summary: in which you're Victor's girlfriend but after the Finals loss, he left you standing in the noise. And someone else crossed the court to find you.
The buzzer sounded, bringing this series to an end in just five games.
The arena echoed with the cheers of New York fans.
Blue and orange confetti rains down from the ceiling as the entire Knicks bench rushes onto the court.
Itâs finally happenedâthe victory is undeniable. The players are jumping all over the place, slapping each other on the shoulders as they slowly realize the feat theyâve just accomplished. The cameras are trained on their euphoric faces as the trophyâthe symbol of their dominance over the Spursâis carried to the table.
Adam Silver takes the opportunity to deliver his congratulatory speech to the players, who are huddled together, almost pressed up against one another. You can feel their energy from far away; their smiles are almost contagious enough to reach you.
But for you, the situation is quite different.
Youâre in the tunnel.
Alone.
Standing quietly where Victor had left you at the beginning. Heâd warned you before the game: âStay there and donât try to distract me.â He hadnât even looked at you when he said it.
Thatâs when you spot himâheâs the first to head toward the tunnel, his jaw clenched, his eyes clouded with pure rage. He barely glances at his teammates, his coach, or the fans. Not a hug or a handshakeânothing.
He rushes past you like a gust of wind that would blow your hair back, sweeping away any regard he had for you. He throws a sentence your way as you make a move toward him. âLeave me the hell aloneâI donât need your encouragement right now.â
You feel like youâve been slapped in the face. You almost flinch. Now youâre officially on the losing side, and you donât even know why youâre being punished like this. You donât understand the glint in his eyes. What you do understand, though, is that the thing heâs worked so hard for is slipping through his fingersâa blow to his ego and his pride. But youâre still one of the people who matter most to him in the world.
Right?
And the more you try to convince yourself of that, the wider the gap between you grows as he disappears down the hallways, fists clenched, head down.
Your chest tightens. Your breath quickens. You feel the concrete beneath your fingers as you lean against the wall. You try to keep your composure by smoothing your hair back, but your hand catches a piece of blue confetti that had slipped in there. Itâs so ironic you could almost laugh.
Everyone is either celebrating or mourning this victory that has slipped away. No one seems to notice youâthe girlfriend of the guy who just lost it all.
No one comes over to talk to you.
You already know the media will tear him apart for the few points he missed tonight, but that doesnât matter anymore.
Because no one seems to be paying attention to you. Except for one person.
Across the court, through all the chaos of colors and wild celebration, Jalen Brunson is looking at you. Or rather, staring at you.
Heâs holding the trophy in his arms, his cap askew on his head and a ski mask to top it off. Heâs still dripping with sweat as he meets your gaze, a small smile on his face. He should be there to celebrate, but he isnât. Heâs the âCaptain,â after all; he should be proud to have been there for what is and will remain the greatest moment of his careerâthe thing every competitor desires.
But heâs looking right at you. You feel like a little girl as his smile fades when he sees your face.
You try to give him a little smile that says, âWeâll get you next time!â but it comes out more like a grimace than a real smile as you cross your arms over your chest.
You try not to look at them, but you canât help imagining yourself in their place if Victorâs team had won. Instead, you find yourself alone, licking your wounds.
You catch a glimpse of him leaning toward Josh Hart and handing him the trophy before he starts making his way through the crowd. His teammates try to hold him back, but he breaks free from their embrace, pushing them aside as he laughs. You just think heâs enjoying a walk through the crowd, but you sense heâs getting closer to where you are.
Heâs getting closer, very slowly.
Until heâs right in front of you. Towering over you completely.
You blink, surprised. âJalen, go back to your teamâwhat are you doing here?â
He shakes his head as if somethingâs annoying him. âThey donât need me right now, but you, on the other hand, look like youâre in rough shape.â He gives you a gentle nudge with his shoulder.
Your throat tightens with emotion; you struggle to respond right away. âIâm fine.â
He teases you gently. âTry againâIâm not really convinced. He left you standing there as if you couldnât understand.â
You look down, embarrassed. âHeâs just disappointed; I just need to give him some space. I should know betterâitâs my fault.â
He moves even closer, lowering his voice so that only you can hear him. âBeing disappointed doesnât give him the right to treat you like that.â
You feel your eyes sting. You hate yourself for letting your emotions show in front of the man you considered public enemy number oneâor rather, the man Victor considers public enemy number one. You hate yourself for appreciating the attention heâs giving you.
He glances over your shoulder at the hallway Victor has just left, seething with rage. His gaze settles on you. âYou shouldnât be alone tonight.â
âWhatâs it to you?â You try to sound nonchalant, but your voice doesnât come out as confident as youâd have liked.
âBecause you deserve so much better than to be the one people think of after the fact. Heâs acting like a kid whoâs been told ânoââheâll get over it. For us, this was possibly our last chance to win.â
His smile is gentle and his face is beaming; you canât remember the last time you saw him smile. Heâs not the kind of player who flashes a big smile all the time, but tonight is differentâhis face is relaxed, relieved of the weight of pressure and responsibility.
Your breath catches as you finally feel seen, for the first time tonight.
The noise of the arena fades into the background as your brain works overtime trying to make sense of the situation. Everything around you blursâthe team cheering in the background, the fans, victory, defeat, the different-colored jerseys youâre wearing.
Itâs just you and him.
He raises his hand as if he wants to touch your arm but changes his mind at the last second, as if touching you were forbidden. Victor, though he isnât actually there, still seems to have an influence on events, as if his aura were floating around you.
âCome on, come with usâat least walk with me. Just donât stay here alone, hurt.â
You hesitate, clinging to the last glimmer of loyalty you have left for someone who isnât even looking at you, before telling Victor to go to hell.
You nod, and your smile returns.
âBut youâre going to have to change this crappy jersey for meâI canât let you walk around in a Spurs jersey; youâll get lynched.â He adds with a fake frown. You slap him on the shoulder while shaking your head as you listen to him spout nonsense.
He grabs one of his jerseys with âBrunsonâ printed in orange letters before tossing it at you with a chuckle. You slip it on, and he slips an arm around your shoulders, gently guiding you toward the court. Now itâs your turn to turn your back on the one who walked away first.
Youâre practically jumping with excitement at the sight of the crowdâs jubilation.
As you walk beside himâthe one whoâs won it all tonightâyou realize something terrible and undeniable:
The only person who came to you tonight is the only one who owes you absolutely nothing.
You Heard That ? - Carter Bryant x journalist!reader
summary: In which Carter totally forgets that the mic is on during a press conference and now everyone is looking at you.
Based on the viral video đ i have the feeling that Carter could definitely do something like this, enjoy!
The conference room is packed to the brim; journalists and cameras from all over the world have their eyes fixed on the winners of tonightâs game.
The excitement is only just beginning to die down; you can still hear the clicking of cameras and the laughter of other players somewhere in the hallways as some Spurs players and Coach Johnson take their places one by one on the podium, ready to answer everyoneâs questions.
Among them are Victor Wembanyama, Stephon Castle, and the young Carter Bryant.
Heâs the last to burst into the room with that look all athletes have after giving it their all. His cheekbones are still flushed, his face still glistening with sweat, and his trusty No. 11 jersey has been swapped for a more comfortable team-colored hoodie.
His exhaustion makes him look even gentler, and his gaze wanders distractedly around the room out of habit, before his eyes lock with yours for a split second. Just long enough to make your stomach flip. He flashes a small smile as he looks down before sitting down next to his teammates.
As for you, youâd managed to squeeze into one of the seats in the second or third row, though not without elbowing your way through first.
Your damn tics were back, and you couldnât stop biting your nails out of anxiety. The reportersâ questions were coming one after another, and it would soon be your turn.
The guy right before you stands up and addresses Coach Johnson:
âWhat did you see from the bench unit that impressed you tonight?â
As the Spurs coach begins to answer the question in a professional manner, you catch a glimpse out of the corner of your eye of Carter leaning toward his teammates with an impressed look on his face, completely forgetting that the microphones stay on between questions.
He lowered his voice, but you can clearly hear him whispering, even though heâs far from the mic.
âGosh, sheâs beautiful.â
The boysâ curious stares then turn to you.
A deathly silence falls over the room.
Even Mitch Johnson stops talking. And thatâs when the entire press conference room bursts into laughter, filling with whispers and murmurs of surprise; some even turn around to try to catch a glimpse of the girl who caused this scene, quite unwittingly.
Carterâs posture shifts almost instantly; his eyes widen and his face is turning redder than a lobster. He slowly looks up at you, mortified but trying to save face.
âOh, did you hear that?â
âI heard thatâ
You nod, giving him a little wave while pursing your lips to stop yourself from laughing, more flattered than anything else as his teammates beside him openly tease him. Itâs a bit like theyâre in middle school and the rookie is confessing his crush in public.
He cups his face with both hands, trying to hide behind them.
The coach, who had stopped mid-sentence, leans toward the microphone before continuing:
âActually, thatâs another way to answer the question. Thanks, BryantâI hadnât thought of that one.â
He rubs his face with a small, incredulous chuckle, while at the same time Victor and Stephon are fighting for their lives, trying to hide their laughter behind their fists. But their faces are so red thatâs all you can see. Theyâre leaning against each other, in stitches.
The cameras are no longer just focused on the playersâtheyâre definitely on you. Youâre a journalist yourself and you know what that meansâthat the cameras love moments like thisâso you mentally prepare yourself to make the front page of the newspapers first thing tomorrow morning.
The organizer tried to move on, but the room remained too noisy, too amused, too lively after the scene.
Finally, Carter lets out a shaky breath as he brings the microphone closer to his face and says:
"Okay, all right, since everyone heard thatâŠ
The room falls silent again, eager to hear the rest.
He looks you in the eyes, making no attempt to hide his gaze this time.
"âŠCould I at least have your number? Please?"
His remark instantly triggers a wave of laughter. People hold their breath, waiting for your answer.
You felt your face flush, but you smiled at him, raising a playful eyebrow, trying to prolong the suspense, though deep down you knew you were going to say yes.
You then nod.
Carter flashes a victorious smile before pumping his fist in the air as if heâd just made a three-pointer. His smile was so wide it was almost childlike.
Coach Mitch grumbles into the mic, breaking the moment.
âGreat. Thatâs awesome. I love that for you guys. Now could we get back to basketball, please, before I retire early. I swear, these guys are going to kill me.â
But in that moment, nothing else around you mattered as you looked at each other with little smiles, feeling as if you were alone in the room.
summary: You take a group of deaf teens to a Spurs game, signing jokes and keeping everyone laughing, unaware that Carter Bryant is watching you from the court.
Alongside your studies, which take up a huge amount of your time, you volunteer with an organization based in San Antonio that supports teens and young adults with partial or total hearing loss.
You jokingly suggested going to a basketball game with your young charges. Outings like these are an opportunity to give them an exceptional evening, help them build self-confidence, and raise awareness of ASL among a wider audience. During these outings, you serve as the official interpreter and make sure everyone is included in the activities. Your relationship with them goes beyond the simple role of a volunteer; youâre practically part of the family.
You love signing in ASL, and you do it with extraordinary ease for your age, even though you can hear. Itâs impossible not to love youâyouâre expressive and bubbly when you sign, and youâre always joking around, laughing, and telling random stories to make outings fun. You show great maturity for your age; you quickly grasp whatâs at stake. Youâre not afraid to take on responsibility, and people often point this out to you, praising you for it.
But just as you're leaving class, you get a text message: âIt's official! We just got confirmationâthe director made a few calls and it's all set. You have full access to the AT&T Arena, and you might even get to meet the players after the game.â - Serena
Serena is another volunteer with the organization, and you reply instantly: âUnbelievable, Iâm over the moon for themâweâre going to have a blast. Go, Spurs, Go!"
You barely have time to process the news before you run to catch up with the group. Theyâre already waiting for you, decked out in Spurs gear from head to toeâcaps worn backward and jerseys emblazoned with the playersâ names. They wave at you, tapping their fingers on imaginary watches.
You wave back with a smile, âOkay, okay, Iâm coming, donât attack me,â you raise your hands in surrender.
One of the guys in the group throws a jersey at your face, before signing, âPut this on before you embarrass us,â you roll your eyes and follow orders before slipping on the jersey.
You all pile into the bus; theyâre all goofing around in high spirits, and youâre happy to be part of this adventure that promises to be exciting. You make sure everyone is there, and off you go!
AT&T Center
The ride flew by in the blink of an eye because the kids were so excited; even you couldnât hide the huge smile on your face. The arrival was met with a frenzy of waving and cheering. You all stare wide-eyed as you scan your tickets. The arena is decked out in the teamâs colors and the atmosphere is electric; the mascot is already running from side to side, dancing. People already have their beers in hand or are clapping their hands.
Thatâs when Dylan gives Carter a light shove as he steps onto the court. His gaze falls on the spot his teammate is pointing to before the latter puts his hand over his mouth and whispers:
âYo, sheâs cute. Whatâs she doing?â
He was rightâyou really were very cute, but wait? Are you signing something there? And are you wearing his jersey? He watches you sign a joke for one of the teens, which sends the group into fits of laughter. He smiles before he even realizes it. Dylan was already turning around and walking away when he realizes heâs been staring at you for a good minute. He shakes his head with a small smile, trying to refocus on the game.
But during a timeout, he approaches the bleachers where youâre sitting, acting casual, almost nonchalant, trying to interpret your gestures. He takes the opportunity to stretch and take a drink.
Youâre in the middle of a conversation, your hands moving quickly, when you notice him out of the corner of your eyeâheâs not exactly discreetâand you chuckle softly.
You turn toward him; he tucks his water bottle under his arm before signing:
âWow, youâre really good for a hearing person.â
You blink, wondering if you dreamed it.
âDo you sign?â you ask out loud before switching to ASL. Then you add in sign language, âHey, it's not cool to eavesdrop like that, you idiot.â But your expression tells him everything he needs to knowâyou're beaming. You're so happy to meet a hearing person who signs as quickly as you do.
"Actually, ever since I was a little kid, I had to learn to communicate with my family.â As he gives you a shy little look, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, one of the teens gives you a dramatic nudge, âHeâs trying to flirt,â your cheeks turn a pretty cherry red before you sign to him: âGo back to eating your fries and leave me alone!"
Carter laughs before adding, âPlus, youâre wearing my jerseyâif that isnât a coincidence,â you look down at your jersey before staring at the big number 11 on it with a sigh, âI was forced to, but apparently it was a good idea,â you add.
âYouâre going to bring me luck then,â he signs quickly.
He gives you a little smile as he steps back before his coach calls him back onto the field.
The game has just ended, and the fans are slowly making their way up the stands. The excitement is gradually dying down, and the group insists on taking a photo with Carter. He agrees immediately while signing with them. You pose for the photo; youâre standing next to him, your head barely at the level of his shoulders. One of his arms rests on your shoulders, and you look up just as you realize heâs already looking at you.
Click. The flash illuminates your faces. The whole group scatters like a flock of birds, and the two of you are left alone. He signs just for you, âYou made their night. And mine.â
The cameras capture the moment, the two of you absorbed in conversation, Carterâs gentle smile as he signs, your eyes sparkling as you laugh at what he says.
Before youâve even made it home, the photo is all over the internet. Fans are going crazy.
You were just kids when you first met; you were fourteen and he was fifteen.
He was a friend of a friend, but you thought he was really funnyâhe always had that little smirk on his face, as if everything around him were part of some kind of collective joke that only he understood.
Your friendship quickly took offâthe two wild kids from Chino Hills. The first time you set foot at the Ball house, the court lines were half-faded, the basket was leaning dangerously, and the concrete was marked by a huge crack.
But for the local kids, it was sacred ground; the three brothers were talented, and everyone knew it. Melo was already there, practicing. The ball was like an extension of his arm, always in motion. Right, left, step forward, and shoot. Of course it went in. He gave you a sidelong glance before tossing you the ball, without warning.
âShow me what you've got.â
You catch the ball with both hands, a big smile on your face. You spin the ball between your hands before shoving him playfully while dribbling, trying to shake off his persistent presence. You both laugh, cheeks flushed, as you push and shove each other teasingly.
âWell, having trouble keeping up, champ?â you tease him with a wink. Then you step back to take a shot and easily score as he stands there dumbfounded.
It was the beginning of somethingâor so you thought.
The start of long afternoons until the air turned cool and the sun disappeared. The kind of friendship that goes unnamed, that grows without you even realizing it. Shoving matches as if you were one of his brothers. Then innocent brushes between shooting drills.
You were growing up, and something had changed.
Three years had passed.
You noticed it now; with fresh eyes, you no longer saw him as a child but rather as someone who gave you butterflies in your stomach.
He had grown over the summer; his voice had deepened, his shoulders had broadened. It hit you like a train. His jokes were still lame, but now they made you blush. You had changed too; no one could miss the beautiful young woman you had become, but you were destined for a different path than LaMeloâsâyou chose to prioritize your studies over sports. This is your senior year before heading off to college, so youâre making the most of it.
That afternoon, you hadnât planned anything; it had all happened a bit too fast. The two of you were sitting on the sidelines, sharing a Gatorade. Side by side under the sun, which was slowly setting.
The young man nudges you on the shoulder. âAre you coming to tryouts tomorrow?â
âOf course,â you reply, âWhy wouldnât I come?â
He looks up at you, fiddling with his shoelace. âDad says I need to focusâno distractions.â
You raise an eyebrow playfully. âSo now I'm just a distraction?â You turn away and rest your head on his shoulder.
He wraps his arm around your shoulders and lets out a sigh. "I didn't mean it that way, you know. It's just that you make me forget things. You make me forget everything, actually."
The air around you has become charged with electricity, itâs grown heavier, and you suddenly become aware of how close you are. You hadnât planned on leaning toward him like that. He hadnât planned it either. It just happened, naturallyâa teenage kiss, full of curiosity and impatience. Your heart was pounding as you realized what you were doing. But before you could even pull awayâŠ
âLaMelo!â his fatherâs voice booms across the court with authority.
âWhat do you think you're doing, you idiot?â LaVar hurries over to catch up with you. âYou don't have time for thisâtrials are tomorrow, and I'm not going to let you ruin your chance like this!â
He grabs his son by the arm before you even have a chance to speak. Not cruelly, just like a verdict that brooks no argument. The hand of fate, you tell yourself.
Melo tries to turn toward you, looking back, as if panicked. He would have wanted to say something, but at that precise moment his father was holding him so tightly that nothing could change the course the situation was taking. LaVar pushes his son inside with a disappointed look before slamming the door without a backward glance. You had no idea that maybe you should have kissed him much sooner because you werenât about to see him again.
Itâs not for lack of waiting.
A week, then two, which turned into months.
You waited, never straying too far from your phone. You kept checking it, hoping to see a notification, just a quick message, a sign of life.
But nothing came, and you accepted it. Life went on, but you stayed behind, waiting for something that would never come. So you decided to move on and put it behind you.
Six years later.
âVictor, for God's sake, could you stop leaving your underwear lying around?â you yell at him as you put your clothes in the washing machine.
Your life was nothing like youâd imagined.
You were studying at the University of San Antonio in Texasânothing like California. Since nothing was keeping you there anymore, youâd decided to take matters into your own hands and continue your studies.
Since your social life was practically nonexistent due to the grueling pace of classes, you were grateful to be able to hang out with people your own age. Victor is an angel, and above all, he relieves you of the financial burden of living in the heart of San Antonio. At first, you wanted to chip in, but he flatly refused, explaining that his salary could cover the living expenses of a soccer team for their entire lives.
Now his offer covered anything you wanted to doârunning errands, âtake whatever you want, Iâll pay,â going out, shoppingâbasically anything. Youâd sometimes joke that you were living the life of a WAG without having to suck dick. The Spurs guys often came over to hang out on the penthouse terrace, sometimes just to play basketball or grab a bite to eat. Youâd become a bit of the teamâs mascot, being the youngest in the group.
Itâs 9 a.m. now, youâre already late for class, Victor left his laundry lying around, and now your stuff is all mixed up. You rush through the apartment, glancing at the weekly schedule posted on the fridge.
Wemby catches you as you notice that a few games have been added to your roommateâs already packed schedule. âI got you tickets for Thursdayâs gameâweâre playing the Hornets. Itâd be cool if you came!â he adds with a little smile. âPlus, you know Stephon would be happy to see youâŠâ
You turn around slowly, hands on your hips, smiling. One eyebrow raised.
âThat's why he's my favoriteâhe always checks in on me, he's so kind,â you add as he places a hand over his heart as if you'd hurt him.
âHow dare you speak to me that way, I who am your devoted savior and protectorâŠ,â you listen with one ear, laughing at his impassioned rant while grabbing a bagel from the fridge.
You grab your keys, and as you open the door, you turn around and throw back at him:
âIâll make the effort to comeâwhat would he do without me?â you chuckle with a wink. The door closes on a laughing Victor, thumbs up.
Thursday night
The AT&T Center buzzes with anticipation, filled with chatter, laughter, and light. You follow Victor closely, his tall figure blocking your view of everything else as you emerge from the tunnel. Badge around your neck, your sweater half-zipped in the back.
Stephon spots you first.
Heâs stretching and warming up by the sidelines, but the moment he sees you, he drops everythingâthe towel, the water bottle (his dignity?). He trots over to you with a huge smile.
âWell, look who decided to show up and crawl out of her cave.â
You roll your eyes with a smile you canât help but let slip. âPlease. Iâm the reason this team has any personality.â
He lets out a little laugh before pulling you into his arms, lifting you off the ground for a moment.
âYouâre still just as tiny.â
âAnd youâre still just as ugly,â you say, tapping his chest.
Victor walks up behind you in his game uniform and grumbles at Stephon,
âStop encouraging herâsheâs already unbearable enough on a daily basis; donât make her any grumpier.â âWorst case, we should get joint custody of this kid,â
Stephon meets him halfway, leaning in and putting his hand over his mouth as if to conspire with him, âYou take her during the week, Iâll take her on the weekends.â
You shake your head at their antics. âCome on, mommy and daddy, go warm up,â you tell them before giving Stephon a slap on the shoulder. He looks down at you and lowers his voice, âAre you sitting courtside?â
âApparently, daddy insisted on putting me there,â you sigh.
You hear Victor in the distance: âStop calling me daddy, itâs gross!â
Stephon continues: âGood. I need someone to cheer me on when the coach benches me.â
âYeah, sure, and while youâre at it, do you want a magic kiss?â
âIf you insist that much, Iâll take it,â he adds, ignoring your blatant sarcasm. He blows you a kiss.
Youâre still talking when you feel Stephonâs eyes fix on something behind your shoulder, causing him to raise an eyebrow. Heâs not focused on you at all anymore. Before you can even turn around, he places his hands on your shoulders to stop you.
âYo, donât turn around, but someoneâs trying to burn a hole through your back with their eyes.â
You freeze instantly. You narrow your eyes.
âWho?â
âNumber 1, turquoise.â
âWhat are we playing here? A guessing game?â you add skeptically. âI don't know themâdescribe him a little better, Jesus.â
âTall guy, mixed, a little skinny, curly hair, and tattoos all over.â
âGood thing youâre not part of the forensic team, or weâd have a problem with suspects,â you say, casually walking past Stephon, pretending to tease him.
Thatâs when you see him. Youâd recognize his stance anywhereâhands on his hips.
âHoly shit! Shit, shit!â you mutter under your breath.
At the Spurs, there was this sort of ritualâor rather, a rite of passageâbetween the womenâs and menâs teams. Officially, it was a classic hazing ritual. A hazing ritual that, on paper, is accepted by the organization. Itâs pretty simple: every new girl who joins is paired with a player from the menâs team whoâs considered a veteran. When the new girls arrive, they expect to spend a somewhat degrading or slightly humiliating eveningâlike shot-drinking contests, eating gross stuff, or stripping down to their underwearâjust to fit in with the team and establish a pseudo-hierarchy for the night.
Except that, unofficially, everyone is lying. The coaches and staff turn a blind eye to their superstarsâ antics.
And youâre slowly beginning to realize this as the new playersâincluding youâare lined up in the locker room on their knees, half-naked. Like fillies ready for the slaughterhouse. The men were on one side, standing. And in the center stood Stephon Castle, all smiles, as he explained the procedure for the next few hours. He was the one behind this huge joke, a little boss, whom you were starting to find less and less funny as the minutes went by.
âLadies, welcome to all of you. The rules are pretty simple: youâll each take turns drawing one of us at randomâŠâ He continues his explanation, but you donât even listen to the rest, realizing that this isnât just going to be about fitting in, but also about submitting to these men.
Youâre already shivering at the thought of being forced into acts by players much older than you. Apparently, youâre not the only one having this horrifying vision, because you can see that Sofiaâa player youâd befriended when you arrivedâis already frowning at these words and fidgeting nervously.
You scan the room before locking eyes with Victor; his eyebrows are furrowed, but he tries to give you a reassuring little smile. Heâs the only one looking you in the eyesâthe others are too busy staring at your bodies to pay attention to your eyesâŠ
Your hands are sweaty as you rest them on your thighs. Youâre acutely aware of your body right now and just how exposed your chest and thighs are. Your underwear barely covers anything, and your breasts are practically spilling out of the black lace. You werenât very smart to put that on this morning, and now youâre paying the price. Rage is boiling beneath your skin, and your cheeks are flushed with humiliation, but you keep your mouth shut and clench your fists for fear of being targeted by the leader. You barely have time to think about it before one of the girls exclaims, indignant:
âIf you think weâre going to obey you like dogs, you can go fuck yourselves!â
Castleâs smile turns predatory as he steps toward her, hands in his pockets. âGuys, I think I just found my partner!â He looms over her and grabs her jaw before his voice drops to a dangerously low pitch. âYou think you have a choice?â he adds with a chuckle. âIf you donât do it, I promise Iâll make your life a living hell and make sure youâre the target of the whole team. Your life will be a fucking nightmare, so youâd better listen to me carefully.â He forces the young womanâs head up, and she swallows audibly. âWeâre going to make an example of her,â he continues, looking her in the eyes with a look of excitement.
âOpen up,â he says simply. The guys laugh in the background, aware of whatâs about to happen. Her eyes widen suddenly, already regretting having opened her mouth.
âOpen your fucking mouth!â His voice echoes through the locker room as the other girls hold their breath.
She opened her mouth, reluctantly, but frightened by the threats. âSince you feel like talking back, I'm going to make sure you don't feel like opening your mouth when I'm speaking to you.â
He spat into her mouth before roughly shoving two fingers inside without warning. She choked on his fingers, her eyes wide with fear. Most of the girls in the group had never had any sexual experience before, and his brutality didnât help matters.
âWeâre going to teach you a thing or two here.â He leaves his fingers in her mouth as she gags, her throat unprepared for the sudden intrusion. The other girls gasp at the sight of their teammate in this position.
He laughs before ordering her to suck his fingers while grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling on it.
You couldnât take your eyes off the scene until Castle declared:
âYou know what? Let's skip the draw. Hey, Wemby, come pick oneâI'll give you the honor of choosing whichever one you want!â He was slumped on a bench, one arm casually draped over the backrest as if none of this affected him in the slightest. He didnât really seem interested in the womenâs teamâs collective humiliation, but his gaze was fixed on you as if he couldnât tear himself away from you. Damn. You look away, hoping to make the French giant forget about you. But itâs a lost cause as he slowly walks toward you, as if he doesnât want to scare you. Castle follows his gaze and understands instantly. âYouâve got a good eye, bro, sheâs cute.â
A part of your brain tells you that at least it wasnât the team captain who picked you. That maybe you can sweet-talk him so you wonât be forced into it.
Each player picks a girl before Castle snaps his fingers in front of her face, saying:
âShow them around and have fun!â
They toss your clothes at you so you can get dressed before dragging you through the hotel hallways. Theyâre not stupid enough to let you walk around half-naked in front of people who might tip off the media. You put your clothes on while Wemby stands beside you, his arms at his sides, looking almost uncomfortable. He whispers a quick âsorryâ in your ear as his body acts as a barrier between you and the rest of the room, towering over you completely.
At the Spurs, there was this sort of ritualâor rather, a rite of passageâbetween the womenâs and menâs teams. Officially, it was a classic hazing ritual. A hazing ritual that, on paper, is accepted by the organization. Itâs pretty simple: every new girl who joins is paired with a player from the menâs team whoâs considered a veteran. When the new girls arrive, they expect to spend a somewhat degrading or slightly humiliating eveningâlike shot-drinking contests, eating gross stuff, or stripping down to their underwearâjust to fit in with the team and establish a pseudo-hierarchy for the night.
Except that, unofficially, everyone is lying. The coaches and staff turn a blind eye to their superstarsâ antics.
And youâre slowly beginning to realize this as the new playersâincluding youâare lined up in the locker room on their knees, half-naked. Like fillies ready for the slaughterhouse. The men were on one side, standing. And in the center stood Stephon Castle, all smiles, as he explained the procedure for the next few hours. He was the one behind this huge joke, a little boss, whom you were starting to find less and less funny as the minutes went by.
âLadies, welcome to all of you. The rules are pretty simple: youâll each take turns drawing one of us at randomâŠâ He continues his explanation, but you donât even listen to the rest, realizing that this isnât just going to be about fitting in, but also about submitting to these men.
Youâre already shivering at the thought of being forced into acts by players much older than you. Apparently, youâre not the only one having this horrifying vision, because you can see that Sofiaâa player youâd befriended when you arrivedâis already frowning at these words and fidgeting nervously.
You scan the room before locking eyes with Victor; his eyebrows are furrowed, but he tries to give you a reassuring little smile. Heâs the only one looking you in the eyesâthe others are too busy staring at your bodies to pay attention to your eyesâŠ
Your hands are sweaty as you rest them on your thighs. Youâre acutely aware of your body right now and just how exposed your chest and thighs are. Your underwear barely covers anything, and your breasts are practically spilling out of the black lace. You werenât very smart to put that on this morning, and now youâre paying the price. Rage is boiling beneath your skin, and your cheeks are flushed with humiliation, but you keep your mouth shut and clench your fists for fear of being targeted by the leader. You barely have time to think about it before one of the girls exclaims, indignant:
âIf you think weâre going to obey you like dogs, you can go fuck yourselves!â
Castleâs smile turns predatory as he steps toward her, hands in his pockets. âGuys, I think I just found my partner!â He looms over her and grabs her jaw before his voice drops to a dangerously low pitch. âYou think you have a choice?â he adds with a chuckle. âIf you donât do it, I promise Iâll make your life a living hell and make sure youâre the target of the whole team. Your life will be a fucking nightmare, so youâd better listen to me carefully.â He forces the young womanâs head up, and she swallows audibly. âWeâre going to make an example of her,â he continues, looking her in the eyes with a look of excitement.
âOpen up,â he says simply. The guys laugh in the background, aware of whatâs about to happen. Her eyes widen suddenly, already regretting having opened her mouth.
âOpen your fucking mouth!â His voice echoes through the locker room as the other girls hold their breath.
She opened her mouth, reluctantly, but frightened by the threats. âSince you feel like talking back, I'm going to make sure you don't feel like opening your mouth when I'm speaking to you.â
He spat into her mouth before roughly shoving two fingers inside without warning. She choked on his fingers, her eyes wide with fear. Most of the girls in the group had never had any sexual experience before, and his brutality didnât help matters.
âWeâre going to teach you a thing or two here.â He leaves his fingers in her mouth as she gags, her throat unprepared for the sudden intrusion. The other girls gasp at the sight of their teammate in this position.
He laughs before ordering her to suck his fingers while grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling on it.
You couldnât take your eyes off the scene until Castle declared:
âYou know what? Let's skip the draw. Hey, Wemby, come pick oneâI'll give you the honor of choosing whichever one you want!â He was slumped on a bench, one arm casually draped over the backrest as if none of this affected him in the slightest. He didnât really seem interested in the womenâs teamâs collective humiliation, but his gaze was fixed on you as if he couldnât tear himself away from you. Damn. You look away, hoping to make the French giant forget about you. But itâs a lost cause as he slowly walks toward you, as if he doesnât want to scare you. Castle follows his gaze and understands instantly. âYouâve got a good eye, bro, sheâs cute.â
A part of your brain tells you that at least it wasnât the team captain who picked you. That maybe you can sweet-talk him so you wonât be forced into it.
Each player picks a girl before Castle snaps his fingers in front of her face, saying:
âShow them around and have fun!â
They toss your clothes at you so you can get dressed before dragging you through the hotel hallways. Theyâre not stupid enough to let you walk around half-naked in front of people who might tip off the media. You put your clothes on while Wemby stands beside you, his arms at his sides, looking almost uncomfortable. He whispers a quick âsorryâ in your ear as his body acts as a barrier between you and the rest of the room, towering over you completely.
You were just kids when you first met; you were fourteen and he was fifteen.
He was a friend of a friend, but you thought he was really funnyâhe always had that little smirk on his face, as if everything around him were part of some kind of collective joke that only he understood.
Your friendship quickly took offâthe two wild kids from Chino Hills. The first time you set foot at the Ball house, the court lines were half-faded, the basket was leaning dangerously, and the concrete was marked by a huge crack.
But for the local kids, it was sacred ground; the three brothers were talented, and everyone knew it. Melo was already there, practicing. The ball was like an extension of his arm, always in motion. Right, left, step forward, and shoot. Of course it went in. He gave you a sidelong glance before tossing you the ball, without warning.
âShow me what you've got.â
You catch the ball with both hands, a big smile on your face. You spin the ball between your hands before shoving him playfully while dribbling, trying to shake off his persistent presence. You both laugh, cheeks flushed, as you push and shove each other teasingly.
âWell, having trouble keeping up, champ?â you tease him with a wink. Then you step back to take a shot and easily score as he stands there dumbfounded.
It was the beginning of somethingâor so you thought.
The start of long afternoons until the air turned cool and the sun disappeared. The kind of friendship that goes unnamed, that grows without you even realizing it. Shoving matches as if you were one of his brothers. Then innocent brushes between shooting drills.
You were growing up, and something had changed.
Three years had passed.
You noticed it now; with fresh eyes, you no longer saw him as a child but rather as someone who gave you butterflies in your stomach.
He had grown over the summer; his voice had deepened, his shoulders had broadened. It hit you like a train. His jokes were still lame, but now they made you blush. You had changed too; no one could miss the beautiful young woman you had become, but you were destined for a different path than LaMeloâsâyou chose to prioritize your studies over sports. This is your senior year before heading off to college, so youâre making the most of it.
That afternoon, you hadnât planned anything; it had all happened a bit too fast. The two of you were sitting on the sidelines, sharing a Gatorade. Side by side under the sun, which was slowly setting.
The young man nudges you on the shoulder. âAre you coming to tryouts tomorrow?â
âOf course,â you reply, âWhy wouldnât I come?â
He looks up at you, fiddling with his shoelace. âDad says I need to focusâno distractions.â
You raise an eyebrow playfully. âSo now I'm just a distraction?â You turn away and rest your head on his shoulder.
He wraps his arm around your shoulders and lets out a sigh. "I didn't mean it that way, you know. It's just that you make me forget things. You make me forget everything, actually."
The air around you has become charged with electricity, itâs grown heavier, and you suddenly become aware of how close you are. You hadnât planned on leaning toward him like that. He hadnât planned it either. It just happened, naturallyâa teenage kiss, full of curiosity and impatience. Your heart was pounding as you realized what you were doing. But before you could even pull awayâŠ
âLaMelo!â his fatherâs voice booms across the court with authority.
âWhat do you think you're doing, you idiot?â LaVar hurries over to catch up with you. âYou don't have time for thisâtrials are tomorrow, and I'm not going to let you ruin your chance like this!â
He grabs his son by the arm before you even have a chance to speak. Not cruelly, just like a verdict that brooks no argument. The hand of fate, you tell yourself.
Melo tries to turn toward you, looking back, as if panicked. He would have wanted to say something, but at that precise moment his father was holding him so tightly that nothing could change the course the situation was taking. LaVar pushes his son inside with a disappointed look before slamming the door without a backward glance. You had no idea that maybe you should have kissed him much sooner because you werenât about to see him again.
Itâs not for lack of waiting.
A week, then two, which turned into months.
You waited, never straying too far from your phone. You kept checking it, hoping to see a notification, just a quick message, a sign of life.
But nothing came, and you accepted it. Life went on, but you stayed behind, waiting for something that would never come. So you decided to move on and put it behind you.
Six years later.
âVictor, for God's sake, could you stop leaving your underwear lying around?â you yell at him as you put your clothes in the washing machine.
Your life was nothing like youâd imagined.
You were studying at the University of San Antonio in Texasânothing like California. Since nothing was keeping you there anymore, youâd decided to take matters into your own hands and continue your studies.
Since your social life was practically nonexistent due to the grueling pace of classes, you were grateful to be able to hang out with people your own age. Victor is an angel, and above all, he relieves you of the financial burden of living in the heart of San Antonio. At first, you wanted to chip in, but he flatly refused, explaining that his salary could cover the living expenses of a soccer team for their entire lives.
Now his offer covered anything you wanted to doârunning errands, âtake whatever you want, Iâll pay,â going out, shoppingâbasically anything. Youâd sometimes joke that you were living the life of a WAG without having to suck dick. The Spurs guys often came over to hang out on the penthouse terrace, sometimes just to play basketball or grab a bite to eat. Youâd become a bit of the teamâs mascot, being the youngest in the group.
Itâs 9 a.m. now, youâre already late for class, Victor left his laundry lying around, and now your stuff is all mixed up. You rush through the apartment, glancing at the weekly schedule posted on the fridge.
Wemby catches you as you notice that a few games have been added to your roommateâs already packed schedule. âI got you tickets for Thursdayâs gameâweâre playing the Hornets. Itâd be cool if you came!â he adds with a little smile. âPlus, you know Stephon would be happy to see youâŠâ
You turn around slowly, hands on your hips, smiling. One eyebrow raised.
âThat's why he's my favoriteâhe always checks in on me, he's so kind,â you add as he places a hand over his heart as if you'd hurt him.
âHow dare you speak to me that way, I who am your devoted savior and protectorâŠ,â you listen with one ear, laughing at his impassioned rant while grabbing a bagel from the fridge.
You grab your keys, and as you open the door, you turn around and throw back at him:
âIâll make the effort to comeâwhat would he do without me?â you chuckle with a wink. The door closes on a laughing Victor, thumbs up.
Thursday night
The AT&T Center buzzes with anticipation, filled with chatter, laughter, and light. You follow Victor closely, his tall figure blocking your view of everything else as you emerge from the tunnel. Badge around your neck, your sweater half-zipped in the back.
Stephon spots you first.
Heâs stretching and warming up by the sidelines, but the moment he sees you, he drops everythingâthe towel, the water bottle (his dignity?). He trots over to you with a huge smile.
âWell, look who decided to show up and crawl out of her cave.â
You roll your eyes with a smile you canât help but let slip. âPlease. Iâm the reason this team has any personality.â
He lets out a little laugh before pulling you into his arms, lifting you off the ground for a moment.
âYouâre still just as tiny.â
âAnd youâre still just as ugly,â you say, tapping his chest.
Victor walks up behind you in his game uniform and grumbles at Stephon,
âStop encouraging herâsheâs already unbearable enough on a daily basis; donât make her any grumpier.â âWorst case, we should get joint custody of this kid,â
Stephon meets him halfway, leaning in and putting his hand over his mouth as if to conspire with him, âYou take her during the week, Iâll take her on the weekends.â
You shake your head at their antics. âCome on, mommy and daddy, go warm up,â you tell them before giving Stephon a slap on the shoulder. He looks down at you and lowers his voice, âAre you sitting courtside?â
âApparently, daddy insisted on putting me there,â you sigh.
You hear Victor in the distance: âStop calling me daddy, itâs gross!â
Stephon continues: âGood. I need someone to cheer me on when the coach benches me.â
âYeah, sure, and while youâre at it, do you want a magic kiss?â
âIf you insist that much, Iâll take it,â he adds, ignoring your blatant sarcasm. He blows you a kiss.
Youâre still talking when you feel Stephonâs eyes fix on something behind your shoulder, causing him to raise an eyebrow. Heâs not focused on you at all anymore. Before you can even turn around, he places his hands on your shoulders to stop you.
âYo, donât turn around, but someoneâs trying to burn a hole through your back with their eyes.â
You freeze instantly. You narrow your eyes.
âWho?â
âNumber 1, turquoise.â
âWhat are we playing here? A guessing game?â you add skeptically. âI don't know themâdescribe him a little better, Jesus.â
âTall guy, mixed, a little skinny, curly hair, and tattoos all over.â
âGood thing youâre not part of the forensic team, or weâd have a problem with suspects,â you say, casually walking past Stephon, pretending to tease him.
Thatâs when you see him. Youâd recognize his stance anywhereâhands on his hips.
âHoly shit! Shit, shit!â you mutter under your breath.
(I think the song matches the vibe of the fiction in a funny way, enjoy!)
You were watching a Warriors-Hornets game from courtside seats; your uncle had insisted on seating you close to the court so he could keep an eye on you.
What he hadnât anticipated, however, was that the Hornets playerâthe fiery LaMelo Ballâwould set his sights on you. You have to admit, he wasnât exactly subtleâhe kept glancing your way from time to time, oblivious to the watchful eye of your uncle, Steph Curry.
The game quickly turned into a three-point shooting contest between your uncle and LaMelo, who was doing everything he could to catch your attention. You had to admit that LaMelo exuded an impressive confidence. The way he moved on the court was almost mesmerizing. He dribbled at a phenomenal speed and took impossible shots throughout the game.
You knew you should have been more discreet, but the prospect of being on TV had pushed you to dress up nicely, yet you seemed out of place among the playersâ wives who had come to support their husbands. But you were happy to be there supporting Steph. Whenever you came to his games, Steph loved to direct his celebrations toward you. This caught LaMeloâs attention, as he didnât quite understand the nature of your interactions.
The game ended, and you retreated to a private hallway near the Warriorsâ locker room. Steph joined you shortly after, and you talked, laughed, and teased each other just as youâve always done since you were little. You two even had your own special handshake. The Warriors player has always been a huge help in your life, supporting you in your career choices and travels, pushing you to excel day after day in sports and everyday life. Your close bond never goes unnoticed by your family.
But to LaMelo, who just happened to be passing by, it really looked like⊠a couple?! The young player stops dead in his tracks, watches from afar, and thinks to himself. "Wow⊠Is Steph really dating a girl much younger than him?"
At the same time, Steph hasn't been seen with a girl in quite a while, so everyone is speculating about who the lucky one could be.
He canât believe it and is a little disappointedâhe has to admit he would have loved to try his luck with you. But he keeps it to himself and doesnât tell anyone.
But the next day, he runs into you again, all alone in the stands, a coffee in one hand and your car keys in the other, waiting for Steph so you can go home.
He hesitates for a moment before jogging over to you, still in his workout clothes.
"Hey, hi. I saw you yesterday with StephâŠ" he lowers his voice, looking very serious.
I just wanted to say you two make a really cute couple, I just mean⊠Iâm not judging. Love is love.
You blink twice, completely lost as he stammers.
âExcuse me?â you say.
âI think itâs cool that you two are open about it,â he continues, winking at you.
"Even though⊠wow, youâre young."
You almost choke on your coffee.
You flash a small smile as you start to understand the situation. "You think Iâm dating Steph?"
He continues, "Well, yeah, you seemed really close yesterday and Steph looked happy, so I thoughtâŠ"
You burst out laughingâa real, uncontrollable fit of laughterâas you stand up from your seat. You place your hand on his shoulder, look him straight in the eye, and say, âIâm his niece.â
A part 2 to see the reaction of Steph and just how protective he gets?
Caught on the Big Screen - LaMelo Ball x reader (+ Nikola Jokic x reader)
(jealousy, jealousy)
-Summary: When one of your videosâwhich was never meant to be seenâgets shown at an event, people start wondering about your relationship with Jokic. So what? You both like horsesâis that a problem?
The All-Star Weekend had just kicked off, bringing together the NBAâs most talented players, both young and veteran. The franchiseâs players were gathered, crammed into a small conference room, ready to watch the eventâs schedule projected on the screen.
As for you, you were handling the organization, praying that everything would go smoothly, without a hitch. You made your way across the room, weaving your way through these legends. Exchanging a few words with those you knew least and high-fives with your acquaintances.
Jokic is one of them; as surprising as it may seem, you donât know each other through basketball but through horseback riding. Since youâre both owners of racehorses, your paths inevitably crossed, evolving from brief greetings in stadium hallways during games to real conversations in the stands at racetracks. The Serbian is so passionate about his horses that he could talk about them for hours. Very few people are aware of your connection, and thatâs just as wellâon the one hand, so the player doesnât get teased in the locker room, but also for your reputation, which wouldnât last long if the media got involved.
Anyway, you thought you were being a bit more discreet than that, but most of the players werenât fooled by your closeness. But they didnât know just how close. They were about to find out, despite yourself.
That damn intern had been making one blunder after another from the start, and you had to keep a close eye on him. He only had one thing to do: click on the folder and play the presentation video. Pretty simple, right?
You took a seat at the back of the room, holding your phone between your legs. Meanwhile, the NBA commissioner began his welcome speech.
Your phone vibratesâa notification from one of your friends:
âBy the way, I didnât tell you, but I put the beach video on your computer last night in the âto sortâ folder. Youâll see, itâs gorgeousâIâm so proud of myself. You're a total bombshellâcan't wait to see the video on your Insta.â
You barely have time to look up from your phone before the program startsâor what was supposed to be the program starts. The giant screen lights up and what appears⊠has nothing to do with what was planned.
A white sandy beach.
A pink-orange sky.
The sun slowly sinking toward the horizon.
And you, on horsebackâbut not just any horse, Demon DellâEst, one of Jokicâs horses.
The video is playing and further away, you can see Jokic on the beach too, all smiles, arms crossed, watching you.
Your friend wasnât wrongâthe video is stunning, almost like a scene from a movie:
You galloping, hair loose, blown by the wind.
A training ride on the beach. Nikola shouting a few comments your way to help you get used to Demon. Slightly worried about you. You're an experienced rider, so speed doesn't scare you. We see you laughing like never before at the sight of his concern.
The whole room holds its breath as you rush down the stairs to your computer in the corner trying to stop that. You slap your foreheadâof course that idiot was going to open the wrong fileâŠ
A Bulls player quips:
âWell, that's a change from all those videos of LaMelo missing layups.â
The crowd goes wild.
Melo suddenly sits up straight.
âI missed one layup this week, just one! Are you going to cut me some slack?â
Curry chimes in, âBro, you missed three just in warm-ups.â
An explosion of laughter.
LaMelo smiles despite himself. Raising his hands, he adds: âBut at least I donât go on romantic walks with an MVP.â He shoots a pointed look.
Silence.
All eyes turn to Jokic.
He raises an eyebrow, looking innocent.
âIt wasnât romantic.â
âIt was a practice.â
You both answer at the same time.
A Lakers player:
âA practice with a sunset? And her laughing like that? And you looking at her like sheâs a rare horse?â
Jokic replies with a completely serious expression, hoping to piss LaMelo off:
âShe is a rare horse.â
You almost choke on his choice of words.
Now itâs getting downright personal. You bury your face in your hands, thinking that maybe if you keep this up, the ground will open up and youâll disappear.
LaMelo continues:
âBro, are you serious?! Youâre comparing her to a mare?â
Jokic continues, unflappable:
âOnly the ones who ride well,â the implication echoes loud and clear through the room. You almost want to laugh at this point. The room erupts in laughter again; some have even pulled out their phones to capture the moment. LaMelo turns to you, trying to save face:
âAnd you were planning on telling us that you were making videos like that with him?!â
You open your mouth, ready to fire back a sharp retort, annoyed by his outburst. Jokic deliberately cuts you off:
âShe didn't plan anything; I was the one who suggested it. She rode really well, and I wanted to keep a memento.â
The room erupts: OOHHHHHHHH
âA keepsake? You need keepsakes? Youâre a basketball player, not a wedding photographer!â
The Serbian replies, calmly:
âYou can be both.â
Wemby adds:
"Melo, do you want us to take you to the beach too? Weâll film you missing a layup in the sand if you want.â
LaMelo stands up, hood pulled over his head.
âYouâre all clowns. Iâm going to get a drink.â
He pushes open the door like a child throwing a tantrum. Amused glances turn toward you. Jokic turns around and gives you a knowing look.
âHeâs jealousâitâs so cute.â
You useless good-for-nothing - LaMelo Ball x reader
Answer to a request !
-Summary : It's your birthday, but your boyfriend seems to have forgotten it. On the other hand, there's someone who never forgets a thing when it comes to you.
Youâve been working in the world of basketball ever since you knew what you wanted to do: live in a competitive environment and rub shoulders with elite athletes. Over time, youâve met many players and become friends with some of them; a few have even become very close friends. Thatâs the case with Victor Wembanyama, who adores you. You have a brotherly relationship, marked by playful banter and mutual respect.
Your boyfriendâor rather, your long-time crushâalso comes from the basketball world. Youâve been talking for a few months and have only gone out on a few dates, but he doesnât seem to want to make things official.
You donât want to pressure him, knowing that his schedule is busy and that he doesnât necessarily want to rush things.
The fact that youâre surrounded by playersâsome of whom are his rivalsâdoesnât help him make up his mind, but he trusts you, or at least he pretends to.
Except today is your birthday, and you woke up to messages from your loved ones but no sign of the message youâve been waiting for. He forgot your birthday. Not a message, not a call. Nothing.
You get out of bed, feeling completely unmotivated. Youâd planned a special outfit in the hope that your boyfriendâor rather, the guy whoâs about to become your exâwould take you somewhere to celebrate this day thatâs so important to you. You unlock your phone as you drag your feet toward the kitchen. You scan your messages and see:
From: Melo <3 :
âI hope you're not busy. I'll come pick you up.â
Apparently, thereâs one guy who hasnât forgotten. You laugh it off, thinking itâs a joke, but a few minutes later, heâs standing outside your place, in a car worth more than your apartment, with a smug smile, sunglasses on, and dressed to the nines.
You feel your phone vibrate in your hand, âWell, are you coming down or do you plan to stay at the window admiring me like that?â You laugh, grab your keys, and race down the stairs.
He opens the door and turns to you: âI wonât let you spend your birthday workingâget in, theyâre waiting for us!â
You jump into his car and he starts the engine; he refuses to tell you where heâs taking you, but first you have to stop by the training center. He takes you along with him; youâre used to spending time with himâyou met during one of his games when you were a young reporter. He was one of the nicest players, cracking jokes and cheerfully answering your questions even though his teammates gave him a hard time when you were there. He put you at ease right away, and thatâs how your friendship began, high-fiving you at the end of every game, whether in front of or behind the cameras.
As soon as you walk through the doors, you hear the familiar squeak of sneakers, balls bouncing, and laughter. The atmosphere at the gym makes you feel right at home.
A voice echoes behind you:
âWait a minute, isn't that our very own Y/N?!â
You turn around just in time to see Victor, aka Wemby, cross the court in a few strides. He almost lifts you off the ground as he hugs you before gently setting you back down.
âItâs your birthday today, isnât it?â
You smile at him, a little surprised that he remembers. âYesâŠâ
He shakes his head and looks at you with a feigned look of reproach plastered on his face. âAnd you werenât going to tell your big brother?â he asks, before playfully punching you on the shoulder.
Before you have a chance to open your mouth, LaMelo steps up behind you, hands in his pockets, cap turned backward on his head, and a big grin plastered on his face. âThatâs why I kidnapped her,â he says, proud of his joke.
Wemby raises an eyebrow, then looks at you, then at him. You can see the realization wash over his face at those words. He gets it right away.
âOh yeah⊠at least you havenât forgotten.â
LaMelo shrugs with feigned modesty. âIâm just attentive.â Without sensing your heart tighten at his words.
Wemby looks at you with that protective tenderness heâs always had for you. âDid your guy at least text you?â
You look away, flashing a smile that doesnât reach your eyes. Thatâs answer enough.
The 7-foot-4 giant sighs, shakes his head, then pats you on the shoulder with a gentleness thatâs almost comical given his size.
âI don't know why you're stressing over this guyâyou've got a whole bunch of guys ready to kiss the ground you walk on.â He locks eyes with LaMelo for a second before turning his attention back to you. âBut anyway, weâre not here to talk about thatâitâs your day today, so enjoy it.â He adds with a wink. He turns to Melo, who has moved to stand beside you. âWatch out for her, Melo. If you mess with her, Iâll block every shot you take until the end of next season.â
The players around him burst out laughing as they grab their water bottles from the bench to your left. Even you canât help but smile. Number 1 replies without missing a beat:
âDonât worry, I plan on taking really good care of her,â he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, towering over you completely.
âEnjoy your day, sweetheart. If you need to get away from that idiot, you know where to find me,â he gives you a little smile before heading back to the field amid a wave of laughter and comments from the other players. You feel the stares, the smiles, the warm atmosphere. Youâre appreciated and recognized by the players for your kindness, but especially for your sometimes provocative comments. But they donât hold it against you and know thatâs just part of the job.
You can also feel Meloâs presence by your side, except that the sparkle in his eyes has changed. You canât quite put your finger on whatâs changed, but Wembyâs words echo in your head.
What you didnât realize, however, was the vibe the two of you were constantly giving off. Whether it was during games, off the court, or even when you werenât alone. You seemed to be the only ones who didnât notice.
Once you leave the center, you both get into his car. You buckle your seatbelt and turn on the car radio; your favorite song is playing right then, and you tell yourself that this day might not be what you expected at all. You roll down your window, letting the warm air ruffle your hair as you sing along at the top of your lungs to the lyrics of Alex Warrenâs âFever Dream.â Melo glances at you before bursting out laughing, running his hand over his beard. He joins in, not caring in the least about whatâs going on around him.
Melo has been driving for about twenty minutes, and youâre still trying to figure out whatâs in store for you by asking a bunch of questions. His only answer: âYouâll see when we get there.â
The city slips by, then the buildings grow fewer and farther between. You feel yourselves drifting away from the noise, from the world, from the weight of your lives on your shoulders. He takes his eyes off the road for a moment, turning down the car radio with one hand. âYouâre going to love it, I promise.â You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. He notices.
The car slows down and stops in front of a black gate with no signs. He gets out, enters a code, and the gate opens slowly. He doesnât say a word to youâthat little jerk liked to keep you in suspense. He parks the car, and when you get out, youâre transfixed by the view. An outdoor basketball court, entirely private. Not just any courtâa flawless hardwood floor, soft spotlights, string lights hanging around the perimeter. He brushes past you, nudging you with his shoulder, and takes your hand with a small smile. âIâll admit the guys helped me set this up.â You walk toward the center of the court; he lets go of your hand, and you discover a small table set with care, just like in a real restaurant. You turn to him, completely caught off guard. He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. âI knew youâd like something simple. No paparazzi, no noise. Something that suits you.â
Gifts are lined up at the foot of the table, and he barely seems to remember them. âOh yeah, you know themâwhen it comes to giving gifts, they get really creative.â You touch the signed ball. You recognize the handwriting. Wemby, a little message from a rookie, a âHappy Bday Queenâ from a veteran, even an assistant coach who wrote, âJoin our staff one dayâweâre waiting for you.â You turn to Melo. âDid you do all this for me?â He steps closer, hands in his pockets, with a gentle look. âYeah, because youâre always there for everyone. For the players, the staff, the people you love, for your job. But today, you deserve for us to think of you.â
You hug him, realizing just how lucky you are to have people like this in your lifeâpeople with whom you can be vulnerable, just yourself, and not just the star reporter. People you can count on when life is tough, not just people who are there when everything is going well. You settle in and let the conversation continue as you eat.
Itâs time for cake, and the number 1 lights a little candle. âMake a wish.â
You close your eyes. You donât know what to wish for. Maybe just that this moment will never end.
When you open your eyes again, heâs already looking at you. âDo you want to know what I wished for?â you ask jokingly.
He smiles at your antics. âNo, otherwise it won't come trueâthat would be silly.â
Of course, after eating, he grabs a basketball. âCome on. Let's play a quick game. Birthday or not, I'll beat you any time you want.â You laugh. âYou're such a liar.â You play, faking out each other. You score the first basket. He lets you have it, of course.
At one point, he blocks your path, coming very close. Nothing inappropriate, but just enough to make your breathing quicken. Chest to chest, you share a breath. Your brain is working overtime trying to analyze and rationalize the situation. He takes advantage of your distraction to steal the ball and turn around to score. He retrieves the ball and rests it on his hip as he moves closer to you. He hands you the ball, and your hands brush against his. He whispers, almost too softly: âYou deserve someone who never forgets things like this.â You feel your heart beating even faster in your chest. He steps back, giving you both time to catch your breath.
You sit on the sidelinesâyou on a bench, him sprawled out on the field like a starfish, bouncing the ball in his hands. You roll your eyes and laugh at the way heâs doing it. Just as youâre lost in thought, reflecting on your day and realizing youâve had one of the best birthdays ever, your phone vibrates. A message from your boyfriend pops up :
âI totally forgot, happy B-day!âI hope you're not mad at me. Practice completely wiped me out.â
You raise your eyebrows. LaMelo stares at you with a questioning look. You toss him your phone with a little laugh. He catches it, almost dropping it. He reads the message and then sighs softly. âSee, thatâs what I mean.â
He rushes toward you, dropping the phone on the floor. He cups your face with both hands and looks you in the eyes. âI want you to have a good evening, just one where you donât have to worry about anything.â His fingers brush your cheek. A light touch, but one that sends a jolt through you like an electric shock. You close your eyes for a second. Just one. When you open them again, heâs looking at you as if youâd just made the most beautiful three-pointer heâs ever seen. He leans in a little closer. Your foreheads brush against each other. Your breath mingles with his. He asks you a silent question. You smile at him, signaling that you trust him completely. In an instant, the distance between you vanishes, and your lips meet. You feel yourself melt completely into him and let out a sigh of relief, as if youâd been holding it in for an eternity. LaMelo was far from inexperienced, but you hear him sigh in turn, overwhelmed by the moment. You feel his hand run through your hair before tugging gently on it, making you moan softly. That was his cue to pull your lips apart before resting his forehead against yours. âDid we just do something stupid, or am I wrong?â
You look up at him before letting out a little laugh. âListen, if thatâs how it is, Iâll do stupid things more often.â
The car pulls up in front of your building. Melo turns off the engine but doesnât move. The silence is heavy, almost electric. You can still feel the warmth of his hands on your cheeks, his breath against your lips, his scent. He looks at you one last time, his dark eyes filled with adoration. âIf you need me⊠call me, no matter what time it is.â You nod with a smile and kiss him on the cheek. Without meaning to, youâd sealed your fates, and your boyfriend had been forgotten long ago.
-Summary: Youâre a young, up-and-coming sports agent, recently hired to manage the career of LaMelo Ball, one of the NBAâs brightest rising stars. This is your shot to prove you belong at the highest level.
But thereâs a problem: his father, LaVar Ball.
You were youngâalmost too young for a position at that level. Youâre the same age as Lamelo, which made it easier for you to connect with him; you hit it off right away, and thatâs why you were in the best position to know what the public expects from him, what motivates him, and even what could hurt him. That credibility youâd spent an enormous amount of time building could often be called into question, especially in the world of menâs basketball. But you were determined to make Lamelo the iconic figure of the new NBA generation.
Youâre ambitious and you donât hide itâthatâs what immediately appealed to Lamelo. The way you speak, your drive to always go furtherâIn a way, he sees himself in your attitude and how you handle challenges.
On the other hand, what you hadnât anticipated was that his father would get involved and have an opinion on every contract you negotiated, every decision, and hold an unbearable veto power over absolutely everything.
Yet youâd secured the highest-paying contract you could have hoped for and negotiated as best you could with the club; you were recognized in the industry as a powerful businesswoman and respected by all your colleagues thanks to your persuasive skills. Youâd hit the mark again this time and walked out of the meeting room with confidenceâa four-year, $150 million contract, along with a brand-new marketing strategy youâd spent weeks refining, which had been accepted by the biggest streetwear brand. Glancing at your watch, you remembered that you were supposed to meet up with your player around noon for a quick debrief before he flew to California to play his next game. But true to form, the Ball family was late again, and Melo was still at practice with his teammates. So much for discretionâthe announcement would have to be made in front of his teammates.
As you walked toward the sideline, the squeaking of sneakers on the court gradually faded until you reached the coach to call time on practice and signal that you needed LaMelo for a few minutes, but he decided to let his players rest for today.
You watch the players file into the locker room one by one, jostling each other and cracking jokes as they open the doors. LaMelo leads the way. His father follows in your footsteps and enters the locker room behind you. The atmosphere in the room is relaxed; some players are chatting, others are changing or taking off their shoes. LaMelo is sitting in the back with his hood up, but he gives you a quick glance that says heâs seen you.
You toss the file youâd just gone over with the club onto the central island, grab a chair, flip it over, and rest your arms on the back. You take a breath and begin, âIâve got the details for next weekâs campaign right here, and youâre going to love it.â You donât even have time to flash a triumphant smile at your player before his father steps forward, barely glancing at you and snapping, âAnother one of your marketing schemes?â loud enough that the players around you turn to look. A faint, wry smile crosses your face. Here we go againâŠ
You try to explain, âYes, itâs important for Meloâs image andââ
âMeloâs image?â he scoffs, cutting you off.
It had been barely three weeks since youâd taken over as head of the team managing LaMelo when his dad decided to give you a hard time for no reason.
Despite your lack of response, he keeps going, "you donât understand half of whatâs going on here."
Thatâs when you look around with an annoyed pout and notice the teamâs players exchanging bewildered glances. Some pretend to look away, but Brandon Millerâa player youâve worked with beforeâturns back to you and gives you a nod to make sure you can handle the situation, worried by LaVarâs little act. LaMelo, for his part, slowly lifts his head.
You continue, âThe partnership could bring in aroundâ "
âYou really think your little plan is going to change anything?â he smiles, but his smile is far from friendly. âI managed my sonsâ careers before you did; I know what works, unlike you.â
That little act doesnât faze you, but Meloâs lack of reaction hurts the mostâhis father is crossing the line, and his son doesnât even have the courage to stand up to him for you.
You let out a sigh, trying to get a word in edgewise. "Iâm just doing what Iâm paid to do, and Iâd like to try to be effective without some old nag buzzing in my ear."
This time the locker room is completely silent; some players crack a smile upon hearing your response.
âYou've been here two weeks and you already think you know it all, you ungrateful little brat,â he sneers.
The players feel like they're watching a ping-pong match with two opponents trading blows faster and faster. But thatâs the last straw, and LaMelo stands up. âDad, thatâs enough,â he says. His voice is calm, but you can tell heâs boiling inside. His father completely ignores him and turns to the entire locker room. âGuys, you can see sheâs terrible, honestly⊠I donât think what sheâs proposing will ever workâthatâs why putting women in charge of menâs business is a mistake.â
You think to yourself with a raised eyebrow, âIs he serious? I havenât even presented the project yetâŠâ
You donât have time to think of a response before LaMelo steps forward and positions himself between you and his father. Luckily he had that brilliant idea, because you almost grabbed the nearest Gatorade bottle to use as a projectile aimed at his father. âSheâs doing her job perfectly, and sheâs doing it for me. I didnât ask for a quality check on her work; your job is to watch me from the sidelines.â
His father frowns. âMelo, are you really going to take her advice?â
âWell, yeah,â the reply snaps back in the locker room. He continues, âIf you have a problem, take it up with me. Not with her, and certainly not in front of the whole team.â
You feel the tension in your shoulders ease at those words. And the players around you look at you differentlyâwith respect, but also with support.
LaVar shakes his head, furious, but he backs down, saying, âWeâll talk about this later.â He storms out of the locker room, slamming the door behind him.
The silence hangs heavy for a few seconds before LaMelo turns to you with an unexpected gentleness in his eyes. âIâm sorry for everything he said; he had no right.â
You nod with a small smile, still shaken by his words. He steps closer to you and lowers his voice. âIâll never let you handle this alone again.â
A moment passes; the locker room gradually empties, and Miller walks past you with a sly smile and places his hand on your shoulder. âGood thing you brought out the claws, kitten. Youâd better bring them out more often if you want us to stop messing with you. Personally, Iâll never criticize your work again,â he adds with a chuckle.
He leaves, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the number 1. There he is, slowly approaching you while slipping on a clean T-shirt and an old Hornets sweater. Heâs taken off his hood, his curls still damp with sweat. His expression is serious, almost worried. âIâm really sorry about what happened.â You try to reassure him and shake your head, âItâs not your fault.â
âItâs exactly that, honey. Itâs my father. He shouldnât behave like that toward you. He disrespected you in front of everyone.â You take a breath, searching for the right words. âIâm used to dealing with strong personalities. But this is differentâitâs your father, after all.â You adjust your clothes, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is. You feel the warmth of his body, the scent of the hardwood floor and soap. âYou didnât deserve this,â he says in a low, almost hoarse voice.
âYou know, I give my all to my job. Iâve worked hard, pulled all-nighters to get where I am today, and sacrificed time with my family. But to be questioned like this, just because Iâm a womanâto be interrupted every two minutesâyouâll never know what thatâs like,â you add, tears welling up in your eyes. âIâm strong, but Iâve had more than enough of people questioning my achievements, of hiding mockery behind friendly smiles. Your father isnât the first, nor will he be the last, but honestly, Iâve had more than enough. I think Iâm going to take a break; Iâm tired of all this, of this whole circus.â
LaMelo didn't want you to leave under any circumstances, but his heart ached at the thought of you being unhappy by his side.
âCome here,â he said softly.
He opened his armsânot dramatically, just naturally, as if it were obvious. You hesitated for a moment, then let yourself fall into his arms. His chest was warm, his scent familiar, and his hands rested on your back with an unexpected gentleness, so different from the mischievous player youâd been spending time with for the past few weeks.
âI donât want you to feel alone against him or anyone else. Iâd be more than happy to put a few assholes in their place. You know me well enoughâno one disrespects those I care about,â he said with a chuckle. He slid a hand over your cheek, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.
âBecause I care about you, and they know it.â
Your heart skips a beat, the argument with his father already forgotten. He smiles, charming, as confident as he is on the court, but with sincerity.
"And besides, youâre pretty badass in your own wayânot everyone stands up to LaVar Ball. Youâre part of a select few, my dear. You deserve a medal. Or dinner, just you and me?" He shrugs, feigning innocence.
âPersonally, I prefer dinner,â he clarifies.
You laugh, this time genuinely. He loved that; you could see it in his eyes. He was back to that kid-like look he always proudly wears in public.
âCome with me,â he says.
âWhere?â
âIâm taking you out to eat, remember? And I like it when youâre close to me like thisâwe should do this more often.â
He holds out his hand to you, making a slightly ridiculous curtsy.
âWill you do me the honor, madam?â
âWith great pleasure,â you reply, playing along, and placing your hand in his.
He led you along with him, like a child dragging an adult toward a candy store, without letting go of your hand for a single second.
- Summary : Youâre a French exchange student in the United States, but youâve been suffering from insomnia ever since you arrived. Every night, you climb onto the roof of your building to gaze at the city lights, but it seems someone else has decided to do the same.
It must have been three in the morning when you slipped on a sweater to brave the cold Los Angeles night and climbed onto the roof of your new building. The sudden change of scenery, the total change of environment, seemed to worsen your insomnia, which had already been plaguing you back in France.
For as long as you can remember, youâve always loved the solitude and calm of the night. Mind you, that doesnât mean you donât like peopleâitâs just that the distant hum of cars and the wind in your hair helped drown out the incessant noise of your thoughts. Classes, schedules, midterms, grades⊠The upside to this whole situation is that no one ever came to bother you here. It was the perfect hideout for daydreaming while watching the city lights. But tonight, the spot was already taken. The intruder was sitting on the ledge, feet dangling in the air and arms at his sides, palms flat on the concrete. A phone lay beside him with wired earbuds plugged in, cutting him off from the world around him. You hesitated to leave and grudgingly give up your spot. But your curious nature pushed you to approach.
Your old, worn-out sneakers kicked a pebble, which clattered against the ledge and caught his attention. But he didnât turn around.
You took a step back before he murmured,
âItâs okay, you can stay. I was planning to leave anyway.â
That was all it took for you to step forward and sit down on the ledge yourself. You didnât particularly feel like talking, and that seemed to suit the stranger beside you just fine. You swung your legs in the air like a little girl before he said jokingly:
âDonât worry, I wonât jump.â
âI certainly hope so,â you retorted "I don't plan on playing Spider-Man and saving your skin, MJ.â
He let out a little chuckle before turning back to you and nudging your shoulder with his fist.
âSo, you're stealing my spot?â you ask softly, looking away from him and gazing into the distance.
âI didn't know anyone came here,â he said playfully. âIt's been a long time since I've been here; I don't come often. I should point out that I discovered this place before you did.â
âThatâs normalâIâm kind of the new kid here,â you replied with a smile. âIâm not from around here.â
He nodded without pressing the issue and let the minutes pass without forcing the conversation, like two souls recognizing each other in the silence.
You tried to sneak a peek at his profile and caught a glimpse of his tattoos through his sweaterâa red cross on his neck. Youâd never seen anything like it before, and you thought to yourself that if you ran into him somewhere else, youâd easily recognize him. The moment finally came when you felt sleep overtake you and his presence fade away as your head rested against the wall beside you. Morning came, and with it you regained consciousness, still on the ledge but with a vivid memory of last night. You hadnât even asked his nameâthatâs how tired you were⊠But it didnât matter; you knew heâd come back sooner or later.
A week passed, and every night you shared moments from your respective lives. For you, it was the fear of failing your studies, missing your country, your friends, and that feeling of being lost even though everything was fine.
But he remained vague, wouldnât give his name, and even dodged some of your questions. You pressed him, trying to get an answer. âWhat do you do for a living?â âSomething where everyone thinks they know me.â You didnât probe any further, letting him play the mysterious one.
You didnât really have to wait long to find out, after all.
Several of your classmates seemed passionate about basketball, but you didnât really know much about it. Obviously, you knew the classicsâLeBron James, Michael Jordan⊠But as for the rest, you were clueless.
Your best friend Maryâs laptop was sitting on the cafeteria table, blasting the live broadcast of a basketball game at full volume, so much so that a crowd had gathered around the table.
Uninterested in the studentsâ general excitement, you kept your eyes glued to your phone or your notes. But just as you were about to head to your anatomy class, a post-game press conference echoed through the empty room, and there he was:
LaMelo Ball. A young NBA prospect. A perfect smile for the cameras. Flashes. Interviews. A real charmer.
You understood it all at once. His reluctance to say anything about himself, yet his desire to strike up a conversation with a stranger on a rooftop.
