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lightsgore

1 month ago

oh this ATE.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 1/3)

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MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.7k

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 | competitive tension, mentions of injuries, slow burn dynamics, rivals-to-something-much-messier, media speculation, college basketball politics... this is only part one to the lay the works for the next two parts

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | listen. i just wanted to write about what happens when you throw two untouchable girls into the same gym and force them to coexist. this is about power, perception, and the kind of obsession you can’t quite name. it’s loud games and quiet bus rides. it’s two stars learning they shine brightest side by side.

You were born into greatness before you even had the language to name it.

The first thing you ever held was a mini basketball, your tiny hands clumsily wrapped around its worn leather like it had always belonged there. Your baby photos weren’t in soft pastels—they were draped in UConn blue and white, your mother’s old jersey hung behind you like a crown you hadn’t earned but would eventually grow into. You took your first steps on a basketball court. Learned your first words in locker rooms. The sharp scent of sweat, rubber soles, and Gatorade became as familiar to you as lullabies.

You were Diana Taurasi’s daughter. And that meant something.

Even when you were too young to understand the weight of it, other people did. They looked at you and saw potential. Expectation. In the eyes of coaches, scouts, fans—you weren’t just a kid. You were a blueprint. A second coming.

And you never got the chance to be anything else.

You were in second grade the first time someone referred to you as a “problem” on the court—meant as a compliment, of course. You dropped twenty-four points in an AAU game filled with girls four years older than you. By middle school, Gatorade was sponsoring youth events you headlined. By high school, you were trending every time you laced up. A walking headline. A phenom. A legacy in progress.

You didn’t just play basketball. You were basketball.

There was a calm that came with it. A clarity. You didn’t feel the pressure like other people expected you to. You felt something closer to instinct. The game spoke to you in a language you were born fluent in—cuts, passes, screens, shot clocks. It pulsed through your veins like memory. And your mother—your mother made sure you never coasted.

Diana Taurasi wasn’t just your mom. She was your coach, your mentor, your mirror. Brutally honest. Ferociously protective. She never let you fall for your own hype. Never let you take the easy road. You had to earn every point, every compliment, every step forward.

But still—there was no denying it.

You were that girl.

The number one recruit in the country for the 2024-25 season. The most scouted, most talked-about, most coveted player in women’s basketball. Some analysts said you were bigger than Cooper Flagg, more valuable, more marketable. Others called you a unicorn. A guard with a forward’s strength, a forward with a point guard’s court vision. You had Diana’s fire, but your own flavor of finesse. And you knew how to sell it. NIL deals rolled in before you turned seventeen—Nike, Beats, Gatorade, even a short documentary on your life that ESPN dropped during your senior year.

You didn’t ask to be the face of a movement. But you didn’t shy away from it, either.

They called you the princess of basketball. Not because you were soft. But because you were born in the castle and never once questioned whether or not you belonged.

Every program in the country wanted you. Coaches fawned. Analysts speculated. Your name was in every headline, your stats on every screen. Everyone—everyone—assumed you were going to UConn. How could you not? It was written in your blood. Your mom’s legacy was carved into the walls of Gampel Pavilion. Geno called you his “basketball granddaughter” before you could spell his name. You grew up running through their tunnels, watching legends take the court, dreaming in shades of blue.

But dreams change. Or maybe yours were never really yours to begin with.

Because when decision day came, you chose USC.

And the world? Imploded.

Headlines hit within seconds.

“TAURASI’S DAUGHTER SHOCKS BASKETBALL WORLD.”

“NUMBER ONE PROSPECT SNUBS UCONN.”

“PRINCESS TURNS REBEL.”

Everyone wanted a reason. Everyone needed an explanation. But it wasn’t complicated.

You didn’t want to inherit a legacy. You wanted to build one.

UConn would’ve been the safe path. The linear one. The predictable one. But you were never interested in repeating history. You were interested in rewriting it.

And USC—the City of Angels, the rebirth of West Coast basketball—was the place where you could do that.

Because LA offered you more than a court. It offered you a chance to step outside of your mother’s shadow, to start fresh, to make people see you for who you really were, not just who you were born to.

And maybe, deep down, it wasn’t just about legacy.

Maybe it was also about control. About owning your narrative before someone else could spin it for you.

You showed up to campus with cameras waiting. Your arrival was treated like the second coming. You weren’t a freshman—you were an icon in training. The team photographers caught you walking into Galen Center in a fresh pair of white and crimson Kobe 6s, your curls slicked back, diamond studs catching the California sun. The post went viral in under an hour.

“She’s here.”

“It’s over for the rest of the NCAA.”

“UConn fumbled the bag.”

People were already talking about championships. About rivalries. About changing the landscape of women’s college hoops.

But none of the buzz fazed you.

You’d been watched your whole life. You knew how to turn that into power. Still—there was one thing you hadn’t accounted for.

You weren’t the only star in town. And Juju Watkins? She wasn’t about to hand over the keys to her kingdom without a fight.

When people thought of USC women’s basketball, they thought of Juju Watkins.

It wasn’t up for debate. It wasn’t a question or a maybe or a footnote. It was fact. She was the headline, the face, the foundation. The hometown hero who chose to stay, to build, to bet on herself when everyone else was chasing dynasties across the country. She was the one who said no to UConn and South Carolina and Stanford and carved her own path under the California sun. And she was proud of that. She should be proud of that.

Because she didn’t just help put USC back on the map.

She was the map.

The jersey sales, the packed home games, the national coverage, the buzz—the heat that hadn’t touched USC in decades—it all started with her. She was a one-woman revolution in a bun and Kobe kicks, an LA native who brought cameras and fans and credibility back to the Galen Center.

And she worked for it. Every inch.

No one handed her anything.

She didn’t have a last name that made people bow. She wasn’t born into legend. She earned her way here—through sweat, and pressure, and expectation so loud it nearly drowned her more than once. And even now, with her name etched into the culture of this team, with her photos plastered on every poster and promo, she still didn’t feel safe.

Not when you were coming.

She saw the rumors online before she believed them. Saw your name floated in interviews, message boards, pre-season speculation. Everyone thought you’d go to UConn. It made sense. You were Diana Taurasi’s daughter, after all. Basketball royalty. UConn blue practically ran in your blood. But then the decision came, and it broke across social media like a crack of thunder.

You picked USC.

And everything shifted.

Juju was scrolling Twitter when she saw the official commitment post. A photo of you in cardinal and gold, arms folded over your chest, looking like you already owned the place. The caption was something cocky—something short, like legacy starts now or chapter one—and the likes exploded in real time.

At first, Juju just stared. Blinked. Read it again.

Then she threw her phone across the bed and laughed.

Not because it was funny. But because what else could she do?

You were coming here. To her house. To the team she rebuilt from the ground up. And she already knew what was going to happen next. All the headlines. The endless comparisons. The whispers that this—you—was the beginning of a new era.

As if she was already yesterday’s news. As if she hadn’t fought tooth and nail to give USC its identity back.

She hated it. Hated the way your name lingered on everyone’s tongue like some kind of prophecy. Hated how you were treated like the second coming of women’s basketball when she wasn’t even done writing her own story yet.

Most of all, she hated how easy it all seemed for you.

Juju watched your highlight tapes obsessively. More than she was willing to admit. Alone, late at night, headphones in. She’d scroll through hours of clips—AAU, USA Basketball, random TikTok edits—and she’d try to find the cracks. The flaws. Something she could use to tell herself you weren’t as good as they said.

But there weren’t any.

You were that good.

And that was the worst part.

You weren’t just hype. You weren’t just legacy and bloodline and pretty branding. You were legit. You moved like a pro—fluid, confident, calculated. Your handle was filthy. Your jumper, clean. You read defenses like they were written in bold font. And your passing game? That pissed her off the most. It was unselfish. As if the game didn’t revolve around you, even though everyone treated it like it did.

You were the kind of player who made the court look small.

And Juju knew what that meant. It meant she had a problem.

Because now she had to fight for her spot on her own team.

This wasn’t high school anymore. It wasn’t a one-woman show. She wasn’t going to get by on name recognition or local loyalty. There was another star on the roster now. And not just any star. The star. And no matter how hard Juju tried to downplay it, the truth kept showing up in her chest like a bruise she couldn’t ignore.

They weren’t just making room for you. They were rearranging things for you.

The trainers. The media staff. Even the coaches—Coach Gottlieb hadn’t said anything directly, but Juju could feel it. The careful balancing act. The subtle shifts in tone. The way they said your name like a promise.

It made her stomach twist.

It made her wake up earlier. Stay later. Work harder.

Not because she wanted to impress anyone. But because she wasn’t about to get pushed out of her own kingdom.

She’d bled for this team. She’d sacrificed for this team. She’d become the face of the program when no one else believed it could be done. And now everyone wanted to forget?

She wasn’t going to let that happen.

So yeah—she watched you. Studied you. Tracked your movements in every practice, every drill, every media appearance. Not out of admiration. Out of necessity. Because if she didn’t, she’d get left behind. Replaced. Reduced to a co-star in your story when she hadn’t even finished writing her own.

And maybe, just maybe, that obsession came with something sharper. Something deeper. Something she didn’t want to name just yet.

Because every time she looked at you—cool and collected, already being adored by everyone around you—she didn’t just see a rival.

She saw a mirror. A threat. A spark.

And she wasn’t sure which one scared her more.

--

You told them over dinner.

Not in a dramatic way, not with some big announcement or a video reveal or anything even close to that. Just the three of you—your mom, Diana, her wife, Penny, and you—sitting around the table in the backyard of your Arizona house. The kind of night where the sun stretched out long, warm and pink across the horizon, the cicadas were already singing, and the grill still smelled like steak and vegetables.

You’d been quiet most of the meal. Not tense, just… focused. Waiting for the right moment. You’d known what you were going to say for days—maybe even weeks. It had been building in you like a tide, inevitable. But knowing didn’t make saying it any easier.

Penny was the one who asked, voice soft and casual as she leaned back in her chair, wine glass balanced in her hand. “So, babe… where’s your head at with schools?”

You looked across the table at them. Diana, in her usual tank top and slides, her expression unreadable. Penny, barefoot, relaxed, but always watching closely. You pushed a piece of grilled zucchini around your plate for a second. Then you said it.

“I’m committing to USC.”

Diana blinked.

Penny smiled, almost immediately. “USC, huh? That’s exciting—LA, sunshine, staying West Coast. Great coaching staff. Good program.”

Diana still hadn’t moved.

You watched her fork freeze midair, hanging over her plate. She blinked again, slower this time, like maybe her brain was buffering. Then she set the fork down.

“USC?” she repeated, voice flat. “As in… the Trojans?”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I already talked to Coach Gottlieb. I’m sending my papers in tomorrow.”

It was quiet.

Penny sipped her wine. Diana didn’t say anything, just stared at you. You could practically hear her thoughts. You weren’t surprised, not really. You’d been bracing for this since the idea of USC first came into focus. Since the first whispers of doing something different—your thing—started to bloom.

Diana leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So what happened to UConn? You know, you already have your spot on the team, Geno promised.”

You shrugged. “It’s not what I want.”

“And Stanford?” she asked, voice sharp now. “South Carolina? Notre Dame? You literally have offers from every top ten school. Every. Single. One.”

“I know.”

She scoffed. “So explain to me how you ended up choosing USC like it’s not a massive downgrade.”

“Di—” Penny warned gently.

“No,” Diana cut in, eyes still locked on you. “I’m serious. I need her to say it. Because it sounds a lot like she’s throwing away every advantage she’s got to go be on a rebuilding team for—what? A vibe? Sunshine and Instagram opportunities?”

“It’s not about that,” you said quietly. “It’s about making something mine.”

Diana didn’t laugh, but she might as well have. The sound she made was dry, almost bitter. “You have something that’s yours. Your name, your talent, your future—all of it. And you really think going to USC is gonna make people forget you’re my kid?”

You stared at her. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to be great,” you said, firm now. “I want to win. But I don’t want to do it where people are already expecting me to. I want to do it somewhere I chose. Not somewhere that was handed to me because of you.”

The table went quiet again. Penny reached over and placed a hand gently on Diana’s forearm.

“She’s not trying to disrespect you,” Penny said softly.

But Diana wasn’t even angry. Not really. She looked almost hurt. Or maybe confused. Like she was staring at a stranger wearing your face.

“I get it,” she said finally, low and tight. “You don’t want to follow in my footsteps. You want your own lane.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

Diana sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Look, you know I respect USC. I do. But they don’t have a championship pedigree. They don’t have the infrastructure. If you really want to build something from the ground up, then go to Arizona. Hell, go to UCLA. At least those would make sense.”

Penny smiled behind her glass. “You’re negotiating now?”

“She’s not thinking it through.”

“I have thought it through,” you snapped. “I’ve thought about it more than anything in my entire life.”

Diana just looked at you, and for a second, it felt like you were ten years old again, after a bad game, standing at the free-throw line in the driveway while she drilled you on your form until the sun went down.

Then she exhaled, leaned forward, and said, “Fine.”

You blinked. “Fine?”

“But if you’re going to USC,” she said, voice suddenly sharper, “you’re going to do it like a Taurasi.”

You held her gaze.

“You’re not going there to participate. You’re not going there to be cute. You’re going there to win. And not just games—I mean finals. National championships. I don’t care if you’re a freshman or if you’re going up against five-star recruits. You go there, you better drag that team into the tournament and you better make it count. Or it’s a waste.”

There was a pause.

And then you smiled. A small one. The kind that came from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Okay,” you said. “Deal.”

She nodded once. “Then I don’t want to hear any complaints when you’re waking up at 5 a.m. every day for two-a-days and you’ve got cameras in your face asking why you didn’t go to UConn.”

“I won’t complain,” you said.

“You better not,” she muttered, but her voice had softened.

Penny looked between the two of you and shook her head. “God, you two are the same.”

Neither of you denied it.

Because you were. In ways you couldn’t run from, even if you tried.

You were Diana’s daughter through and through. The sharp edge. The attitude. The refusal to do anything halfway. And when she threw down that challenge, that line in the sand, it didn’t scare you.

It thrilled you.

You were going to USC. And now, you were going to prove that you could do exactly what she said.

Because making it to the finals wasn’t a request.

It was a promise.

--

There’s something about first impressions.

You know how they say don’t judge a book by its cover, but that’s exactly what everyone does—especially in women’s basketball, where reputation walks into the room before you do.

And yours?

Yours has been following you like a shadow since the moment you could dribble.

So when you showed up to Galen Center on the first day of summer workouts, it wasn’t just an arrival. It was a statement.

You stepped onto that court like it was already yours.

Custom Jordan 1s in USC colors, trimmed with metallic gold laces. Dutch braids tight and glossy, edges laid, diamond studs catching the light. Oversized vintage Nike tee tucked into black USC practice shorts. The look was casual, effortless—but make no mistake, it was curated. You weren’t just the new recruit.

You were the moment.

The gym buzzed when you walked in. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Girls nudged each other subtly, stealing glances over their water bottles. Someone whispered your name like a prayer. A few others just stared like they couldn’t believe you were real. That she—basketball’s golden child, Diana Taurasi’s legacy—was actually here.

You didn’t smile.

Not because you were being rude, but because you didn’t need to. You let the silence stretch a little. Let it settle.

Own the room first. Be friendly later, that’s what Diana always said.

Coach Gottlieb was already making her way toward you, clipboard in hand, eyes bright and slightly nervous—like she knew she had something valuable in her hands and didn’t want to drop it.

“Welcome to USC,” she said, offering her hand, and you shook it with a firm grip, your expression unreadable.

“I’m excited to be here,” you replied smoothly, voice low, even.

And you were. You meant it.

The rest of the staff followed—assistant coaches, trainers, strength coaches. They all greeted you like royalty. Like this was the day they’d been waiting for, the shift they’d been promised. You could feel it in the way their eyes lingered too long, in the way their smiles tightened when they spoke. The expectation was heavy. But it didn’t scare you.

You were used to it.

You’d been molded in the spotlight.

Still, even as you let them usher you toward the team, subtly placing you at the center of the gym, you felt her before you saw her.

That heat. That edge.

That silent resistance.

Juju Watkins stood off to the side, arms crossed, chewing on a piece of gum like she was watching a movie she’d seen before and already hated the ending.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Didn’t move a muscle.

Just stared at you with a look that could slice glass. And for the first time that day, you felt your pulse jump.

You turned your body slightly, acknowledging her. Nothing obvious. Just a glance. A barely-there curve of your mouth. A flicker of something beneath your lashes.

Juju didn’t flinch.

Didn’t acknowledge the coaches still circling you like satellites. Didn’t bother with the whispered conversations or the teammates already inching toward you like moths to a flame.

Her energy was solid. Grounded. Unimpressed.

And God, you liked it.

It fed something in you. Pulled the thread tighter.

Because everyone else had already folded. They’d smiled too wide. Said too much. Laughed too loud. They wanted to be close to you, to claim you before the season even started.

But not Juju.

She didn’t want to claim you. She wanted to test you.

“Watkins,” Coach Gottlieb called out, beckoning her over. “Come introduce yourself.”

Juju walked slowly, deliberately, like she was being summoned to something beneath her. Like she couldn’t care less.

She stopped in front of you, hands on her hips, her expression unreadable.

You extended your hand, polite. Calm.

She looked at it for a beat too long before finally shaking it. Her grip was firm. Just like yours.

“I’ve seen your highlights,” she said, voice flat.

“I’ve seen yours too,” you replied.

“You’re good.”

“So are you.”

Another pause. Neither of you smiled.

The gym was too quiet. Everyone else was watching like it was a live broadcast—like if they blinked, they’d miss the exact moment everything shifted.

Because it had.

Right there, in that subtle, loaded exchange.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t bend.

And you loved that.

Because if this season was going to be a war—and you already knew it would be—you didn’t want people behind you. You wanted someone standing across from you, sharp and hungry.

“You came here for the spotlight,” she said, still looking you dead in the eye.

“I came here to win.”

Juju’s jaw tightened just a little. Then she stepped back.

“Then I hope you can handle the heat.”

You smiled then. Not big. Just enough.

“I grew up in Phoenix,” you said. “I am the heat.”

A few girls nearby muttered, one of them letting out a soft, “Damn.”

Coach clapped her hands, trying to cut the tension with forced cheer. “Alright, alright! Let’s get this practice started.”

Juju turned and walked back toward her side of the court without another word.

And you followed, just a step behind, already measuring the distance between you.

Not to catch up. But to compete.

Because if she wanted this team to be hers, she’d have to earn it the same way you always had. By going through you.

The gym was thick with the scent of rubber soles and sweat and adrenaline.

Summer practice meant no fans in the stands, no cameras, no bright lights—just the brutal honesty of open court under high ceilings and fluorescent lights. Coaches watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, clipboards held to their chests like shields. The rest of the team had spread out along the baseline, hydrating and whispering, but their eyes stayed locked on you and Juju. Everyone was watching.

It had started off civil.

A few plays in, no one had said much. You took a three—clean, efficient, net barely moved. Juju answered with a drive, weaving through two defenders, finishing off the glass. It was back and forth. Electric. Mutual respect in motion.

But then things shifted.

It happened in the second rotation, when the scrimmage flipped and Coach had you both guarding each other.

And Juju’s mouth opened.

“Cute shot,” she muttered, brushing your shoulder with hers as she passed. “Let’s see you try it with pressure this time.”

You blinked.

That was… new.

You’d watched her tapes. You knew her rep. Juju wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be. Her game was usually enough.

But now? Now she wouldn’t shut up.

“Left side’s dead, princess. You ain’t getting through there.”

“Where’s that Taurasi footwork? Lookin’ a little slow today.”

“Oh, we getting soft now? C’mon. That’s all you got?”

And the thing that got under your skin wasn’t just the chirping.

It was that she was good. Really good.

Her defense was sticky, her hips low, her reads quick. She played like she had something to prove—and maybe she did.

Your heart thumped harder every time she bumped you. Every time her breath hit your neck. Every time she cut in front of you, fast and mean, and forced you to reset.

She was fast.

You were faster.

She was sharp.

You were sharper.

But she was playing dirty. And you liked it.

You didn’t back down.

You locked her up the next play, forced her baseline, body tight against hers, your sneakers screeching against the court as she pivoted to escape you. You cut her off again. This time, she didn’t get the shot off.

You felt her frustration ripple like heat off her body.

“You reaching now?” she barked, eyes narrowing. “Gonna need more than your last name to stop me.”

Your grin was slow. “Good. I was getting bored.”

But inside, your blood was pumping like bass through a speaker.

You were not bored. Not even close.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

This gym—her gym—used to be silent when she moved. Used to breathe when she did. She built this place from the ground up. She made USC a name again. She chose it when no one else would, when people asked why she wasn’t going East, when they begged her to ride someone else’s legacy. She stayed. She led.

And now she was being overshadowed in her own house.

By you.

Diana Taurasi’s daughter. The golden child.

She hated how easy it looked for you. How clean your handles were. How smooth your jumper was. How you moved like the floor had memorized your rhythm.

You didn’t even look tired.

You were laughing, talking shit back. Like this was some kind of game.

But Juju knew better. This wasn’t a game. This was war.

Because you weren’t here to play second. You weren’t here to learn from her. You came to take her spot, whether you said it out loud or not.

And worst of all?

You were good enough to do it. She hated that more than anything.

By the third quarter of scrimmage, your jersey was sticking to your skin and your legs were starting to ache in the way that meant you were working—not for cardio, not for endurance, but for dominance.

Juju was right there, still glued to your hip, still yapping, still refusing to break. Her loose ponytail swished behind her as she moved, jaw clenched, sneakers relentless on the hardwood.

“She don’t pass, huh?” she called out mid-play, just loud enough for the others to hear. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re used to being the favorite.”

You spun on the drive, caught her slipping for half a second, and rose for the jumper—elbow high, wrist flick perfect.

Swish.

“Maybe if you kept your mouth closed,” you muttered as you jogged back, “you’d hear the whistle next time.”

The sidelines erupted with half-laughs, oohs, and fake coughs.

You were both breathing heavy now, chest to chest as the ball reset.

Juju’s voice dropped low as she leaned in for the next possession. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”

You looked her dead in the eyes. “Good. I want you to see it.”

The ball snapped back into play.And there you were again.

Two stars burning too close. Too fast.

Her footwork was beautiful, all twitch muscle and timing, cutting angles like she’d drawn them herself. You matched it with precision. Hands up. Feet planted. You were reading her eyes now.

She was reading yours, too.

No one else on the court mattered anymore. The game had collapsed into the two of you, trading buckets and barbs, like this was all just a prelude to something bigger. Deeper.

By the final buzzer, your arms were burning. Your lungs, raw.

But so was your heart.

Because that tension? That unspoken current between you?

It wasn’t just rivalry. It was obsession. And neither of you had even scratched the surface of what it meant yet.

--

The next couple of weeks were harder than anything you expected.

And it wasn’t the drills. It wasn’t the lifting sessions or the playbook or the sweltering summer heat rising off the gym floor in waves.

It was her.

Juju.

She was everywhere. She was in your space, in your face, in your head.

You’d never had a teammate like her before—someone who didn’t just match your energy, but challenged it. Someone who pushed back. Who called you out. Who didn’t give a damn about your name or your highlight reel or the fact that Diana Taurasi was your mother.

Juju didn’t treat you like royalty. She treated you like a threat.

And you hated it. Hated the way she barked at you on defense like you weren’t doing enough. Hated the way she boxed you out with unnecessary force, like she was trying to send a message. Hated that she never gave you even a sliver of praise—never nodded, never smiled, never gave an inch.

You hated that she acted like you didn’t deserve to be here. And most of all—you hated how deep down, some part of you didn’t feel totally sure that you did.

Because this was the first time in your life you were sharing the court with someone who felt like a mirror. Someone who wanted it just as bad. Someone who could match you. Someone who reminded you that greatness wasn’t owed.

It had to be taken.

And that kind of pressure? It cracked things open.

You didn’t notice how bad it had gotten until that Thursday.

It was mid-scrimmage—five-on-five, game tied, coaches silent on the sidelines. You were running the wing, fast break after a turnover, and the ball hit your hands like lightning. You barely slowed your momentum as you cut in for the layup, extending toward the glass with your left.

And then—impact.

A hard shove. Not enough to break bone, but enough to throw your angle off, enough to send you stumbling into the padding beneath the basket.

You hit it with a grunt, palms catching your fall, knees scraping the floor.

Whistles blew, and the gym fell into a hush.

You pushed yourself up slowly, chest heaving, and turned around.

Juju was standing a few feet behind you, chest puffed, hands on hips, not even pretending to look sorry.

Your jaw clenched.

“Are you serious?” you snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“It was an accident,” she bit back, already rolling her eyes.

“Bullshit.”

“You cut into the lane late,” Juju added to the coach, but her eyes never left yours. “Wasn’t my fault you can’t finish through contact.”

The dig sliced clean through your composure. You stepped forward.

“Finish through contact?” you echoed, voice rising. “You shoved me. You’re not slick. You’ve been doing this passive-aggressive shit since the day I got here.”

“Yeah?” Juju said, stepping toward you now. “Maybe if you earned your minutes instead of walking in like you own the place, you’d get some respect.”

You felt something crack.

“Respect?” you repeated. “You think I don’t earn my shit? You think just ‘cause my last name is Taurasi, I get handed everything?”

She shrugged, smirking. “If the shoe fits, princess.”

You took another step forward.

“Say that again.”

“Why? You gonna call Mommy to defend you?”

The breath you took was sharp, chest tight, heat blooming under your skin like fire.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you hissed. “You don’t know what I’ve had to prove just to exist in this sport without people saying it’s all because of her.”

“Well guess what,” Juju snapped. “This is my team. My court. I built this. I bled for it. And you? You’re just here to make headlines.”

“Then guard me better,” you spit.

“Then play better.”

The gym was deadly silent.

No one moved. No one breathed.

The two of you stood nose-to-nose, fire in your eyes, fists half-curled at your sides like you weren’t entirely sure what came next.

And then Coach’s voice cut through like thunder.

“HEY!”

Both your heads snapped toward her.

She was furious. Red-faced. The veins in her neck visible.

“I’ve had enough of this little pissing match.”

Neither of you said anything.

“You two think this is cute?” she asked, voice thick with venom. “Think you’re the only stars I’ve coached? Newsflash—I’ve seen plenty of talent crash and burn because they couldn’t get over their damn egos.”

She stepped forward, eyes darting between the two of you.

“You want to fight? Fight fatigue.”

She pointed to the baseline.

“Both of you. Suicides. Until I say stop. And if either of you open your mouths again, the whole team’s running with you.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Your eyes locked with Juju’s, still crackling with tension, but something else simmered underneath it now. But whatever it was, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

You turned first, storming to the line, jaw set, hands shaking as you settled into position.

Juju jogged beside you. You didn’t look at each other.

The whistle blew.

You ran.

Back and forth. Over and over.

Sweat blurred your vision. Your lungs ached. Your shoes burned against the hardwood. Your muscles screamed. But you kept running. Because you had to.

Because you weren’t going to be the one who quit first.

Not now. Not ever. Not while she was still watching.

And even as the coach’s whistle echoed through the gym, even as the rest of the team sat in awkward silence, even as the seconds ticked by like hours—there was only one person you were racing against.

And she was right beside you.

That night, you called your mom with your legs submerged in ice.

The dorm was quiet. Your roommate was gone for the weekend, the glow of the lamp by your bed the only light in the room. Your phone was propped against a half-drunk water bottle on your nightstand, speakerphone on as you tucked your chin into your hoodie and stared blankly at your swollen ankles.

“—and then she shoved me,” you were saying, your voice climbing with every word. “Like full-on, no regard for human life. I hit the floor so hard I’m pretty sure my rib cage is lopsided now.”

The sound of Diana Taurasi’s laugh crackled through the phone. Dry. Sharp. Annoyingly amused.

You blinked at the ceiling. “Why are you laughing? I could’ve died or like, torn something!”

“Oh yeah,” Diana said. “Because Juju Watkins was out there committing murder one hard foul at a time.”

“Mom.”

“I’m just saying. You’re alive. Your limbs are still attached. You’ve survived tougher.”

You pouted, even though she couldn’t see you. “You don’t get it. She hates me. Like she doesn’t even try to hide it.”

“That’s because you’re a threat.”

You froze.

The silence lasted long enough that you heard her settle into what sounded like a leather couch, maybe in the living room back home. A game was playing faintly in the background—probably EuroLeague or WNBA reruns. You could imagine her perfectly: one leg thrown over the armrest, probably in sweatpants, wine glass untouched on the coffee table.

“A threat?” you repeated.

“To her spotlight. Her ego. Her starting position.” Diana’s voice was calm, pointed. “This isn’t new, baby. That’s how the NCAA is.”

You huffed, dragging your fingers through your hair.

“She’s just—she doesn’t respect me. She talks down to me. Like I didn’t earn being here.”

Diana didn’t respond right away.

You waited, thinking she’d say something soothing. Something comforting. She’d been like that your whole life—brutally honest, yeah, but always protective. Always on your side. You expected her to say Juju was out of line, that the coaching staff needed to do a better job keeping her in check, that you were the star now and people should treat you accordingly.

Instead, what you got was: “So what?”

You blinked. “What?”

“So what if she doesn’t respect you?” Diana said plainly. “Why does that bother you so much?”

You sat there, stunned.

“Because—” you sputtered, “—because I’ve always earned my respect. I show up, I work, I win. People like me. People listen to me. This—this is the first time I’ve ever had someone act like I don’t belong. Like I’m just some spoiled brat with a famous mom.”

A beat of silence.

And then: “And what if you are a spoiled brat with a famous mom?”

“Mom—”

“I’m serious,” Diana cut in, still maddeningly calm. “What if that’s what she thinks? What if the whole team thinks that? Are you gonna whine about it for the next six months, or are you gonna go get that Natty like we talked about?”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re being so mean right now.”

“No,” she said, voice suddenly sharper. “I’m being honest.”

And that was the first time she’d ever said it like that.

Like she wasn’t just your mom anymore. Like she was a player. A champion. A Taurasi.

“You wanted USC,” she continued. “You picked this path. You chose to leave UConn and LSU and Stanford on the table because you wanted to be the one who turned this program into something. You said you wanted a legacy. You said you wanted the pressure.”

You stared down at your phone, your throat dry.

“Well, baby,” she said, her voice softening just a fraction. “This is what pressure looks like.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away.

There was a silence between you—something weighty, not quite painful, but real. Something that made you sit up straighter and take your legs out of the bucket. You wiped them dry with a towel as your heart thudded in your chest.

Because somewhere in the middle of that call, the fog lifted.

You remembered who you were.

You weren’t some freshman with big shoes to fill. You weren’t just Diana’s daughter. You weren’t just a shiny new recruit with a Nike deal and a highlight tape that made grown men gasp.

You were you.

You’d broken records before you could legally drive. You’d played against grown women in the Olympics. You’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the best of the best and dominated.

You didn’t have to be liked.

You just had to win.

And if Juju was going to come for you, push you around, run her mouth?

Good.

You’d run harder. Hit back cleaner. Score louder. And when the time came—when the lights were on and the title was on the line—she’d see.

They’d all see.

You wiped your eyes—tears you hadn’t even realized were building. Not sad tears. Just… heavy ones. Exhaustion. Frustration. A little clarity.

“Thanks,” you muttered finally.

Diana chuckled. “You done crying now?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Sure.”

You cracked the tiniest smile, pressing your phone to your chest.

“I’m gonna win it, you know,” you whispered. “I’m gonna win the whole damn thing.”

“I know,” she said.

And she meant it.

She didn’t say ‘if.’ She said when.

Because deep down, Diana had always known this day would come—the day you stopped playing like her daughter and started playing like yourself.

And it started here.

In a quiet dorm room, with your knees still aching and your ego a little bruised, but your vision suddenly, perfectly clear.

--

The air hangs heavy as you walk into the gym the next morning. It's not just the early heat, though it clings to the rafters like a thick curtain, but the palpable weight of yesterday.

Everyone feels it. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife.

The upperclassmen, who witnessed the argument firsthand, avoid eye contact. The coaches, forced to end scrimmage after only twenty minutes of barely-contained hostility, wear tight-lipped expressions. And the freshmen, their eyes wide, dart between Juju and you, as if they'd just watched two titans clash.

You stride in with your usual swagger – custom Jordan slides, iced coffee clutched in your hand, the hood of your sweatshirt still shadowing your braids. But there's a new tension in your jaw, a barely leashed energy simmering beneath the surface. Your eyes sweep across the court the moment you step inside.

Juju is already there, headphones clamped over her ears, hoodie discarded, meticulously tying her shoes. She doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge your arrival in any way.

But she knows. You both do.

Coach's whistle pierces the strained quiet the second everyone gathers.

"Alright, let's cut the shit," she declares, clipboard in one hand, the other planted firmly on her hip. "We need to talk."

The gym stills. Every movement ceases.

You lean against the baseline wall, arms crossed over your chest. Juju finally pulls off her headphones and joins the semicircle.

"I don't care if you hate each other," Coach says, her gaze sweeping between the two of you. "But what I do care about is this program. And the culture we're trying to build here."

A long, heavy pause stretches out. You can feel the heat prickling behind your ears.

"If I have to bench two of the best players in the country to make a point," Coach adds, her voice firm, "I will."

That makes everyone shift uncomfortably. Even Juju blinks, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

"You think I won't sit you for the first game?" Coach says, her gaze now locked onto yours. "Try me."

Your jaw clenches tighter.

Coach pivots to Juju. "You think I care what ESPN ranked you? You act like that again, you're out."

The silence that follows isn't just awkward – it's charged with unspoken threats and simmering frustration.

And then, just as abruptly, Coach claps her hands together.

"Same teams as yesterday," she announces. "Watkins. Y/N. You're together today."

You nearly groan out loud. Juju scoffs softly under her breath. You both line up. The whistle blows, sharp and decisive.

And then something unexpected happens.

It begins as pure muscle memory. You take the inbound pass and your eyes instinctively scan the court, pivoting naturally to where Juju usually cuts across the top of the key – and there she is. Quick. Fluid. Your eyes meet for a fleeting second, and without even thinking, you pass the ball.

Juju catches it in stride and elevates for a mid-range jumper.

Nothing but net.

No celebration. No smug smile. Just two silent nods exchanged across the court.

Next possession, Juju finds herself trapped in the corner, two defenders closing in. You see it unfold even before she calls for help – you slip out of the paint, creating an open passing lane. Juju whips the ball to you without looking. You take two quick dribbles, spin off your defender, and hand it right back.

Juju drives baseline, two defenders clinging to her hip, and pulls up for another shot.

Swish.

And then it clicks.

You move together as if you're wired the same way. You dictate the pace, and Juju responds with perfect timing. Juju pushes the tempo, and you fill the lane without hesitation. It's intuitive. Seamless. Like two pieces of the same powerful engine finally finding their rhythm.

Coach folds her arms on the sideline, her eyes narrowed in observation.

You're not just good together. You're terrifying.

Even with the lingering tension, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air – neither of you smiling, neither speaking – it doesn't matter. Your bodies communicate in a language you haven't shared until now. Pure, instinctive chemistry. And the rest of the team feels it too. Plays that were once clunky and disjointed now flow smoothly, both of you orchestrating the pace with an effortless understanding.

You start anticipating Juju's footwork, trailing behind her and dishing the ball mid-step, trusting her to catch and finish. Juju begins trusting you to take the pressure off when she's double-teamed – something she rarely allows anyone to do.

For the first time in her life, Juju isn't the only one calling the shots.

And she doesn't hate it.

She wants to hate it – wants to ignore the way your timing elevates her game, makes her sharper. Wants to pretend the bounce passes that slice between defenders aren't the best she's seen since high school.

But facts are undeniable.

You make the game easier. You even make it fun.

But Juju isn't about to admit that. Not with yesterday's harsh words still lodged in her throat.

She glances at you after another assist – a fast break finish, clean and precise – and catches the faintest hint of a smirk playing on your lips.

Cocky. Effortless. Of course.

You don't say anything either.

You're not ready to voice it aloud, but this feels right. This is what basketball should be. Fast, ruthless, and beautiful. And for the first time in a long time, you're not the only one who can match your tempo.

You've spent weeks dreading Juju's presence, resenting her dominance. But out here, with the scoreboard ticking, sweat dripping, and no one else able to keep up?

You can't deny it. You need her.

And maybe, just maybe, Juju needs you too.

Coach's whistle blows again. "Hold it."

Everyone freezes mid-motion.

She doesn't speak for a few long seconds. She just looks at the two of you, her gaze intense. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips.

"That's what I'm talking about," she says, her voice low and steady.

She isn't grinning or clapping her hands like some overly enthusiastic little league coach. No – Coach looks satisfied. Like someone who's been patiently waiting for this exact moment to unfold.

"If you two keep playing like that," she says slowly, deliberately, "we're not just going to the tournament."

Another pause hangs in the air.

"We're making a deep run."

Your heart thuds in your chest.

Juju doesn't look over at you. But she doesn't have to. You both know what that means.

It isn't about becoming best friends. Or even about getting along.

It's about legacy.

About banners hanging in the rafters. About proving something – everything – to the world. And you're finally on the same page.

Even if neither of you is ready to say it out loud.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

423 notes View Post

lightsgore

1 month ago

Sing off-key while ur at it . 😒

LONG WAY DOWN

pairing: azzi fudd x fem!reader

content: angst w comfort, holly rowe, parent death, cancer, grief, language

wc: 4.9k

synopsis: You weren’t supposed to get drafted without your mother at your table. Life, however, had other plans, and you were just barely hanging on. You thought you’d be able to make it through the night but it was clear that a certain reporter had other plans, too. Luckily for you, your girlfriend was always willing to catch you before you crumbled.

notes: based on this request! thank you anon - hoping i did this justice for you 🫶 this is definitely one of my heavier fics so please read the content tags and be mindful. also, title from the one direction song. wasnt gonna drink tn but i miss them like a mf. let me know how y'all feel ab this and have a great weekend 🫶

Much like any teenager dreaming of greatness, you’d always had the perfect vision of your future.

“UConn will recruit me,” you told your mother at thirteen, dribbling the ball between your legs as you weaved around imaginary defenders.

“Keep the ball on a string,” she coached in response, her eyes appraising, gaze sharp in a way befitting of a former athlete. “Don’t overextend.”

You adjusted silently, breathing heavily before stepping back and launching a fadeaway jumper that sinks in seamlessly. “I’ll win a natty my senior year,” you manifested, talking mostly to yourself, but you knew she was listening as she passed the ball back to you. “Go top five in the draft.”

“You think I can get my future pro baller to clean her room?” she joked, and you gave her a knowing smile as you repeated the same drill again.

You worked for it everyday — starting with early conditioning, thorough recovery, taking care of your body and your mind. Your mother, your personal coach and former Seattle Storm forward, gave everything to help you realize your dreams and your abilities.

You started on varsity before you were even in high school. You had more gold medals than you had turnovers. You let yourself start dreaming about your draft table the day Coach Auriemma visited to watch you play, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on his face, but you knew he had a roster spot with your name on it. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a well earned confidence, surety.

Your table would be you. Obviously. Someone on the coaching staff — maybe CD, because at the rate Geno was recruiting the phenom in Minnesota, you figured he’d end up shackled to her table. Your mom — no question about it. She was your best coach, your biggest supporter, your rock. There wouldn’t be a you without a her in so many different ways. The last two people at your table were always a little ambiguous. You hoped that maybe there would be space in your life for someone you loved. Your girlfriend, maybe. The last person was even less clear — maybe a friend, your aunt, or maybe someone else from the coaching staff, but you had time to figure it out.

You’re recruited by UConn, ranked second in your class only behind Paige Bueckers, the phenom from Minnesota. Your first year together is rough with all the COVID restrictions. Then, your life changes in your sophomore year when Azzi Fudd commits.

She was Paige’s best friend, having met back in high school and Paige moved mountains to recruit her. You think you fell in love the first time you saw her jumper. You knew you were in love when she smiled at you in practice after stealing the ball and taking it cross court for a layup.

You’re dating by November of Azzi’s freshman year, just in time for the season to begin. The two of you have an undeniable chemistry on the court but there’s an inexplicable connection between the two of you off of it. You just get each other. You’re together through it all — the injuries, the midnight practices in the gym, the fifth year you take because you’re not leaving UConn without a national championship, not until you and Azzi hoist the trophy together.

Then, in late January of 2025 as you’re gearing up for the Tennessee game only days away, you get the news. Your mother had been diagnosed with a pretty severe brain cancer — glioblastoma. You’re not sure how it went unnoticed for so long, but the doctors said she’d be lucky if she could make it to May.

Your world spins on its axis. How could it not? Your mother was only in her mid 50s. She’d done everything right. She was an athlete, she took care of her body, her mind, everything. She was a good person. She hosted annual camps for high school athletes back home in Seattle, coaching them the same way she’d coached you. She donated, volunteered, always gave back – so why was she the one with the diagnosis, the one you would lose? Why her, why now, why at all?

It took a lot of effort to keep you afloat — but Azzi tried. Most of the time, it felt like she was the only one who truly understood you. There wasn’t much you could say about it and she never pressured you. She just stayed, and that was more than you could ask for. Azzi rubbed your back when you cried, held your hair back when the grief made you sick. Your mom wasn’t gone but it felt like she was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand through an hourglass.

You’re pretty much a non-factor in the Tennessee game, contributing more to the loss than Tennessee contributed to their win. You spend more than half of the game dissociating on the bench, thinking you should be in Seattle right now, keeping her company at her bedside. After she retired and got pregnant with you – your father no more than a donor – you were all that she had. She shouldn’t be alone during this, but she was adamant that you stay and finish out the season. This season was everything you’d spent five years working for but it quickly became the least of your worries. Your mother was dying; who cared about a trophy?

She did.

The night of the Tennessee loss, you’re on the phone together. You’re curled up in Azzi’s comforter, her dorm a constant ever since you’d heard the news. She stepped out to pick up some late night snacks, mostly to give you and your mom some privacy but also to cheer you up. Azzi was the only one who truly knew how hard you were taking all of it, the only one who got to see you fall apart.

“You’re not allowed to let this destroy you,” your mother rasps, her voice firm in her Coach Voice that you grew up teasing her about. Now, it just makes you emotional instead of amused – she won’t be around to remind you about your follow-through, about leading with your shoulder. You’ll have to remind yourself of that. Some other coach that’s not her will have to remind you about that. You try not to choke up. You know you need to hear what she’s saying.

“You’ve spent five years fighting for this,” she continues. “Nineteen years living this. Whatever happens in May, you are not allowed to let this be the end for you. Do you hear me?”

Throat tight, you nod, knowing she can’t see you. “I do,” you promise.

She says your name, her voice strong where her body can’t be, and you swallow thickly as you prepare to listen. “Whether or not I’m here, I’ll always be with you. You have the very best parts of me, you know that? My smile, my passion, my jumpshot–” That draws a watery laugh out of you. You can almost visualize the smile on your mom’s face. “And no matter what, we’ll always have basketball. You’ll have me. I’ll take care of you. That’s what moms do.”

“I don’t know if I can do this without you,” you whisper.

“You already are,” she says softly. “And you’re doing an amazing job.”

“I don’t want to do this without you,” you amend.

“Then don’t. Get your head on right. Win the championship – for yourself, for your team, for Azzi, for me. Go to the draft. Wherever you go, I’ll be there. I promise you that. But I can’t be there if you let this break you.”

“I won’t let it.” You take a deep breath, glancing at Azzi’s bedroom door when it opens. Azzi walks in silently with her arms full of snacks. You smile when she crawls in next to you, offering a piece of chocolate, and you take it gratefully. “You wanna talk to Azzi?” you ask, but you already know your mother’s answer as you pass the phone over.

“Hey, girl!” Azzi says in a valley-girl accent, making you roll your eyes with another wobbly laugh. You can hear your mom’s laugh too – the exact same one as yours. You can barely make out her voice on the other end, but you don’t need to, knowing that Azzi needs this conversation just as much as you do. Your mother had welcomed Azzi to the family long before you started dating. She claimed that she knew you loved Azzi the moment you called her after a practice to rant about how pure her form is because there’s just no heterosexual or platonic explanation for that. “You know I got her,” Azzi promises, making you perk up a little. Almost absentmindedly, Azzi’s free hand rubs your knee soothingly. She is quiet for a few beats, nodding her head as she listens, her face softening. “I know. I will. I swear. I love you, too.”

After a quick goodbye, Azzi passes the phone back to you, where you and your mom chat for a little while longer. You ask about what she’s doing to keep busy, if she’s resting enough, if she’s drinking enough water. She humors you, the smile evident in her tone as she asks about your day, too, if you’re taking good care of her daughter-in-law, which makes you laugh because if there’s one thing that you try to get right always, it’s Azzi.

When the call ends so your mom can get to bed, Azzi holds you as you silently process. She doesn’t push you to talk. She knows that you don’t have the words for it right now. But she’s there, grounding, and that’s all you need. Eventually, the words come to you – terrified confessions because you’ve lived your entire life with your mom being one call away; how were you supposed to navigate that? Bursts of grief, because everything is so overwhelming right now. An on-brand spark of determination because you promised your mom that you would hold it together, that you’d win the championship, that you’d get drafted. You would do it. For her.

And you do. After the Tennessee game, it’s like a flip has been switched for you. You’re averaging over twenty points a game. You and Azzi combine for 54 points against South Carolina, which sets the tone for the rest of the regular season and the postseason. In the NCAA tournament, the Huskies are unstoppable, with everyone having at least one particularly explosive game, but you? Every game is explosive. You have something to lose if you don’t win, something a lot more important than a trophy.

Your mom is one row behind the Husky bench in Tampa for the national championship game against South Carolina. She’s wearing your jersey, one that used to fit but now swamps her body like it’s several sizes too big. Each and every one of her cheers motivates you, energizing your step-back threes or a harsh block. You know that she has until May, but if this is the last time she gets to see you play…then you’re content with it being a blowout in the national championship.

When you cut down the net, you cut an extra piece for her.

On Wednesday, three days after the national championship, she’s buried with that piece of nylon tied around her necklace, one you’d bought for her with your first NIL endorsement.

Grief is weird. You’d made it through her funeral in solemn silence, not crying during your speech as you shared some anecdotes during her life. You could only stare as her casket was lowered, your hand holding Azzi’s tight enough that you were sure it hurt her, but she let you. You smiled faintly at family members, thanking people for their condolences, agreeing that Yeah, cancer fucking sucks. You don’t cry when you spend the night in your childhood home, going through photo albums with Azzi (ones that she’s been through numerous times, although your mom was usually right there next to her, pointing out your embarrassing baby photos. Now, you’re the one showing her the photos that used to make you cringe, thinking about how cruel fate is).

You don’t cry when Azzi wraps her arms around you that night, reminding you that you’re not alone. You know you aren’t, but you can’t help but feel like you are.

You do cry when you wake up that morning. Determined to feel normal again, you make your way to the kitchen to make Azzi coffee and breakfast in bed. A thank you for everything she’s done for you since your mom’s diagnosis. You cry when you spot your mom’s coffee mug left out on the counter, remnants of cold coffee left at the bottom. The coffee pot is still full, untouched since Sunday morning. There’s a half-done crossword puzzle at her spot at the table, left open like she thought she’d have the time to come back to finish it. Everything in the kitchen reminds you of how fucking cruel life is – countless photos of the two of you pressed onto the refrigerator with magnets, leftovers packed neatly into tupperware, the calendar tacked onto the wall with April 6th circled multiple times with a smiley face.

You can’t help it. You sob, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes like it would make everything stop, but it doesn’t. That’s the issue, isn’t it? Time doesn’t stop. Not for you, not for you mom, not for anyone. It keeps on moving. Your mom is gone and everything in this house reminds you of when she wasn’t and how she had plans and so much more of her life left to live. She was supposed to be in New York for your draft night. She was supposed to be courtside for your first game in the WNBA, yelling about bad foul calls in your honor and cheering for your first professional point.

It’s not her fault but you can’t help but feel like you’ve been abandoned. Somebody – something took her from you and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to come back from that. Your heart pounds, perhaps too fast for how little air you’re sucking in, and you bury your head in your hands to try to calm yourself.

Then you feel Azzi behind you. Her body is warm, strong, her arms loving as she presses herself into you, offering quiet support. You choke, turning around, burying yourself in her embrace as you crumble. She murmurs nonsense to support you, tears of her own soaking your shirt, but you just hold onto each other in the kitchen.

Above all else, you remember the promise you made to your mother. You weren’t gonna let this destroy you. So you grieve, but you’re in New York for the draft, at the top of the Empire State Building, sticking close to Paige because she’s your best friend and she’s the closest thing you have to family right now.

On Monday, you sit politely in Azzi’s suite as your stylists and hair and make-up teams bustle about, brushing product onto your face, swiping mascara through your lashes. For the most part, it’s a blur, but the knowledge that Azzi is right next to you keeps you steady. You don’t complain when Brittany helps you into your draft outfit – a simple white suit perfectly tailored to your frame, although you omit the jacket to expose your arms.

When you first catch sight of Azzi, it’s as though the very breath is stolen from your lungs. You stare at her, your eyes impossibly tender as you take in the floor-length black dress she’s wearing, the depth of her gaze heightened by her dark makeup. You swallow bashfully, feeling as though you’re a high schooler staring at their prom date for the first time.

“You’re stunning,” you murmur, your hands reaching out to hold her. There’s a soft reverence in your features as you breathe her in.

She smiles at you. “Good arm candy, huh?” she jokes, which makes you shake your head as you laugh. You wrap your arms around her fully and rest your head in the crook of her neck, sighing and trying to regulate your emotions. The pressure of her arms around you makes you feel a little more stable. “I’m so proud of you.” Her words make you soften, tightening your grip. “And I love you. Wherever you get drafted tonight isn’t gonna change that.”

“I love you, too,” you promise.

And, for the most part, your night isn’t terrible. You pose for photos on the orange carpet, feeling yourself loosen up as you get lost in the camera flashes. When you’re pulled into your first interview, the reporter covers her mic and politely offers her condolences, which you appreciate. The interview itself is focused purely on basketball, where you’re hoping to land in the draft, what you can bring to the team that drafts you. You could answer those questions in your sleep.

Hannah and Rickea are amicable, too, asking who you’re wearing. Their energy makes you smile, relaxing a little more, and Rickea’s departing hug is a little tighter, more meaningful. You take more photos with your team, rolling your eyes when Paige rests her arm over your shoulder as if you two aren’t the same height, trying to not look too in love with Azzi when you break apart for solo shots.

Then, you and Azzi make your way into the main room, where the draft tables are separated by rope. It almost makes your heart stop beating, but Azzi takes your hand in hers, giving you a gentle squeeze and a concerned look. You just nod at her, taking a deep breath, and you make your way to your table where CD and Jamelle are waiting for you. You hug the both of them, melting a little more into CD’s arms and trying to not cry.

During your time at UConn, you relied a lot on CD – probably more than you were expecting to. Now, that relationship you have with her is just what you need right now. She doesn’t release you until you’re ready.

You thought a lot about your draft table. It would be the biggest moment of your life and you wanted the people you loved around you. There was you. Obviously. There was CD, your coach, because of course that phenom from Minnesota was hogging Geno (you didn’t mind – even if Geno was available, you probably would have chosen CD, anyway). There was Jamelle, who you learned so much from, who you went to for advice when you were hopelessly crushing on Azzi because you knew Geno would just make fun of you and CD would give you a really long lecture. There was Azzi, your girlfriend, the person who you made space for in your life because you loved them.

Then, there’s your mom, who occupies the empty chair, who’s here if not physically. She’s with you because you are her – you’re an amalgamation of all of the good parts of her and the pieces of you that you curated. You have her smile, her passion, the jumpshot that got her drafted, her wisdom and all of her heart.

You sit through the opening remarks. You clap for Paige when the Wings call her name first – she comes over to your table and hugs you, Azzi, CD, and Jamelle, winking at you conspiratorially as she walks up the stage. She poses for photos, does a quick interview with Holly Rowe, then leaves for media.

With the second pick, the Seattle Storm are on the clock, and you cast a glance at the empty chair next to you, trying to not get too emotional. Azzi reaches over, tangles your fingers together, and smiles at you gently.

Cathy returns to the podium to announce Seattle’s pick. You’re lost in thought and hardly hear the name called until Azzi squeezes your hand, saying, “It’s you!” and you glance up in confusion to see the entire room staring at you, their cheers loud. CD and Jamelle are already standing but all you can focus on is the fact that you just got drafted by the Storm, the same team that drafted your mother so many years ago, the same team you grew up idolizing. With your heart in your throat, you stand, wrapping your arms tightly around Azzi, holding back tears when she tells you she loves you and hugging CD and Jamelle just as tightly. Then, you make your way to Paige’s table, hugging Geno, and you walk up the stairs with a wobbly smile.

What you’re not prepared for is the jersey that Cathy unfolds for you to see. It’s not the standard draft jersey. It’s number thirteen – your mom’s number – and her – your – last name is printed on the back. You can’t stop the tears this time, trying your best to shake Cathy’s hand and keeping your head high so you don’t stain her outfit with your mascara. You wipe your eyes, stepping down for the interview with Holly Rowe, who has to wait until the crowd calms down to ask her first question.

“Lots of emotions here on draft night,” she begins. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling right now?”

“Blessed. Grateful. The works,” you joke through your tears, smiling when the crowd eats it up. “At risk of sounding like a broken record, I’m just happy to be here, that the Storm is taking a chance on me. They’re my hometown team and I’m honored to have been selected by them.”

You’re not prepared for her second question. “More than being your hometown team, your mother played for them for almost a decade before retirement. How are you feeling after your mother passed from cancer? Do you feel like you have pretty big shoes to fill?”

It’s almost as though the room goes pin-drop silent. You freeze, the camera guy looks as though he wants to be anywhere else, and Holly just stares at you with that same imploring, vulture-like reporter’s stare, like she hadn’t said anything wrong.

Part of you wants to be sad – this feels like humiliation on live television, your mother’s memory dishonored for clicks. Sad because every other journalist at this event had the courtesy to be respectful about your loss, but not this one.

You’re almost surprised by the anger, because where does she get off on asking such a question? Big shoes to fill? You haven’t even mourned her fully yet. You haven’t grieved enough to process a loss as big as this one. Your mother passed away a week ago, you’re barely hanging on, and you have to answer these stupid fucking questions when you could be working through all of the pain you’ve pushed to the side just so you can be here because it was what your mother wanted. Your hands tremble as you seethe, trying to hold onto the five years of UConn media training, but you’re too upset to think that actions have consequences as you answer.

“I feel like it’s a miracle you’re still employed,” you say, your gaze hard. “I don’t owe you my fucking grief.”

You don’t wait for a response as you leave her behind, already knowing this clip is going to be circulating on social media within a few hours. You feel sick as you think about what your face must have looked like, the lapse in control or the expression of pure horror. The tears pool in your eyes as your throat burns. You’d made it through the entire day without any incident and now is when you fall apart.

You find the bathroom, pushing the door open, relieved that it’s empty as you press your hands to your eyes again, uncaring of the fact you’re smudging your mascara. The first hiccuping sob leaves you in a heave as you turn on the water faucet, hands shaking as you desperately try to wipe the makeup off of your hands and your face. The second one echoes embarrassingly, which just makes you more emotional – you’re losing your mind in the bathroom at the WNBA Draft and you feel weak, unmoored, and in need of a hug from your mother but obviously, that’s a little unattainable right now.

It’s then that it hits you fully – your mother is gone. You’d kept the grief and the emotions close to your chest or with your close circle, but the fact that Holly has brought it up, that people outside of you know that your mother has passed, makes it more real. You don’t know what you’re doing – what you’re supposed to do, and it feels too late to try to figure it out. You’d never realized how high you’d built yourself up, blissfully ignorant of the fact that your mother would one day die, and now you’re starting to truly understand that it’s truly a long way down.

You’re still crying when the door opens cautiously, although you look up, already wiping your eyes. When you see it’s Azzi who has found you, you give up on trying to be strong, instead falling into her arms with equal parts relief, anguish, and anger. She holds onto you tightly as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear completely.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, smoothing down your hair as your shoulders shake. “I’m so sorry. She shouldn’t have said that.”

You shake your head, not quite having the words as you breathe Azzi in, the scent of her perfume, the shampoo she’d used the night before, the pieces of her that have blended in with the scent of you. It’s difficult to describe – the fact that Azzi is the only thing that truly feels like home right now. She’s your only source of peace, the only one who makes it feel like you’re not drowning in your grief all the time. You’re the same for her, too – you’ve both lost something.

After a few moments, the tremors in your body subside and your breathing evens out. Azzi doesn’t let you go, instead whispering, “You remember Tennessee?” You think for a moment, nodding, recalling the night in Azzi’s dorm room after you got off the plane and talked to your mom on the phone. “As long as you have basketball, you’ll have her. Don’t let Holly Rowe take that away from you. You worked so hard to get here. You did it, okay? This is everything your mom’s ever wanted for you. This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“I just wanted her to be here,” you confess, your voice cracking, but you don’t have anything left in you to cry.

“She is,” Azzi says. “She wouldn’t miss it. She’s proud of you, you know that?” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and Azzi cups the back of your neck, her nails brushing against your skin in the way she always soothes you. “And I am too. You’re going to Seattle. You’re gonna wear her jersey number – and you’re not filling her shoes. She wouldn’t want you to do that. You’re remembering her and forging your own path.”

When you don’t respond, Azzi pulls back from you, her face drawn up in worry as her hands cup your cheeks. “You okay?”

You nod again, the movement a little shaky, and you can’t help but smile when she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I will be,” you say. “Are you okay?”

She offers a sly sort of smirk. “I’m not the one who almost sucker punched Holly Rowe on national television. But I am thinking really hard about it.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “For real,” you whisper. “You always say I’m not alone, but…you’re not either, Az.”

“I know,” she says quietly, the affection in her eyes shining. “And I promise I’m okay. It’s… really hard but we’re taking it day by day. Together.”

“Together,” you echo.

Azzi nods, a tender smile appearing on her face as she presses her forehead to yours. “You wanna go back to the hotel?” she asks. “DoorDash a bunch of unhealthy food and watch trashy reality TV?”

You grin, kissing her gently, unfiltered adoration and appreciation seeping through the small gesture. “Later,” you say, sure of it. “I just needed a moment. I’ll power through media and then be back in time to see Kaitlyn and Aubrey get drafted. Mom would come back to beat me up if I left my teammates hanging.”

“Whatever you want,” Azzi murmurs, pulling you into her embrace again. “Just let me know how you’re feeling.”

“I will,” you say, squeezing her around the waist. “Thanks for checking on me.”

Her hold on you tightens, like she can’t imagine a world where she wouldn’t. “I always will,” she promises. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you whisper, smiling against her skin. It feels like such a small way of verbalizing how much love you truly have for Azzi, who’d pulled you up when you thought you were sinking. You wouldn’t be here without her and that’s not something that will change, no matter how often she tries to argue against it. She has the uncanny ability to make life more manageable, and you know she understands you just the same – that the love you hold is something that transcends description. She always would.

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lightsgore

1 month ago

What makes you think you could write something so sad without a consequence.

Trust you will be delt with.