screen early if you hesitated on your drive.

Even Coach started building the lineup around you. Centered sets on your spacing. Let you and Juju freelance out of horns. There were new drills in practice just for the two of you—two-man game, downhill reads, ghost screens. You ran them without thinking. By December, you were calling plays without needing hand signals. Just eye contact. Just feel.

It stopped being something you worked on. It just was.

And weirdly… that was the most intimate part of it all.

Because you didn’t talk about it. Not really. You didn’t sit down and say, hey, this feels good, doesn’t it? You just showed up to the gym every day, knowing she’d be there too. You let her throw you reps at 6am, rebounded for her until your arms were sore. You started noticing the way she paced during timeouts, how she clenched her jaw when she was annoyed. You started talking more, then less. Your communication narrowed into something sharper than words.

You never labeled it. The media tried. “Do you guys hang out off the court?” “What’s the secret to your connection?” “Have you ever fought over who gets the last shot?”

You’d both shrug. Maybe smile.

But the truth was, it did feel weird to play without her. Like missing a limb. If she sat for too long, you got restless. If you got in foul trouble, she tightened up. There was a kind of silence when only one of you was on the floor. Like holding your breath. Like waiting for the beat to drop.

You were both great on your own. That much had always been true.

But together? Together, you were terrifying.

Not just because of the stats or the highlight reels or the growing pile of wins—but because of how effortless it was. How second nature. Like the game made more sense when it filtered through both of you. Like you were born to balance each other.

You were calm where she were fire. You were still sharp where she was steady. But instead of canceling each other out, you just… amplified. Completed. Created something between you that couldn’t be touched.

And you knew, deep down, if you kept showing up. Kept pushing. Kept trusting—there wouldn’t be a defense in the country that could stop you.

And no one really noticed when it turned into something more than just teammates with insane chemistry. First came the little things.

Like when Coach started randomly switching up the rooming assignments during road games and you and Juju stopped complaining about getting paired together. The silence that used to feel sharp and cold turned soft. Sometimes you both just laid in your hotel beds in total quiet, headphones in, legs aching from practice, phones forgotten on the nightstand. Not talking, not fighting.

Just breathing in the same space.

Eventually, someone on the team caught you two eating lunch alone at the athlete dining hall—headphones still in, still not talking, but choosing to sit across from each other anyway. That’s when the jokes started.

“You guys married now or what?” someone teased.

Juju rolled her eyes and muttered something rude, and you laughed, cheeks warm.

But you didn’t move.

It was the late-night rides home after away games that did it.

Those long, sleepy drives back to campus with your teammates passed out across bus seats, wrapped in sweatshirts and oversized headphones. That’s when Juju would slide into the seat across from you, sometimes even next to you if the front rows were empty. She’d stretch her legs out, lean her head back, and stare out the window. Never said much.

But it didn’t feel like silence anymore.

It felt like a rhythm.

You started swapping snacks halfway through one of those rides. You handed her a pack of Sour Patch Kids without asking if she wanted some. She looked at you like you’d just handed her your entire bank account, but she took one. Just one. You didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to.

Another time, you passed her your charger when her phone was at 3%. She mumbled something that might’ve been “thanks.” You just nodded.

Sometimes, you caught her watching you. Not in a creepy way. Just... observing. Like she was trying to understand you. Like she was surprised you weren’t as soft as she’d assumed.

Because you weren’t. Not really.

Juju started noticing it before you did—the you let people push you around.

Not your teammates. Not Coach. But on the court? You’d get shoved, elbowed, yanked off screens, and you wouldn’t say a word. You’d take it, tighten your jaw, shake it off. You played clean, precise, and relentless, but you didn’t bark back.

And that did something to Juju.

She hated it.

One game, in Arizona, you took a hard shoulder to the chest that had you stumbling back. It was borderline dirty. You didn’t even complain. Just caught your breath, flexed your hands, and went to inbound the ball like nothing happened.

The next play, Juju didn’t even try to hide her retaliation.

She boxed the girl out so hard she hit the floor, and Juju stood over her just long enough to get a warning from the ref. When you gave her a look, she shrugged like, What?

After that, it became a pattern.

Every time someone got too rough with you, Juju inserted herself. Not with words—but with presence. Her body. Her physicality. Like she was drawing a line no one else could cross.

“She got a guard dog now?” you heard someone mutter from the opposing bench once.

You didn’t correct them. You kind of liked it.

And like any athlete, media days were where things changed for you.

Because while Juju became your defender on the court, you became hers off it.

It was subtle at first. A question from some outlet with too many consonants in its name about Juju’s “attitude.” You could see it in her jaw—how she tensed. Bit the inside of her cheek. How the smile slipped.

You leaned forward before she could even answer.

“Or maybe,” you said, voice even but firm, “you’re just not used to confident women who aren’t here to coddle you.”

The room went still.

Juju blinked. And then—slowly—smirked.

You weren’t the same person in those interviews anymore. You dropped the polished, picture-perfect responses and started speaking with edge. Especially when it came to her. You called out the microaggressions. Shut down the loaded questions. You didn’t let them frame her as the villain just because she didn’t smile on cue.

“She’s not rude,” you said once. “She’s focused. You should try it sometime.”

It caught on fast. Twitter clips. TikToks. Headlines that read like:

“Y/N and Juju: USC’s Unlikely Dynamic Duo” “Y/N Taurasi Defends Teammate in Viral Interview—‘Try Respecting Black Women’” “USC’s Power Pair: The Fire and Ice of College Basketball”

And every time one of those interviews dropped, Juju didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.

You’d catch the way she looked at you.

Not surprised anymore. Just... seeing you.

You didn’t know when “teammates” stopped being the right word.

It wasn’t one moment. It was a million small ones stitched together across bus rides, hotel rooms, and sideline glances. It was the way she always stood behind you in warmups, like a silent shield. The way her elbow brushed yours during timeouts and lingered. The way she passed you the ball like she was daring you to score, because she knew you would.

It was the way she didn’t like anyone else talking to you too long after games.

The way you caught yourself watching her mouth when she was chewing gum.

The way you said “we” when you talked about plays now, without even thinking.

It was slow, and steady, and impossible to ignore. You didn’t talk about it.

--

The gym smells like lemon cleaner and something deeper—old sweat sealed into the wood grain, worn-down sneakers that still left their ghosts behind. It's late. Later than it should be. The kind of hour where nothing feels real and everything feels possible.

You’re barely a month into the season. November has blurred into December, the first wave of jitters and expectations settling into something steadier, something lived-in. You’ve found your rhythm—kind of. Enough to stop overthinking your minutes, enough to know when to push and when to float. You’ve made peace with the way the locker room works, with the inside jokes you weren’t around for and the ones you’re slowly being let in on. Enough to not flinch when Coach starts yelling, and enough to know Juju Watkins won’t ever stop pretending she doesn’t care.

Which brings you here. After practice, after film, after everyone else has gone home to ice baths and late-night DoorDash orders. The gym empty but not quiet, the hum of the lights and your shared breath filling the space. You’re both stretched out across the court, practicing... something. It started with a “hey, let’s run through that action from the second half again,” and now it’s evolved—or maybe devolved—into made-up tricks and weird passes, just to see if they land.

It's not structured. It's not even smart. But it’s chemistry.

Juju’s dribbling in slow motion, clearly mocking you, her tongue peeking out in concentration like she’s trying to master some impossible move. You’re sprawled on the three-point line watching her, arms crossed, smirking like you’ve got the cheat code to her whole existence. You don’t—but it’s fun to pretend.

“Real smooth,” you say as she fumbles the ball off her foot and blames the floor. “You trying out for the Harlem Globetrotters or what?”

“Nah,” she shrugs, “I already got a team.”

“Barely,” you say, walking toward her and kicking the ball back her way. “You be acting like a teammate and a tourist at the same time.”

That gets a reaction. Not much of one, but enough. She scrunches her nose like she’s offended and amused in equal measure.

“You talk too much,” she says.

“And you don’t talk enough,” you fire back. “Maybe we balance each other out.”

She looks at you, really looks at you, for a second too long. You know that look. She’s trying to decide if she can trust you, or maybe just trying to figure out what you want. You don’t make it easy.

“Or maybe you just like hearing yourself,” she mutters.

“You’d be surprised how many people like hearing me,” you grin, toeing the ball toward her again. “It’s kind of a gift.”

Juju catches it this time, spinning it lazily on her finger like she’s not impressed.

“I’m not one of them.”

“No,” you say. “You’re the one who texts me at eleven asking to ‘run sets.’”

She rolls her eyes and turns away, heading toward the baseline again. You follow, obviously. You always do.

“You didn’t have to show up,” she says over her shoulder.

“You knew I would.”

She shrugs, but her pace slows. She’s waiting for you to catch up.

It’s not the first time you’ve stayed late. It’s not even the first time it’s been just the two of you. But this feels different somehow. Not heavier—just more alive. There’s no clipboard, no assistant coach counting reps, no music blaring from the speakers. Just you and her and the soft thud of the ball when it hits the hardwood.

She stops near the free throw line and pivots to face you, nodding like she’s got an idea. “Alright,” she says, “you set the screen, I’ll curl around, no dribbles, just a catch-and-shoot. You ready?”

You blink. “You trust me to set the screen?”

“Moment of weakness.”

You snort, but you do it. She fakes one way, cuts the other, curls tight around you like muscle memory, and you flip the ball to her—clean, just where she wants it. She nails the shot.

It’s quiet after the swish. That kind of perfect sound that only happens when the ball kisses the net just right.

You clap, mock-serious. “Wow. A shooter. Who knew.”

“Don’t gas me now,” she says, smirking.

“Too late,” you grin, backing up to the wing. “I’m your biggest fan.”

She arches a brow, amusement flickering across her face like light through stained glass. “You a fan of everybody or just me?”

“Oh,” you say, pretending to consider it. “Just you. Everybody else is kind of mid.”

Juju laughs—actual, real laughter that she tries to swallow down too quickly, like it slipped out by accident. You don’t say anything, but you store it away, the way her laugh sounds at midnight in an empty gym, echoing just enough to feel important.

You run the play again. And again. It keeps getting smoother. Tighter. There’s a moment where she catches the ball and passes it back before even looking, already knowing you’re there.

That’s what this was about, right? Chemistry.

But it’s not just that. Not really. You both know it. It's about trust. About rhythm. About building something you can’t fake or force or script.

You grab a water bottle from the edge of the court and toss her one without looking. She catches it midair and gives you a nod like that means something now.

You flop down onto the court, sprawled out like your bones are too tired to keep pretending this is just about hoops. Juju hesitates, then sits down next to you—knees bent, arms draped across them.

There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable, not weird.

“You ever stop playing?” she asks, glancing sideways at you.

“Not unless I’m sleeping,” you say. “Even then I dream in crossovers.”

She laughs again. Softer this time.

You turn your head toward her. “Why’d you really ask me to come out here?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just rolls her water bottle between her palms and shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

“You move different,” she finally says, like that explains everything. “Thought I should figure out how to keep up.”

You smile, more to yourself than anything. She’ll never say it plain. That’s not her style. But this? This is her version of reaching out.

And you’ll take it. Every time.

The drills slow down. The passes get looser. Your fingers are starting to sting, your calves burn every time you reset your feet, and your shoulders ache from overuse. You know the signs—your body’s quitting, even if your mind’s still wired.

You wipe sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand and glance at Juju, who’s pacing toward the far sideline like she’s done too but won’t admit it first. You’d almost respect her more if she called it. But you know her by now.

“I swear, if we run that same play one more time—” you start, flopping backward onto the floor dramatically.

She doesn’t even flinch. “You’re the one who said you wanted to get our reads tighter.”

“That was before I realized you play like you’re trying to beat me at a one-on-one I didn’t agree to.”

“That’s crazy,” Juju says, grabbing the basketball and sitting beside you. “Because I am.”

You breathe out a laugh, arms spread wide across the hardwood like a crime scene. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

There’s a beat of silence. The good kind again. Your chest rises and falls slowly, sweat drying cold against your skin. You stare up at the rafters, letting the weight of the day press down, just enough to keep you grounded.

“Hey,” Juju says eventually, voice quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

You don’t look at her. Just blink at the ceiling and nod.

“What’s it like… being Taurasi’s kid?”

You blink again. This time slower.

You’ve been asked that before. Plenty of times. By reporters, by teammates, by random fans with camera phones and too much time on their hands. It’s usually an icebreaker, a compliment, a setup for someone else’s expectations. You’ve got the answers rehearsed in your bones.

“It’s great,” you say automatically. “She’s my biggest role model. Taught me everything I know.”

Juju doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t even pretend to.

“Nah,” she says. “I mean really.”

You finally turn your head to look at her. She’s watching you—one knee up, arm looped around it, sweat-damp curls escaping from her bun. Calm. Still. But curious in that way she gets when she wants the truth.

You exhale slowly, jaw clenched just enough to keep the words in.

“I said what I said,” you mumble.

“And I said,” Juju echoes, “nah.”

It’s quiet again, but heavier now. Not awkward. Just… held.

You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest, arms draped loosely over them. You stare down at the floor for a long second, then glance sideways at her.

“You really wanna know?”

She nods.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then shake your head like you’re already regretting opening your mouth.

“It’s… complicated,” you start. “She’s not just my mom. She’s Diana Taurasi. Like capital letters. GOAT. One-name recognition. And I know what that means. I’ve known since I was old enough to dribble. People don’t just look at me and see a player. They see her shadow.”

Juju stays quiet. Just listens.

“And don’t get me wrong,” you say, voice a little tighter now, “she loves me. I know she does. But love and pressure aren’t the same thing. She didn’t raise me to be soft. She raised me to win. Every game. Every drill. Every damn rep. Crying wasn’t really a thing in our house. Excuses weren’t either. You either got better, or you didn’t get on the court.”

You’re talking faster now, like the truth is trying to outrun the guardrails you built around it.

“She’d have me up before school to shoot. Had me watching film with her before I even knew what the plays meant. We didn’t have bedtime stories. We had game tape. She’d pause the screen and ask me, ‘what’d she do wrong here?’ and if I didn’t know, she’d rewind it again and again until I did.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“She told me once, ‘being great isn’t a job, it’s an identity.’ And I think—” you pause, voice catching a little, “I think she wants a legacy more than a daughter sometimes.”

Juju shifts beside you. Not closer, not farther. Just… present.

“And I love her for it,” you continue, softer now. “I do. Because I know it came from a real place. She wanted me to be unstoppable. And I learned how to be. But… sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like to just be a kid. To mess up and not feel like I was disappointing the whole dynasty. To lose and not feel like it was her loss.”

You finally look at Juju again, and something in her gaze softens.

“People see the name on my jersey and think I’ve got it made,” you whisper. “But sometimes it feels like the weight of it’s the one thing keeping me from breathing.”

The silence between you now is fragile. Bare. Like if either of you moved too fast, it might crack.

And then Juju—who has made a career out of being unreadable—says quietly, “That’s real.”

You blink at her, surprised by the simplicity of it.

She shrugs, eyes on the floor. “I get it. Different version. But I get it.”

You don’t press. She doesn’t offer more. But something shifts in the air between you—like a drawbridge quietly lowering in the middle of the night.

She leans back on her palms, exhales like she’s been holding her own breath this whole time.

“You know,” she says after a while, “I think people forget you’re a person. Like, a real one.”

You snort softly. “Tell that to the twenty dudes in my DMs who keep calling me ‘Baby White Mamba.’”

“Please delete your Instagram,” Juju deadpans. “Immediately.”

You laugh for real this time, wiping your face with the edge of your shirt. “You started this. Asking all deep questions like we’re on some HBO docuseries.”

“I’m curious,” she says with a shrug. “You’re kind of an enigma.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

She rolls her eyes so hard you almost hear it. “Don’t make me regret this moment.”

But the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth says she doesn’t.

You both sit in the quiet again, this time a little closer. A little more understood.

And maybe it doesn’t fix everything—not the pressure, not the legacy, not the million expectations—but for tonight, it feels a little lighter.

For tonight, someone sees you. Not the name. Not the future GOAT. Just you.

And that’s enough.

Later that night, the gym echoes in your head long after you've left it.

Your legs are sore. Your voice is hoarse from calling out switches and cuts. You and Juju had gone until the lights dimmed, until the janitor peeked in and gave you that “wrap it up” stare that said he was too polite to kick you out but too tired to wait much longer.

You showered. Changed. Ate something half-decent out of a vending machine because the dining hall was already closed. And now, you’re curled up in your dorm bed, legs tucked under the blanket, phone pressed to your ear.

It’s not your mom on the other end of the line tonight. It’s Penny.

You love Penny. She’s the softness that balances the fire in your household. But even Penny has her scripts sometimes. You know the rhythm by heart.

“How’s the knee holding up?” “Coach say anything about your minutes?” “You stretching before bed?” “How’s chemistry with Juju?”

You answer everything like a seasoned pro—tight, even, unfazed. You’ve been media trained since you were twelve. You know how to sound fine, even when you’re not. Especially when you’re not.

But Penny’s not just anyone. She knows the quiet tells.

“You sound off, kid,” she says gently.

You don’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Just tired.”

She hums. Doesn’t press. Just lingers in that way she does when she knows you’re lying but doesn’t want to force it out of you.

You talk a little longer—light stuff. Someone on campus brought a dog to the quad. One of the assistant coaches tripped on a loose ball during practice and tried to play it off like he meant to fall. Juju made fun of his landing form for a full ten minutes.

Penny laughs at that. “She’s got a good sense of humor. Good for you.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. She’s… surprising.”

When you hang up, the room feels colder.

You toss your phone on the nightstand and sink deeper under the covers, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll offer answers it’s never had before.

And then, like a film reel slipping out of its case, the memory unspools—one you’ve tried to keep boxed up for years. One you almost forgot was still breathing inside you.

Nike Nationals. July of your sophomore year.

The gym in Chicago was packed—loud, hot, buzzing with cameras and scouts. Your AAU team had clawed its way through the bracket all weekend. Double-OT in the quarters. A last-second block in the semis. You were running on adrenaline and gummy bears, legs stiff from barely sleeping in hotel beds that smelled like bleach and bad decisions.

You were there. The final. The last two teams standing.

And you were good. So good. You’d dropped 20 in the first half alone—spin moves, step-backs, dimes off the pick-and-roll. Your mom had been in the stands, arms crossed, sunglasses on even indoors, watching you with that look.

The look that meant she was proud. But not satisfied.

That look that made you want to be better. Perfect.

The game went down to the wire. Tied at 58 with eleven seconds left. Your coach called a play for you—clear out, iso, drive the lane. And you got fouled on the take. Two shots. Win-the-game free throws.

You remember the silence. How everything else faded—the crowd, the cameras, the pulse in your ears. Just the ball, the line, your breath.

You missed the first.

Back rim, long bounce.

You knew before it hit.

The second rattled out, too.

They got the rebound. Called time. Hit a buzzer-beater three.

You lost.

You don’t remember the locker room. Just the bathroom stall you locked yourself in. The sharp, tight sobs that ripped out of you. The sound of your jersey hitting the floor when you yanked it off. The way your hands shook so badly you couldn’t even retie your sneakers.

You didn’t talk to anyone on the ride back to the hotel.

And Diana didn’t either.

She was waiting in the lobby when you walked in, arms crossed again, that same unreadable stare locked on you like a laser sight. You were hoping—maybe—she’d pull you in, tell you it was okay, that she was proud anyway, that everyone has moments like that.

She didn’t.

She didn’t say anything until the next morning. Woke you up at six sharp. Said, “Let’s go.”

You thought she meant breakfast.

She meant film.

You’re sixteen. Still emotionally raw. Sitting at the edge of a stiff hotel bed in your hoodie and compression shorts, and your mom has her laptop open, already queuing the footage from the game. Her voice is flat, clinical.

“You had her beat on that first cross. Should’ve gone left.”

Pause. Rewind.

“Your arc’s too flat. That’s why the free throws didn’t drop.”

Pause. Rewind.

“You pulled up early on this drive. You could’ve drawn contact and one’d it.”

Pause. Rewind.

It goes on like that. An hour. Then two. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t curse. But it almost feels worse. Because she’s treating it like surgery—cutting into you with precision, peeling back every failure and dissecting it in silence.

You nod through it all. Quiet. Barely blinking.

When she finishes, she shuts the laptop and says, “We work now, or we work later. Your call.”

You don’t answer. You just stare down at your feet.

All you can think about is how close you were. How small the margin. How those free throws will haunt you for the rest of your life.

That was the first time you ever wanted to quit.

You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Because that’s not who you’re allowed to be.

Back in your dorm room now, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, but it doesn’t help. The chill is inside.

You close your eyes and picture that moment again. The line. The ball. Your mom’s face afterward.

Sometimes you wonder if she remembers it like you do. If it meant as much to her as it did to you.

You’re not mad at her. Not exactly. You know she did what she thought was right. That’s how she was raised, too. The same fire. The same unforgiving standard.

But you were sixteen.

And all you wanted in that moment wasn’t a lecture, or a film session, or a fix.

You just wanted your mom.

You wanted her to sit beside you on that hotel bed, and wrap an arm around your shoulder, and say, “You’re allowed to miss.”

“You’re still mine.”

You roll onto your side, burying your face into the pillow.

You don’t cry. Not anymore.

But the ache is old and familiar.

And it doesn’t fade.

Not really.

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ELLIE FIGHT FUCKING BACK BITCH

i’m just going to say this: ellie needs to get her fucking lick back

Guys remember when we beat sc twice and won the natty????😁

Can't believe I was too new of a fan to realize what great shit was happening right before my eyes 😭😭

threw up.

🥲

If the UConn team was in yellowjackets, Q would be the first victim and I have a really strong feeling that KK would be antler queen but just for shits and giggles 😭

anyways . I miss Peter Parker!

im ashamed of who i become when judea watkins graces my screen.