⤠summary: rafe has always been a momma's boy. even when she's not here anymore
⤠w/c: 1.4k
⤠warnings: loss of a parent, weed, grief, soft! rafe, established relationship
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The backyard of Tannyhill stretched out in the deep blue of early night, the old oak trees casting long, soft shadows across the grass. Fireflies flickered low near the waterâs edge, and the sound of waves was a steady, distant hush. You sat on the wide wooden bench that faced the open lawn, back against the armrest, legs stretched out. Rafeâs head rested heavy in your lap, one of his arms draped across your thighs, the other holding a half-smoked blunt between two fingers. The tip glowed orange every time he drew on it, then faded again.
Rafe was high this time. But not the type of high when he became all loud and restless with the unreleased energyâno, this time, it hit him deeper, relaxed all of the parts of his body, and made his head feel light and weirdly quiet except for the things he wasnât sure how to say out loud. His shoulders dropped the usual tension they carried, the crease in between his brows eased a little bit, and his weight rested fully against you.Â
Maybe it was just a you effect, he didnât know.Â
Rafe looked up at the sky full of tiny stars with glassy eyes, slow blinking as the drug started to settle deeply. You could feel the warmth of his head through your jeans, the heavy weight of him grounding you in a weird way. Every few moments he would shift or adjust himself, pressing his head a little deeper into you, as if he wanted to get closer and get something off his chest.Â
You didnât speak. You didnât press with questions. And he appreciated your presence and support even in such a stupid way. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the blunt when he inhaled and the quiet rush of air when he exhaled. Smoke curled up past your face, sweet and earthy. You ran your fingers through his hair the way you always did when Rafe got like thisâslow from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck and back again, then twirling the soft golden strands around your finger. His hair was still a little damp from the shower heâd taken earlier, and each time your nails softly scratched the skin, he made a low sound in his throat, almost a hum, and pressed his head a fraction closer against your leg.
Minutes passed. The light breeze felt perfect against your skin, the soft smell of Rafeâs weed and his grounding weight on your lap made you feel just a little bit sleepy.Â
Then his voice out of nowhere, a little bit raspy and almost unsure, like he had been holding the words in his mouth all this time, bracing himself to speak.Â
âMy mom used to sit out here with me.â
Your fingers slowed down just a fractionâmostly out of surprise at the topic he had chosen. You never pushed about it, never asked about his family more than he wanted to offer, and felt like there was something that still hurt.Â
He took another pull from the blunt, held it longer than usual, then let the smoke drift up toward the branches. His eyes darted quickly towards your face, just to see your reaction, maybe hoping to find you listening but equally fearing being an embarrassment.Â
He found you looking down with a soft and relaxed expression on your face, not an ounce of annoyance or mock visible, making something in his head click in a weird way.Â
âWhen I was little. Like seven⌠eight. She would bring blankets out here, and we would stay here as long as we could until mosquitos got really bad. She would point at the stars and tell me stories I barely remember now. But I remember the feeling of being here with her.â Rafeâs voice was quiet and careful, like he was testing how much he could manage to say and how much you would listen.Â
âSarah doesnât remember any of that, she was too young when mum got sick. And dadâŚâ He let out a short, humorless laugh, bringing the blunt closer to his mouth and taking another drag and holding it in until his lungs started to burn. âEvery time I tried to talk about her, he got mad. I saw it in his face. In his eyes. He pushed me away and told me to never bring it up. Like she never existed, you know?âÂ
You kept stroking his hair, nodding softly to his words and feeling a slight lump in your throat. He was so young, and instead of comforting a child who had lost a mother at such an age, Ward pushed the knife deeper, ignoring the growing problem.Â
Your free hand fell on Rafeâs chest, his heartbeat steady under your palm.Â
Rafe turned the blunt between his fingers, watching the ash build.
âI know I'm too grown for this shit.â He muttered. âSupposed to be past this. Supposed to get my shit together and⌠I donât know, be a man. But I canât help it. It hurts. Sometimes it just hits me and I feel like I'm eight and I just want my mum back.â
Your eyes trailed the single tear that slipped away. It tracked down Rafeâs temple, disappearing into his hair. He went still for a second, like you caught him red-handed, then swiped at it with the back of his hand, too angry at himself.Â
âSorry.â He said, voice tighter now. âDidnât mean to get allââ
âItâs okay.â You answered softly. Your fingers wiped gently at his face where another tear slipped free, moving back to run through his hair. âYou donât have to apologize for missing her, Rafe. Not to me.â
His throat bobbed, jaw tightened until it almost hurt. He refused to look at you for a few moments, taking a few more drags just to numb his mind and make it feel a bit less. But you shifted slightly under him, hands on his head so soft and light to keep him in a comfortable position, then looked down with a soft and sad smile.Â
âYou were a mommaâs boy, huh?âÂ
The corner of his mouth twitched. âYeah. Fuck, yeahâ I was. Followed her everywhere. She spoiled the hell out of me, more than dad ever did.â He was quiet for a long time. The blunt burned lower. He took one last slow hit, then held it out to the side so the ash wouldnât fall on you. When he spoke again, his voice was even quieter.
âShe wouldâve loved you.â
The words landed heavy. You felt your own chest tighten, fingers twitching against his chest when you were left speechless for a few long seconds.Â
âShe always said she could tell when someone was real.â He paused, looking you in the eyes. âYouâre real. I can feel it whenever I'm with you.âÂ
You leaned down just enough to press your lips to his forehead, lingering there for a second. âWe can talk about her whenever you want.â You murmured against his skin. âAny time. I don't mind at all. And I donât want you to cary it alone anymore, okay?â
Rafeâs hand found yours where it rested on his chest. His fingers laced through yours and squeezed your hand softly just to let you knowâhe appreciated it. He held on to you tighter than usual. More intimate and real.Â
The rest of the blunt almost burned out until the tiny bit was left in between his fingers. He pressed in against the metal part of the bench until the orange light died down and leaned back against you, but this time looking somewhere even farther away. He kept his eyes on the sky.Â
âHer anniversary is coming up. Next week. The day she⌠you know.â He swallowed, his voice thick. âI usually go by myself and sit in front of the stone like an idiot as if she could see or hear me. But I was thinking that maybe you could come with me? If you want.â The question sounded almost shy in the way it was quiet and hesitant. Itâs been only a few months since you got together. The best months Rafe could imagineâyes, but still, he wasnât sure that you would be okay with this type of stuff so early on. And the last thing he wanted to do was to fuck it all up the first time he found someone he had real feelings for.Â
You smiled before he could say anything else, maybe take his words back. âIâd like that.â Your hand tightened around his larger one, thumb brushing over the knuckles. âIâd really like to go with you, Rafe.âÂ
His chest fell down as if he were holding his breath, bracing himself for your answer. He stayed there silent for a few long seconds, and you gave him his time. Your fingers traced down the side of his face, then down his nose, seeing the way all worry and whatever anxiety was left vanished from his body. His face relaxed, turning until his cheek rested against your thigh, his eyes closed now.Â
âThanks.â Rafe whispered. Barely loud enough to hear.
You didnât say anything back and just kept stroking his hair, holding his hand, both of you watching the stars shine across the dark sky above Tannyhill.
Perhaps a change of scenery was exactly what he needed to reset his focus and come back stronger than ever.
Victor's mind began to wander, conjuring images of tranquil forests and serene mountain landscapesâand you.
âvictor wembanyama x reader: fluff
The news of his season-ending injury had hit him like a ton of bricks. You had seen him in pain before, but this was different.
His eyes were filled with a sadness that went beyond physical discomfort. He had worked so hard, dreamed so big, and now, it was all on hold.
The doctors had been clear: he needed time to recover, and pushing himself would only make things worse.
When you finally get the chance to visit Victor at his home after weeks of his rigorous rehabilitation, the transformation is palpable. His once-spacious living room has been transformed into a miniature training facility. The floor is lined with exercise mats and dotted with medical equipment, the walls adorned with motivational posters and detailed workout schedules. His towering frame is a constant reminder of the dominance he once had on the court, but now, he's surrounded by a team of coaches and physical therapists who are working tirelessly to help him regain his former glory.
Victor's stubbornness is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it's what has made him the formidable player he is, pushing through every obstacle with unrelenting determination. On the other, it's what got him here in the first place.
He's always been the one to ignore the niggling pains and the warning signs, the one who refused to take a break when his body begged for it. And now, as he's told to rest and let his body heal, he's chafing against the very concept of taking it slow.
Every day is a battle between his desire to be out there playing and the cold, hard reality of his situation.
It's during one of these battles, when Victor's frustration is palpable and his physical therapist can see the stress etched into his face, that the suggestion is made.
"You know, Victor," he says gently.
"Sometimes the best thing for the body is to get away from it all. Take a vacation, clear your mind. It could do wonders for your recovery."
The thought of stepping away from the game, even if only for a short time, was foreign to him. But he had to admit, the constant pressure of rehab was starting to wear on him. Perhaps a change of scenery was exactly what he needed to reset his focus and come back stronger than ever. Plus, the idea of escaping the never-ending cycle of pain and progress charts was incredibly appealing.
The conversation with his therapist planted a seed of hope that grew with each passing day.
Victor's mind began to wander, conjuring images of tranquil forests and serene mountain landscapesâand you.
The warmth in the sunlight filtering through the trees, the quiet breath of the wind that whispered your name, the beauty that made every place feel like home. No matter how far his thoughts drifted, they always found their way back to you.
He hadn't had a real break in years. His life had been consumed by the sport he loved, and the prospect of stepping away from it all was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He knew that if he was going to recover, he had to find a way to balance his fierce dedication with the necessary patience.
With a spark of excitement in his eyes that you hadn't seen in weeks. And so, you found yourself seated on Victor's passenger seat, the wind whipping through the open window, your hair dancing with the air. The car was packed with the essentials for an impromptu road tripâsnacks, blankets, and a playlist that mirrored the anticipation coursing through your veins.
You had never seen Victor so relaxed, his face unburdened by the weight of his injury. His laughter filled the car as you played his favorite childhood games and sang along to songs that held a special place in his heart. It was as if the miles between you and the city were also erasing the months of pain and doubt.
As he drove down the winding road, you couldn't help but ask him,
"You sure this is a good idea?"
His response was swift and confident,
"Yes, I need this. We both do."
He had a point.
The stress of his injury had not only affected him but had also touched the lives of those who cared about him.
This was your chance to heal together, to rediscover the joy that had been overshadowed by the relentless pursuit of athletic perfection.
As you walked down the soft green grass towards the lake, the gentle slope of the land made your heart race with excitement. The warmth of Victor's hand in yours was a comforting reminder of the support you had for each other. His eyes, which had been so often clouded with pain and doubt, were now clear and filled with wonder. The breeze played with the fabric of your dress, making it flutter around your legs like a second skin. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered beauty, a stark contrast to the sterile confines of the rehabilitation center you had both become so accustomed to.
It was the perfect place to escape from the noise and expectations of the city.
You had never seen such a serene view.
The water was a mirror reflecting the azure sky, and the surrounding greenery was alive with the whispers of the wind. It was a place where time seemed to slow down, inviting you to breathe in the moment and let go of the past.
You both spotted the perfect spot, a small clearing that offered a picturesque view of the water. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow over the scene. You hurried to spread out the blanket, eager to lay the foundation for the afternoon's adventure. But Victor, still unaccustomed to moving with such care, fumbled with the corners, his long limbs not quite coordinating with the task at hand. You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing over the water. Even in his clumsiness, there was something endearing about watching him try. He shot you a playful glare, but his smile gave him away, and soon you were both doubled over with laughter, the blanket lying askew between you.
The afternoon was filled with laughter and playful moments as you both joked and enjoyed each other's company by the lake.
Victor, ever the competitor, decided to go fishing. You watched with a mix of admiration and amusement as he tried to fit his large frame into the tiny rowboat, rocking it precariously from side to side before finally settling down with a dramatic sigh. His patience paid off, and before long, he was reeling in a decent-sized fish. As he brought it to shore, his eyes sparkled with mischief, and without warning, he flung it in your direction. You screamed, more from surprise than fear, as the fish flopped onto the grass at your feet. Victor's deep, hearty laugh filled the air, and you couldn't help but join in, the absurdity of the situation breaking down any barriers that had remained between you.
Once the laughter subsided, you both set down on the blanket. He leaned back against the sturdy trunk of a tree, his long legs stretching out in front of him, while you rested your head on his lap. He pulled out one of his favorite books, the one with the worn leather cover and pages that smelled faintly of dust and adventure.
The sound of Victor's calm breathing that truly drew you in. It was rhythmic and soothing, a gentle reminder of his presence. His hands, those hands that had swatted away countless shots and dunked so many balls, were now tenderly resting on your shoulders, protecting the delicate fabric of your dress from the cool afternoon breeze that danced around you. Every so often, he would adjust the material, ensuring that it didn't get tangled in the grass or blow away with the wind.
Breaking the quiet, you turned to look at him, his profile outlined against the backdrop of the setting sun. His eyes lost in the words of the book he held open. You reached up, placing your hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. It was a comforting reminder that even though his body was broken, the spirit that had driven him to great heights was still intact.
"Vic," you said gently, "Why don't you come lay beside me?"
He looked down at you, the corners of his mouth turning up in a warm smile. With a sigh, he closed the book and laid it aside, using it as a pillow for his head. His arms, which had been folded behind his neck, now stretched out to either side of you, creating a shelter of sorts.
"Better?" he asked, and you nodded, snuggling closer.
The fabric of his shirt was soft against your cheek, and you could feel the warmth of his skin even through the barrier. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about the trust and comfort you shared.
For a while, you lay there, watching the play of light on the water and listening to the symphony of the lake. Frogs croaked in the distance, and the occasional fish jumped out of the water, leaving a perfect circle of ripples in its wake. Victor's breathing grew deeper, and you felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
But the peace couldn't last forever. The conversation that had been hovering on the periphery of your minds finally made its way to the surface. You propped yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him.
"What happens now?" you asked softly, breaking the tranquil silence.
"What will the rest of the season look like for you?"
Victor's smile faded, and he took a deep, contemplative breath.
"I've been thinking about that," he began, his voice gravelly with the weight of his thoughts.
You sat up, looking at him with a mix of concern and curiosity.
"And?"
He took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking, his eyes still on the horizon.
"And I think... I think it's time for me to accept that I need this break. Not just for my body, but for my soul."
He turned to face you, his gaze meeting yours.
"I've been so focused on basketball, on being the best, that I've lost sight of why I started playing in the first place. This injury is a wake-up call, a chance for me to remember what truly matters."
You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words.
"What do you miss the most?"
Victor took a moment to ponder before answering.
"The rush of adrenaline before a big game, the roar of the crowd when I make a play," he said, his eyes lighting up briefly before dimming again.
"But more than that, I miss the simplicity of it allâjust me, the ball, and the hoop."
You couldn't help but smile at the nostalgia in his voice.
The air grew cooler, but the warmth of Victor's body kept you snug.
"You know, ma chĂŠrie..."
He reached out, his hand finding yours, and entwined your fingers together.
"I really appreciate you being here with me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"This whole situation has been so... overwhelming, and having you by my side has made all the difference."
With your hands intertwined, you leaned forward just enough to feel each other's breath, a silent conversation passing between you. His breath was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the crisp afternoon air.
"I'm always here for you," you assured him, squeezing his hand gently.
But he leaned his head expecting for a kiss. The gesture took you by surprise, but you felt a warmth spread through your chest. It was a moment of vulnerability, a silent plea for reassurance that you didn't need to think twice about fulfilling.
You leaned in, closing the distance between you, and pressed your lips to his. It was a soft kiss, tender and filled with all the unspoken words you hadn't yet found the courage to say. It was a kiss that whispered of comfort, of hope, and of the unwavering belief that he would overcome this setback.
Victor's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his hand that were holding yours now slowly moving to your hips. The shift was subtle, but it sent a ripple of awareness through your body. You could feel the strength in his grip, a strength that had been the foundation of his success on the court, now transferred to hold you in this moment of quiet intimacy.
It was a gentle reminder that even though he was broken in some ways, he was still the same person you had always loved. Still the person you knew would come back from this, stronger than ever.
Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, now dark with a mix of emotion and longing. His breath was hot against your cheek, his chest rising and falling rapidly. And you smiled, a soft, knowing smile that conveyed all the love and support you had for him. It was a smile that said you understood the journey he was on and that you were ready to walk it with him, every step of the way.
You laid back down, the blanket a tangled mess around you. The world had narrowed down to just the two of you, the sun above, and the whispers of the lake. The silence that enveloped you was no longer uncomfortable; it was a warm blanket, a safe cocoon that allowed you both to just be.
ââ author's note & warnings: sometimes star needs help coming back down to earth. fluff (word count: 2k) potential language warning.
read more for #15â ââ series masterlist.
Devin reached for his phone tucked into the front pocket of his gray sweats. The screen woke to his touch, illuminating the dim interior of his GMC. His keys sat on the middle console, his car still turned off despite the urge in his bones to get home as fast as the late afternoon Phoenix traffic allowed. His notifications pinged through now that he has stable cell service, his phone buzzing in his hand as he tapped your contact.
âHey, baby,â he greeted softly when you finally picked up on the third ring. âI just touched down. Iâm about to head your way.â
âIâm watching film, Dev. I canât really talk long,â you replied, your voice flat, stripped of its usual melodic rhythm.
âWatching film? Again?â Devinâs brow furrowed, his voice trailing off into a quiet, concerned hum. âYou were watching film this morning before practice, beautiful.â
âIâm just trying to be thorough,â you answered, though the edge in your voice suggested you were more frustrated with your team's record than the footage being difficult to parse.
The line went silent for a brief moment as you released a long, heavy sigh, muttering something he couldnât quite catch about screen-spacing. It wasnât a secret that the Mercury were not having a season that you were proud of. You frequently vented to him the frustration you felt that your personal success wasnât translating to success for the team. No one in their right mind would blame you for the 10th place standing; two places short of a playoffs spot if the season were ending today. But Devin knew you chose to shoulder the responsibility of the entire franchise on your shoulders, a burden that often turned you into a hollower version of yourself.
âYou good with me coming over still?â Devin asked, making sure you were still in a mood to see him.
âIâm fine,â you replied, your voice sounding distant, as if you were already halfway back into the screen. âJust⌠yeah. Whatever you want.â
Devin didnât bother with another phone call to confirm your mood once he parked in your garage 45 minutes later, the silence radiating from the house combined with a lack of light was enough of an answer. He let himself in with his spare key, the interior of the home dim and smelling faintly of incense left burning in some part of the house. He found you in the office with the only light coming from the massive monitor casting a clinical, blue glow over your face. You were swallowed by an oversized black hoodie, the hood pulled up over your head with your eyes locked onto a freeze-frame of a defensive rotation that you had probably analyzed a thousand times.
âYou gotta press the play button for the film to work, beautiful,â Devin said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in the quiet of the room.
You didnât startle, didnât even tense your posture, you simply blinked, your eyes slowly shifting from the screen to the man approaching from the doorway. You didnât move to hug him, barely even leaning in for a kiss he placed on your forehead, his hand cradling your cheek before he pulled your head to rest against his abdomen. Your focus was already drifting back to the screen, your thumbs fiddling with the controls on the black game controller you used to scrub through the footage.
âHey,â you whispered hoarsely, not acknowledging the fun he poked at you immediately upon entering the office.
But Devin didnât push. He stepped back and sank into one of the plush, cream-colored couches that lined the perimeter of the office, stretching his long legs out across the rug. He watched you for a few minutes, hearing the repetitive click, click, click of the controller and the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on a hardwood court emanating from the monitor. He tried a few conversational hooks: he asked about the weekly call you had this morning with your parents, mentioned the new wrap on your car that you told him you were considering, and made a light comment about how Toronto was more interesting than he remembered it being. You answered in one-word syllables, your mind clearly far away.
As the minutes ticked by, Devin noticed something that made him narrow his eyes. The footage on the screen shifted every so often, and after a few scrubs he recognized the play. It was a clip from a game against the Lynx three weeks ago. It was the same clip you had been playing over and over the last time heâd visited before his trip. Sure, this particular clip was an example of some of your biggest problems defensively, but the fact that you were still circling the same drain days later told him you werenât just analyzing film anymore. This was beyond that.
Devin stood up, crossing the 20 feet between you in a handful of steps. He didnât say a word until he was directly behind you. He leaned over you, his palms pressed flat against the desk on either side of you.
âThe play is a wash, baby,â he murmured, his voice vibrating against the shell of your ear. âYouâve analyzed this rotation a million times. Youâve seen the mistakes in judgement. Watching it one more time isn't going to make them play it differently three weeks ago. You canât take that game back.â
You sighed, chewing your bottom lip, and for a moment, you resisted. You tried to scrub the footage one more time, your thumb hovering over the controller, but Devin didnât give you the chance. He reached around you, his large hand covering yours on the controller and gently pressing the power button. The blue light vanished, plunging the room into a heavy, sudden darkness that forced you to actually look at him.
âDevin,â you protested, though your objection lacked any sharpness.
âNo more film tonight,â Devin decided, his voice shifting into a quiet, authoritative tone. He shifted one hand from the desk to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. âYou have food prepped in the fridge, right?â
âYes,â you affirmed with a nod. You leaned back into your chair, your head tilting back until you could see his face. For the first time in hours, the frantic loop of missed shots and failed defensive stances in your mind slowed down.
âGood. Now, do me a favor,â Devin said, his voice returning to that lazy, honeyed drawl you loved. âGo take a shower. Wash this stress off you and get out of that hoodie. By the time you come back down, Iâll have your dinner plated and waiting. Deal?â
You didnât argue. The fight that had been propping you up for the last few weeks felt like a battery that had finally hit zero, leaving your limbs heavy and your mind suddenly quiet. You let out a long breath, and with a slow, reluctant movement, you stood up. Before you could walk away, he pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.
âJust let it go for a few hours,â he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin. You leaned into him, your forehead resting against his chest for a fleeting moment of surrender. you gave a small, tired nod and finally let him steer you toward the stairs.
By the time you were showered, moisturized, and dressed in a set of matching silk pajamas, the heaviness on your mind had finally settled. As you descended the stairs, the distant clinking of silverware and the savory aroma of grilled salmon and asparagus drifted up to meet you, guiding you back into the living space.
You found Devin in the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a focused expression as he carefully plated your meal. He looked relaxed, his shirt tossed into the hamper in your bedroom in exchange for the white tank top exposing his broad shoulders which loosened as he sensed your presence. When you stepped into the kitchen, you walked straight into his back, wrapping your long arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against the center of his shoulder blades.
Devin let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your cheek. âLook at that,â he murmured. âGot you all soft for me off a shower.â
âCan you just kiss me?â you muttered. âI didnât get a kiss when you walked in.â
Devin turned in your arms, holding your face in his hands to find you pouting. He pecked your bottom lip once, then twice, before deepening the kiss into something slower. He stepped back just enough to let you breathe, but his hands didnât leave you.
âI tried to kiss you but you had your hood up and shit. I had to tread lightly,â Devin smiled, his thumbs grazing the high points of your cheekbones. He leaned down, pressing another kiss to your nose before finding your lips a few more times. The touch was grounding, pulling you fully out of the mental wreckage of the season and back into the warmth of the present and this moment with him.
He stepped away just enough to guide you toward the living room, carrying your food in one hand and a tumbler full of cold water in the other. âI already poured you some water,â he directed you to sit gently, bringing you into his side once you were comfortable.
You sank into the plush cushions of the sofa, the silk of your pajamas sliding luxuriously against your skin as you leaned heavily into Devinâs side. The tension that had lived in your shoulders for weeks didnât vanish entirely, but it softened. You took the plate from him, the warmth of the salmon radiating through the ceramic, and felt a rush of gratitude wash over you. For a few hours, you didnât have to be the franchise savior or the captain steering a sinking ship. You could just be taken care of even if it was just making sure you ate your dinner and drank some water.
Gif sets are SO important to me. Yes, please take this scene and break it up into 4 or 6 three second loops that I can study over and over to appreciate the small details of it
if you are taking requests can you please write an aaron gordon x reader fic? (i am addicted to the hurt comfort trope.)
i have this idea in my head where aaron and reader were college sweethearts and both end up as professional basketball players. reader gets hurt in a game and itâs bad enough to give aaron a pretty good scare. reader has to medically retire from basketball. aaron is so supportive, but reader still struggles with the transition to retirement, and who she is outside of being an athlete. being in a relationship with a professional basketball player doesnât necessarily help matters. iâd love a happy ending where reader and ag stay together and reader is finally able to accept her new life. :)
thanks!! i love your writing!!
off the court
an aaron gordon fic
summary - requested!
includes - angst // college sweethearts // wnba player reader // major injury // comfort trope
a/n - what a beautiful request. i hope this is to your liking!
The first thing Aaron heard was the sound of the arena going quiet.
Not completely quiet. Arenas never really went silent. There was always the squeak of shoes, the restless shifting of bodies, the faraway buzz of cameras and voices and security radios. But the roar that had been there seconds ago, the rise of the crowd as you drove hard toward the basket, disappeared so suddenly it felt like somebody had put the whole building underwater.
Aaron was on the bench when it happened.
His own game had ended less than an hour earlier, and he was supposed to be headed back to the hotel. The team bus was waiting. His phone was already full of texts from people congratulating him, asking him about dinner plans, sending highlights he had not looked at yet. But your playoff game was on the screen in the visitorsâ lounge, and there had never been a version of him that could walk away while you were playing.
He had stood there with a towel around his neck, half changed out of his uniform, watching you do what you always did.
You were fearless in the lane.
That was the thing that made him fall in love with you in college, though he used to pretend it was the way you laughed at him when he took himself too seriously. You played like every inch of the court belonged to you if you wanted it badly enough. You were never the tallest, never the loudest, never the one people circled first on scouting reports until they learned better. But once you crossed half court, you had a way of making everyone understand.
You were here.
And then you were on the floor.
At first, Aaronâs brain refused to understand what his eyes were seeing. You had landed wrong before. You had rolled an ankle, taken charges, gotten elbowed, split your lip, dislocated a finger and popped it back in on the sideline like it was an inconvenience instead of a horror movie. You were tough in a way that made trainers nervous and coaches proud.
So when you went down, Aaron waited for you to do what you always did.
He waited for you to slap the hardwood in frustration. He waited for you to push yourself up, limp twice, wave everybody off, and ask for the ball on the next possession.
But you did not move.
You stayed curled on your side beneath the basket, one hand gripping your knee, your face turned toward the court so the camera could only catch the tightness in your jaw and the terrible stillness of your body.
Aaron stepped closer to the screen.
Someone in the room said, âDamn.â
His stomach dropped.
The broadcast cut to your teammates, then the coach, then back to you as the medical staff surrounded you. One of your teammates knelt near your head, talking to you, her hand shaking where it rested on your shoulder. Another player had both hands on top of her head, staring at the floor.
Aaron did not remember leaving the lounge.
He remembered a staff member calling after him. He remembered grabbing his bag from a chair. He remembered someone asking if he wanted a car, and him saying your name like that was an answer.
By the time he got to the arena, you were already in the medical room.
Your teamâs security knew him. Everybody knew him as your boyfriend, though âboyfriendâ had always felt too small for what he was to you. He had been the boy sitting beside you in a college cafeteria at ten at night, eating cereal out of a paper bowl while you iced both knees after practice. He had been the one rebounding for you in an empty gym, long after both of you should have gone home. He had been there when you got drafted, when you cried in the bathroom afterward because you were happy and scared and overwhelmed. He had been there for the apartment with no furniture, the rookie-year loneliness, the first bad road trip, the first real injury, the first time you admitted that being great did not always make you feel safe.
And still, when he reached the hallway outside the medical room, they made him wait.
He paced until his chest hurt.
He kept seeing you hit the floor. He kept seeing the way your hand clamped over your knee. He kept hearing that strange, awful quiet.
When the door finally opened, your coach came out first. Her face softened the second she saw him.
âSheâs awake,â she said. âSheâs asking for you.â
Aaron nodded once, but his legs felt heavy when he walked in.
You were on the exam table with a towel over your lap and an ice pack strapped around your knee. Your hair was messy from the game, damp around your temples. Your jersey was still on. Your eyes were red, but when you saw him, your mouth trembled like you were trying to be brave and were already tired of it.
âHey,â you whispered.
That was all it took.
Aaron crossed the room and took your face in his hands, careful, so careful, like the rest of you might break if he touched you wrong. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, then pressed his forehead to yours and breathed for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes.
âYou scared me,â he said, voice low and rough.
âI scared me too.â
That made him close his eyes.
You tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. Thin. Wet. Like pain had wrapped itself around the sound and squeezed.
âThe doctor said we need imaging,â you said. âThey think itâs bad.â
Aaron pulled back just enough to look at you.
âHow bad?â
You swallowed.
You were not crying yet, but he knew you. He knew the difference between you being calm and you holding yourself together with both hands.
âBad enough that nobody wants to say anything until the MRI.â
Aaronâs jaw flexed. He looked down at your knee, then back at your face.
âOkay,â he said.
You stared at him. âThatâs all?â
âThatâs all for right now.â
âAaron.â
âWe donât know everything yet.â
âI know my body.â
He did not argue with that. He could not. You knew your body better than anyone. You knew the difference between soreness and danger. You knew when something was off before trainers could find the words for it. You had built your whole life on listening to what your body could do.
And now, maybe, what it could not.
Aaron slid his hand into yours.
âThen we take it one thing at a time,â he said. âMRI. Doctors. Options. Whatever they say, we handle it.â
Your face crumpled.
âWhat if I canât come back?â
He wanted to say you would. He wanted to say of course you would, because you were you, because you had always found a way, because the world did not get to take basketball from you when it was stitched into every version of your life that mattered.
But love had taught him not to lie to you just because he was scared.
So he squeezed your hand and said, âThen Iâm still here.â
The first tear slipped down your cheek.
âThatâs not the same.â
âI know.â
âI donât know who I am if Iâm not this.â
Aaron reached up and wiped the tear away with his thumb.
âYouâre you.â
You shook your head. âThat sounds nice, but you donât get it.â
He was quiet for a second.
The younger version of him might have gotten defensive. He might have reminded you that he knew pressure, that he knew what it felt like to have people talk about your body like it was public property, to have a bad game become a headline, to be loved when you were useful and questioned when you were hurt. He might have tried to prove that he understood.
But this was not about him.
So he nodded.
âMaybe I donât,â he said. âBut I want to.â
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and the tears came harder.
Aaron pulled you into him as carefully as he could. You buried your face in his chest, gripping the back of his hoodie with one hand like you were afraid he might disappear. His chin rested on top of your head while you cried, and he stared at the wall over your shoulder, trying to keep himself from falling apart before you had somewhere safe to land.
He had never hated basketball before.
Not once.
Not through the missed shots, the injuries, the criticism, the trades, the expectations, the exhaustion, the way the sport gave so much and still demanded more.
But that night, holding you while your whole body shook, Aaron hated the game a little.
Because it had been your first love.
And it had hurt you in a way he could not fix.
The diagnosis came two days later.
There were words for it. Medical words. Long, precise words that doctors used because they were trained to name disasters calmly. Ligament damage. Cartilage damage. Structural instability. Surgery. Rehab. Risk. Degeneration. Quality of life.
You sat very still in the appointment, your hand tucked beneath Aaronâs on the armrest between you.
When the doctor finally said retirement should be seriously considered, you did not cry.
You nodded.
Asked questions.
Clarified recovery timelines.
Listened to the risks.
Thanked the doctor when it was over.
Aaron knew better than to trust that calm.
In the car, you put your seatbelt on, folded your hands in your lap, and stared out the windshield. He did not start the engine right away.
âBaby,â he said gently.
âDonât.â
He stopped.
Your lips pressed together. Your eyes stayed forward.
âIf you ask me if Iâm okay, I might scream.â
âI wasnât going to ask that.â
âWhat were you going to ask?â
âIf you wanted me to drive or sit here for a minute.â
Your throat moved.
Then, barely above a whisper, you said, âSit here.â
So he did.
The parking garage was dim and gray, the kind of place where every sound echoed. Somewhere nearby, a car door slammed. An elevator dinged. Life kept going with the audacity of something that did not understand yours had stopped.
After a while, you said, âI did everything right.â
Aaron looked at you.
âI warmed up. I trained. I lifted. I recovered. I ate right. I listened to the staff. I didnât skip rehab when my ankle was messed up. I didnât rush back from my hamstring. I did everything right.â
âI know.â
âSo why did this happen?â
His hand tightened around yours.
âI donât know.â
You laughed once, sharp and empty.
âThatâs the worst part. Thereâs no villain. Nobody pushed me. Nobody landed on me. Nobody did anything dirty. My body just gave out.â
âYour body didnât give out.â
You turned to him then, anger flashing through the grief.
âDonât do that.â
âIâm not doing anything.â
âYes, you are. Youâre about to give me some inspirational speech about how strong I am and how my body carried me this far and all that. I donât want to hear that right now.â
Aaron breathed in slowly.
âOkay.â
You looked away again.
âIâm sorry.â
âYou donât have to be sorry for being mad.â
âIâm not mad at you.â
âI know.â
âIâm mad that you get to keep playing.â
The words landed heavily between you.
For a second, you looked horrified that you had said them. You pulled your hand back and covered your face.
âI didnât mean that.â
Aaronâs chest ached.
âHey.â
âI didnât mean it like that.â
âI know.â
âNo, I donât want you to think I resent you.â
âI donât.â
âBut I do, a little.â Your voice broke. âAnd I hate myself for it.â
Aaron unbuckled his seatbelt and turned toward you fully.
âYou donât have to hate yourself for being hurt.â
âItâs ugly.â
âItâs honest.â
You shook your head, tears spilling now. âI love watching you play. I love that you get to live your dream. Iâm proud of you. I swear I am. But then I think about sitting courtside in some outfit people are going to post online, and theyâre going to call me supportive and strong, and Iâm going to be smiling while you run up and down the court doing the one thing I canât do anymore.â
Aaron said your name softly.
âAnd I donât want to become just your girlfriend,â you said. âI donât want to be a caption. I donât want to be the sad former player people bring up during broadcasts when they talk about your support system.â
âYou wonât be.â
âYou donât know that.â
âI know I wonât let people reduce you to me.â
âThatâs not entirely up to you.â
âNo,â he admitted. âItâs not.â
The honesty of that made you cry harder.
Aaron leaned across the console and gathered you into his arms as best he could in the cramped front seat. It was awkward, and your brace got caught on the edge of the console, and you let out a frustrated sob that turned into a broken laugh. He kissed the side of your head and held you tighter.
âI donât know how to do this,â you whispered.
âYou donât have to know today.â
âWhat if Iâm mean?â
âThen we talk about it.â
âWhat if I push you away?â
âIâll give you space, but I wonât disappear.â
âWhat if Iâm not the person you fell in love with anymore?â
Aaron pulled back so you could see his face.
âYou think I fell in love with you because of basketball?â
Your expression twisted. âPartly.â
âI admired you because of basketball,â he said. âI noticed you because you were talking trash to a six-foot-five senior during pickup and then cooked him on the next possession.â
Despite everything, your mouth softened.
âHe fouled me.â
âHe absolutely fouled you.â
âHe was hacking.â
âHe was fighting for his life.â
A small laugh slipped out of you, and Aaronâs heart squeezed around it.
He brushed his thumb along your cheek.
âI fell in love with you after that,â he said. âIn the library when you fell asleep on your economics textbook and still somehow got a better grade than me. In the dining hall when you stole my fries and acted offended when I noticed. On the phone at two in the morning when you told me you were scared you werenât good enough, and then the next day you dropped thirty-one like you were making a point to yourself.â
Your eyes filled again, but they were softer now.
âI fell in love with the person,â he said. âNot the stat line.â
You stared at him for a long time.
Then you whispered, âI donât know how to find her without the stat line.â
Aaron kissed your forehead.
âThen we find her slowly.â
Retirement did not feel like peace.
That was the thing nobody understood at first.
The public announcement came three months after surgery. By then, the swelling had gone down. You were walking again, carefully. You could move through the house without Aaron hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard, though he still appeared in doorways more often than necessary whenever you cursed under your breath.
Your agent helped craft the statement. Your team posted a tribute video. Fans flooded your comments with hearts and memories and clips of your biggest shots. Former teammates called. Reporters requested interviews. People wrote beautiful things about your career that made you feel both grateful and sick.
Everybody called you inspiring.
You wanted to throw your phone across the room.
Because inspiration did not change the fact that your sneakers were still by the door.
It did not change the fact that your body woke up at training time every morning, restless and confused. It did not change the calendar notifications for games you would never play. It did not change the way your hands shook when you opened the closet and saw rows of team gear hanging like evidence from another life.
Worst of all, it did not change the sound of a basketball.
That sound was everywhere.
On tv. In Aaronâs training videos. In commercials. In gyms. On sidewalks. Through open windows when kids played at the park. The steady bounce that used to feel like home now felt like a knock on a door you were not allowed to open.
Aaron noticed.
Of course he did.
He noticed when you left the room during games. He noticed when you muted highlights. He noticed when your face changed after commentators mentioned your name with that careful, reverent tone people used for tragedies that had already been packaged into stories.
He did not force you to talk.
That was both comforting and annoying.
Sometimes you wanted him to force it. Sometimes you wanted him to ask the question so you could explode and then blame him for lighting the match. But Aaron had become patient in a way that left too much room for you to hear your own thoughts.
One night, about six months after the injury, he came home from a game with a fresh bruise darkening near his shoulder and a quiet look on his face.
You were on the couch pretending to read.
The game had been on earlier. You had watched the first quarter, then turned it off when he caught a lob and the crowd erupted. It was beautiful. That was the problem. He was beautiful in motion, powerful and alive, his body doing exactly what he asked of it.
You hated that it hurt to see.
Aaron dropped his bag near the door and walked over to you.
âHey,â he said.
âHey.â
He leaned down to kiss you, and you kissed him back, but he did not move away afterward. He stayed there, studying your face.
âWhat?â
âDid you watch?â
âSome.â
He nodded.
âYou played well.â
âThank you.â
The silence stretched.
You looked back at your book. âIâm tired, Aaron.â
âI know.â
âThen please donât.â
He sat beside you anyway.
You closed the book. âI said please.â
âI heard you.â
âAnd youâre ignoring me?â
âNo. Iâm sitting with you.â
You stared at him. âThat sounds like ignoring me.â
âIâm not going to make you talk about the game.â
âGood.â
âBut I am going to say this is getting hard.â
Your chest tightened.
âWhat is?â
âYou disappearing from me every time basketball exists in the same room.â
The words stung because they were true.
âIâm trying.â
âI know you are.â
âDo you?â
âYes.â
âBecause it doesnât sound like it.â
Aaron leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together once, searching for the right words.
âI know youâre hurting,â he said. âI know this is unfair. I know watching me play makes it worse sometimes. And I donât need you to be at every game. I donât need you smiling for cameras. I donât need you pretending any of this is easy.â
âThen what do you need?â
He looked at you.
âI need you to stop punishing yourself for loving something you lost.â
Your throat closed.
âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
You looked away.
Aaronâs voice stayed gentle. âYou act like missing it means youâre not healing. Like being angry means youâre not grateful. Like not being ready to watch means youâre failing at being supportive.â
You blinked hard.
âAnd then you get mad at me before I can be mad at you,â he said. âBut Iâm not mad, baby.â
The book in your lap blurred.
âI donât know what Iâm supposed to do,â you said.
âNeither do I.â
That made you look at him.
He gave a small, sad smile.
âI know you think I have some answer because Iâm still playing. But I donât know how to love you through this perfectly. Sometimes Iâm scared to tell you about my day because I donât want to hurt you. Sometimes I come home excited about a win and then feel guilty before I even open the door. Sometimes I miss talking to you about basketball, and then I feel selfish because I know you miss more than talking about it.â
Your lips parted, but no words came.
Aaron reached for your hand.
âI donât need perfect from you,â he said. âBut I need in. I need us to be on the same team, even when the game is ugly.â
The tears came before you could stop them.
âI feel so left behind,â you whispered.
Aaronâs face changed.
There it was.
The truth underneath everything.
He moved closer, and this time you let him pull you against him. Your forehead pressed to his shoulder, right near the bruise, and when you realized, you tried to shift away.
He held you.
âItâs okay.â
âI donât want to hurt you.â
âYouâre not.â
You let out a shaky breath.
âI feel like everybody moved on except me. My team has new players. The league has new storylines. People posted about me for a week and then went back to arguing about playoff rankings. You still have practices and flights and games and film. And Iâm here trying to figure out what to do with a Tuesday morning.â
Aaronâs hand moved slowly over your back.
âI went from having every day planned since I was ten years old to waking up and not knowing what the point is,â you said. âAnd I know that sounds dramatic.â
âIt doesnât.â
âIt does.â
âIt sounds like grief.â
That broke something open in you.
You cried into his shirt until you were exhausted. Not pretty tears. Not cinematic tears. The kind that left your face hot and your head aching. Aaron held you through all of it, his cheek against your hair, his body firm and warm beside yours.
When the worst of it passed, you whispered, âI think I need help.â
His hand paused.
Then he kissed the top of your head.
âOkay.â
âI mean real help.â
âOkay.â
âTherapy, maybe. Or something.â
âWeâll find someone.â
âAnd I need to do something thatâs mine.â
Aaron nodded.
âNot yours,â you said.
âI know.â
âNot attached to your schedule, your career, your team, your games.â
âI know.â
You pulled back to look at him.
âI love you.â
His eyes softened. âI love you too.â
âBut I canât become a passenger in your life because Iâm scared to build mine.â
Aaron looked at you like you had just handed him something fragile and precious.
âThen build yours,â he said. âIâll be here.â
It did not happen all at once.
Healing, you learned, was nothing like a training montage.
There was no clean sequence of early mornings, deep breaths, and inspirational music. There were appointments. Bad days. Good days that made the bad ones feel like betrayal when they returned. There were moments when you felt almost normal, then heard sneakers squeaking on a gym floor and had to sit in your car with both hands on the steering wheel until the wave passed.
You started therapy.
At first, you hated it.
You hated sitting across from someone who asked simple questions that somehow made you feel like you had been split open. You hated saying things out loud. You hated admitting that basketball had not just been your job, but your structure, your language, your proof that you existed in a way people respected.
But you kept going.
You started physical activity again too, slowly and with permission. Not training. Not punishment. Not an attempt to become who you had been. Just movement. Swimming. Pilates. Walks with Aaron when he was home. Some days, your knee ached. Some days, your pride did.
Aaron never made it a big thing.
That helped.
He did not cheer dramatically when you completed a workout or act like every step was a miracle. He just handed you water, walked beside you, made dinner when you were tired, and listened when you were frustrated.
Eventually, you found your way back into basketball through a side door.
It started with one of your former teammates asking if you could talk to her little cousin, a high school guard who was recovering from an ACL injury and spiraling because she thought her recruitment was over. You agreed because you knew that fear too well.
The call was supposed to last fifteen minutes.
It lasted two hours.
Afterward, you sat at the kitchen table with your phone in your hand, feeling something unfamiliar in your chest.
Not happiness exactly.
But purpose.
Aaron came in from the backyard, sweaty from a workout, and found you staring at nothing.
âYou okay?â
You looked up.
âI think I helped somebody.â
His smile was slow and proud.
âYeah?â
âShe was scared,â you said. âAnd angry. And trying to act like she wasnât.â
âSounds like someone I know.â
You gave him a look.
He raised both hands. âRespectfully.â
But you laughed, and it felt real.
That call became another call, then another. A friend connected you with a youth program. A former coach asked if you would speak at a camp. You said yes, then almost backed out five times.
Aaron found you in the closet the morning of, sitting on the floor with your old practice hoodie in your lap.
âI canât do it,â you said.
He crouched in front of you.
âYou can.â
âWhat if I cry?â
âThen you cry.â
âIn front of teenagers?â
âTheyâve seen worse on TikTok.â
âAaron.â
âIâm serious.â He touched your knee gently, not the injured one specifically, just you. âYou donât have to be polished. You just have to be honest.â
You looked down at the hoodie.
âI donât know what to tell them.â
âTell them what you needed to hear.â
So you did.
You stood in front of a group of girls with bright eyes and nervous hands, and you told them the truth. You told them that loving a sport was beautiful, but it could not be the only place they kept their worth. You told them to take care of their bodies before their bodies made the decision for them. You told them that an injury could change their path without erasing who they were. You told them you were still learning that part.
Your voice shook once.
You kept going.
Afterward, a girl with braids and a knee brace approached you quietly and asked if she could hug you.
You said yes.
When you got home, Aaron was waiting in the kitchen, cooking badly.
You could smell the problem from the hallway.
âWhat are you burning?â
âNothing.â
âAaron.â
âChicken.â
âThat is not nothing.â
He turned around with a guilty look, holding tongs in one hand. âI wanted to make dinner.â
âMore like smoke.â
âA for effort.â
You laughed so hard you had to hold the counter.
Aaron stood there watching you, his expression soft in a way that made your laughter fade into something warmer.
âWhat?â you asked.
âNothing.â
âTell me.â
He set the tongs down and walked over to you.
âYou look like yourself.â
For once, the words did not hurt.
For once, you understood that he did not mean the old you. He did not mean the girl in the college gym, the rookie with taped fingers, the player who attacked the rim like fear was something that happened to other people.
He meant this you.
The you who had survived the thing you thought would end you.
The you who still had hard days but no longer mistook them for proof that you were broken.
The you who could talk about basketball without bleeding every time.
The you who had started building a life with your own hands.
You stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.
âI feel like myself,â you admitted.
Aaron kissed your forehead.
âGood.â
You rested your cheek against his chest.
âI miss playing.â
âI know.â
âI think I always will.â
âI know.â
âBut it didnât swallow me today.â
His arms tightened around you.
You closed your eyes and listened to his heartbeat, steady beneath your ear.
Months later, you went to one of Aaronâs games.
Not because anyone expected it.
Not because you wanted cameras to catch you clapping from the crowd.
Because you woke up that morning, looked at the schedule on the fridge, and realized you wanted to see him play.
Aaron was careful when you told him.
Too careful.
âYou sure?â he asked, watching you from across the kitchen.
You poured coffee into your mug. âYes.â
âYou donât have to.â
âI know.â
âWe can leave whenever you want.â
âI know.â
âI can get you seats somewhere private.â
âAaron.â
He stopped.
You gave him a look over the rim of your mug. âI said I want to go. Please donât make me regret telling you.â
His mouth twitched.
âMy bad.â
You softened.
âIâm nervous,â you admitted.
âI figured.â
âBut I want to be there.â
He came around the counter and kissed you, slow and tender.
âThen I want you there.â
The arena felt different when you walked in.
For a second, your body remembered too much.
The lights. The polished floor. The hum of warmups. The sound of the ball bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.
Your breath caught.
Aaron noticed immediately.
His hand found the small of your back. âWe can go.â
You shook your head.
âNo.â
âYou sure?â
You looked at the court.
There was grief there, still. Maybe there always would be. But it was not alone anymore.
There was pride too.
Memory.
Love.
A strange, aching gratitude for all the years your body had carried you through this world, even if it could not carry you through the rest of the career you had imagined.
âIâm sure,â you said.
Aaron searched your face, then nodded.
Before he went to warm up, he bent down close to your ear.
âSame team?â
You looked up at him.
It was something he had started saying on the hard days. When you argued. When you got quiet. When he had to leave for road trips and you pretended you did not care. When you called him from your car after therapy because something had cracked open and you needed to hear his voice.
Same team.
A reminder. A promise. A choice.
You reached for his hand and squeezed it.
âSame team.â
He kissed your knuckles before jogging onto the floor.
You watched him warm up. You watched him laugh with a teammate, stretch near the baseline, take a few shots, glance toward you more than once like he was checking that you were still there.
At first, it hurt.
Then it softened.
By the second quarter, you were leaning forward in your seat, annoyed at a missed defensive rotation.
By halftime, you were explaining something to the woman beside you because she had asked why the play broke down.
By the fourth quarter, when Aaron caught the ball on the wing and drove hard toward the rim, your heart rose with the crowd.
He finished through contact and landed cleanly.
The arena exploded.
You stood before you realized you were standing.
Aaron jogged back on defense, but not before his eyes found yours.
You were clapping.
Smiling.
Crying a little too, but not in the way you used to.
After the game, he found you in the tunnel.
He was sweaty and exhausted, with a towel over his shoulders and that look in his eyes he only got when something mattered more than the box score.
âYou good?â he asked.
You nodded.
âYeah.â
âReally?â
You stepped closer and fixed the collar of his warmup jacket, mostly to have something to do with your hands.
âI got jealous once,â you said.
His expression softened.
âThen I got sad.â
He nodded.
âThen I started coaching a stranger in my head during the third quarter, so I think Iâm healing.â
Aaron laughed, full and warm, and the sound settled somewhere deep inside you.
âYou were coaching from the stands?â
âShe was overhelping on defense.â
âShe?â
âThe woman in section twelve asked me what happened, and I gave her a very educational breakdown.â
âOf course you did.â
âShe appreciated it.â
âIâm sure.â
You smiled, then looked past him toward the court. Staff members were cleaning up. Players were doing interviews. The arena was emptying, becoming less spectacle and more building.
âI thought coming here would make me feel like I lost everything again,â you said quietly.
Aaron waited.
You looked back at him.
âBut I didnât. I felt sad, and I felt proud, and I felt like maybe basketball can be part of my life without being all of it.â
His face changed in the softest way.
You took a breath.
âAnd I felt happy watching you.â
Aaronâs eyes shone.
He pulled you into him, not caring that he was sweaty, not caring that people were walking past, not caring about anything except the way you fit against him.
You wrapped your arms around him and held on.
For a long time, neither of you said anything.
There was no perfect ending. You knew that now. Life did not hand you closure like a trophy. There would still be days when your knee ached in the rain, when old highlights found you unexpectedly, when someone introduced you as âformerâ and the word sat wrong in your chest.
But there would also be mornings when you woke up excited for something new.
There would be girls who called you coach.
There would be a home full of laughter and burnt chicken and Aaronâs sneakers in the hallway and your notebooks spread across the kitchen table. There would be hard conversations you no longer ran from. There would be games you could watch. There would be a love that had not saved you from pain, but had stayed, steady and stubborn, while you learned how to save yourself.
Aaron pressed his lips to your temple.
âIâm proud of you,â he said.
You closed your eyes.
For the first time in a long time, the words did not feel like pressure.
They felt like a hand in yours.
âIâm proud of me too,â you whispered.
Aaron pulled back just enough to look at you, smiling like that was the best thing he had heard all night.
And maybe it was.
The court lights still shined behind him. Somewhere in the tunnel, a ball bounced once, then rolled to a stop.
You heard it.
You breathed through it.
Then you took Aaronâs hand and walked out with him, not away from who you had been, but toward whoever you were becoming next.
c/w á°.á backward hat!rafe + your anklet on his shoulderâ˘ď¸, unprotected p in v, poolside sex, w.a.m., language, pet names (baby, pretty, my girl + no y/n), obsessed husband!rafe, kelce + top catching strays, rafeâs grumpy as hell + rafe is down catastrophically bad per usual â§âË â ๨ৠâ§â .á
âHell no.â
Topper pauses halfway through reaching for his ball marker and looks over. âWhat?â
Rafe points at him fast. âI know what youâre gonna ask. Fuck off.â
Topper stares at him for a second before a laugh escapes. âJesus Christ, dude.â
Beside him, Kelce just shakes his head, snickering under his breath while he crouches to line up his putt. The ball sits a few feet from the hole and heâs still smiling when he lines up his putter behind it.
âWe havenât even said anything yet.â
âDonât need you to.â
âYou donât even know what I was gonna ask.â
âYes I do.â
âNo, you donât.â
âYou were gonna ask if I wanted to grab a drink after this.â
âIs that a bad thing?â Topper asks, lifting an eyebrow at Rafe like heâs officially lost his mind.
âYou donât want an answer to that, Top.â
He hooks a finger beneath the sleeve of his golf polo and rolls it a little higher on his bicep, adjusting the fabric before dragging the back of his hand across his forehead. The UV index has to be somewhere around ten and he feels every bit of it.
âThe only reason Iâm out here is because she said itâd be good for me.â
Topper snorts and Kelceâs chip barely makes it out of the sandpit.
âAnd youâve been thinkinâ about leaving since hole one,â Topper chuckles, shaking his head.
âParking lot,â Rafe cuts him off. âI was thinkinâ that since the parking lot, Top.â
But even thatâs a lie. He was thinking that the moment that he watched you wave to him over your shoulder before you stepped outsideâthat little string bikini peeking out of the top of your shorts, tormenting him beyond belief.
Ever since then heâs been crossing holes off in his head like an advent calendar from his own personal hell.
âHeâs not even listening,â Kelce teases.
Rafe looks over at him, blinking slowly a few times with his lips pursed and his hands resting on his hips.
ââCourse Iâm not.â
âUnbelievable,â Topper sighs. âI was just telling Kelce we could do another eighteen holesââ
Rafe canât even contain his disgustâwincing, brows pinched tight, nostrils flared with a side eye dripping with judgment.
âWeâre not inviting you, Cameron. Calm the fuck down,â he blurts.
Ding! Rafeâs hand moves, diving for his pocket like someone challenged him to a goddamn duel.
Kelce drops the head of his putter against the grass, shaking his head judgmentally. Rafe rolls his eyes, unlocking his phone without a shred of shame.
âYouâve got a problem,â Topper says.
âA legitimate fucking problem,â Kelce adds.
âI canât help that neither of you like your wives,â Rafe mutters and both of their mouths hang open in disgust. âWhatever,â he says, sounding so genuinely unbothered. âCause he is.
Then he looks down at the screen and suddenly nothing else matters.
Youâre stretched out across one of the lounge chairs beside the pool with a book propped open. The afternoon sun reflects off your skin. The book covers half your face, but that isnât helping him concentrate because the rest of you is impossible to missâthe soft swells of your breasts pressed against the pool chair, the curve of your ass, just a taste of your thighs. Your feet are crossed, the little anklet he bought you glittering in the North Carolina sun.
âLook at him,â Topper says, nudging Kelce with his elbow.
âNot a single thought in that head,â Kelce adds as he steps forward and rests his putter behind the ball, taking his time while he studies the break.
The green goes quiet for a second while everybody waits for him to hit it. Before he can even pull the putter back, Rafe steps directly into his line and sinks his putt without hesitation.
Topper starts barking out a laugh and Kelce stares at him in complete disbelief as his ball rolls toward the hole. âYou are such a prick,â Kelce says.
âWeâre done.â
âWe are absolutely not done.â
âThis feels done,â Rafe answers, bending down to grab his ball, starting toward the flag before the argument is even over, Kelceâs ball still rolling toward the cup.
âYouâre unbelievable, Cameronââ
Rafe cuts off Kelceâs critique, kicking the ball, sending it careening away. âIt was gonna hook left anyway,â Rafe says over his shoulder, digging his keys out of his pocket, heading toward the parking lot as the two bitch behind him. âYou two suck at golf, by the way,â Rafe calls back.
âFuck you, Rafe,â Kelce laughs weakly, walking toward his ball.
âShort gameâs terrible.â
âRafe!â Topper calls but he flicks him off in response.
âDonât even get me started on you, Top. You read greens like an eighty-year-old man with cataracts, fucking useless.â
âJesus Christ,â Topper gasps.
Rafe doesnât even bother organizing his clubs when he reaches the parking lot. He yanks them out of the cart, tosses the entire bag into the trunk with absolutely no regard for the thousands of dollarsâ worth of equipment inside.
He jogs around the side of the car, yanks the driverâs door open, and practically falls into the seat before firing the engine to life.
Gravel spits behind him as he throws the car into reverse, backing out of the spot in one smooth movement before shifting into drive.
The second he hits the main road, he grabs his phone and calls. His thumbs drum against the steering wheel as the summer wind whips through the car, his pulse hammering, still racing from that power walk to his car.
âHey, baby,â your voice fills his car and he softens in his seat, hands wrapping a little tighter around the wheel as he smiles.
âHey pretty,â he hums.
His voice is softer now, gravelly from talking all day and sweeter than it has any right to be considering the way heâd been speaking to Topper and Kelce five minutes ago.
If youâd been standing on that green listening to him threaten both of them, youâd absolutely have something to say about it. He already knows exactly what youâd tell him too. Be nice. Stop being grumpy. Theyâre your friends. The problem is that he doesnât care about any of that right now.
âWhere are you?â You ask curiously, and he can hear in your voice that you know he dipped out of there sooner than he should have.
âJust left.â
âYou just left?â You giggle.
âMhmm...â Your voice comes through the speakers and instantly makes him feel better than the entire golf outing did.
Traffic slows for a red light and the drumming starts again as he waits for it to change.
âYou werenât gonna get a drink or something?â You ask. âRelax?â
âAbsolutely not.â
The answer comes so fast that you start laughing again. The corner of his mouth twitches as he shifts in his seat. âThey were stayinâ to practice puttinâ, baby.â
âReally?â You ask, not convinced in the slightest.
âYeah. Theirâuhhh⌠Their short games suck.â
âGotcha.â
âIâm serious.â
âIâm sure you are.â
âTheyâre fuckinâ terrible, baby. That was a long-ass day,â he grumbles and you giggle. He leans back against the headrest as he lets the moment breathe for a minute. âKids been easy on you today?â
âActually, yeah.â
âYeah?â
âJust laying by the pool,â you say.
âSounds rough.â
âFuckinâ terrible, baby,â you echo his words back to him and he smiles. âTheyâre actually at Wheezieâs.â
The car accelerates, completely subconscious on his part, but you hear it loud and clear. Rafeâs eyes flick briefly toward the speedometer while a grin starts pulling at the corner of his mouth. âOh yeah?â
âRafe Cameron, slow down.â
The grin only gets worse, sinking a little lower in the driverâs seat, as one hand falls to the shift stick.
âIâm goinâ slow, baby.â
âYou are not,â you answer. âYou accelerated the second I said the kids werenât home.â
âDid I?â You can practically hear the grin in his voice now as he weaves through traffic. âSo.â
You start laughing, knowing exactly where heâs going to go with this. âWinnieâs in Charleston with Jackson.â
âGot it. And Max?â He asks eagerly.
âHe left like an hour ago.â
âOn the boat?â He asks, knowing thatâs an all-day affair.
âMhmmâŚâ
Rafeâs laugh rumbles through the phone. âInteresting,â he says.
âInteresting?â You laugh and sigh sweetly.
âSounds like I get you to myself all day?â
âSounds like it.â
By the time he turns into the neighborhood, heâs grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. The gates open and he barely slows down as he pulls through them, already spotting flashes of blue water between the houses.
âYouâre almost here, arenât you?â
âAbsolutely,â he hums. âSee you outside, baby.â
The second he turns into the driveway, the car barely has time to rest before heâs throwing it into park, killing the engine.
The garage door rumbles overhead and he doesnât wait, ducking underneath it before it can open all the way. His shirtâs halfway over his head before he even reaches the mudroom. By the time he steps inside, heâs carrying the polo in one hand, snagging his swim trunks from the laundry room with the other.
He stumbles slightly, kicking off his golf shoes without ever breaking stride. Future Rafe can deal with that problem. Present Rafe has more important things to do.
His golf shorts are already undone by the time he reaches the hallway. He steps out of them, steps into the swim trunks, and keeps walking without stopping once to grab his hat, tugging it on before he flicks it to the back.
Now heâs finally home and the only thing he cares about is the backyard door sitting at the end of the room. He reaches it a few seconds later and quickly slows down, dragging the glass door open.
And that last bit of tension breezes out of him, because there you are.
Youâre curled up in a chair with a book open in your hands, completely unaware that heâs standing there.
He admires you for a momentâone leg crossed over the other while sunlight dances across the pool behind you. He soaks in the scene heâd spent eighteen holes waiting to get home to.
Then a sharp whistle rips through his lips.
Your head lifts at the sound.
The book lowers into your lap and a smile breaks across your face so fast it makes something in his chest tighten.
You start to uncross your legs, already leaning forward like youâre about to stand, but he points at you.
âNah, baby,â he says. âStay right there. Iâm cominâ.â
You laugh under your breath and fall back against the chair.
The cushions dip beneath his weight as he climbs on top of you. One hand braces against the armrest while the other finds your thigh, his broad palm sliding higher as he guides you closer.
âMiss me?â He asks. Rafeâs smile tugs a little wider when you whisper yes, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your thigh.
He slides a hand along your side, guiding you onto his lap as one arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tight against his chest while the other lifts to cup your cheek.
âGoddamn, I missed you. Donât make me do that shit again,â he mutters, shaking his head once before leaning back enough to look at you properly. âMânot home enough for that.â
âOkay, baby,â you laugh.
âI mean it.â
âYes, sir.â
âDonât try to charm me after that, pretty. That was hell.â He leans in first this time, forehead brushing yours for a second before his lips find yours. âI love you,â he murmurs.
Your hand presses against his chest, nails scratching lightly down sun-warmed skin. He pushes the cup of your bikini to the side, wrapping his lips around your skin while his other hand drifts between your thighs.
âOut here?â You ask with a laugh.
âWeâre all alone, baby. Why not?â His lips brush yours again before trailing along your jaw. âWe can go inside tooââ
âRight here,â you whisper.
âThatâs what I thought,â he hums. âWhoâs my girl, huh?â
You smile, fingers hooking beneath the waistband of his swim trunks. âIâm your girl.â
âMhmm.â His thumb drifts along your collarbones to your shoulders, nudging one strap down before the other. âYouâre my fuckinâ girl.â The words come out rough enough to pull a smile from you.
You reach up and untie the small bow holding your swimsuit top together. The fabric slips loose between you.
Rafeâs eyes drop as you toss it away. âJesus Christ, baby.â A low groan slips out of him as he tips his forehead against yours for a second, hands lifting to squeeze your tits in his big palms as his mouth finds yours again.
You glance down briefly, catching his swim trunks sitting low on his hips from where youâd been tugging at them, bunched slightly against his muscular thighs, the fabric stretched tight across them.
âTake these off,â you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips before he slides down in his seat, tugging down his shorts with him, his heavy cock smacking against his toned stomach with a snap, his eyes locked on your body.
His hands squeeze your hips, digging in as he drags your clothed pussy on top of him, head pressing back into the chair. The sun beats down on your skin. A thin line of sweat catching his chain before it rolls in a lazy train down his chest.
âThey said I got a problem,â he mumbles through a smirk, his jaw tightening as you keep moving against him, the heat of your body bleeding through the fabric of your swimsuit, finally snapping whatever patience he had left.
âYeah, baby?â
âYou see any problems here?â He asks breathlessly as he reaches for the bows at your hip, tugging them free, yanking away the rest of the fabric in a hurry as his hands close around you again.
He blows out a breath like heâs finally gotten rid of the last thing standing between him and what he wants, his hand diving between your thighs.
His fingers press inside and he gasps, working you with his hand as you rest on his chest, feeling his heart bang underneath, his muscles flexing with each push of his hand.
âJust jealous they donât have a woman like you?â He hums as he pulls his hand away just long enough to drag you in.
Rafeâs lidded eyes connect with yours, lips falling open with his as he pulls you down on him. You grip his shoulders, hands trembling as a deep groan thunders in his chest, feeling your wetness wrap around him tight.
âFuck, me,â he mutters under his breath, dragging you closer, smiling against your lips before capturing your mouth in a tender kiss.
âOh my god,â you whine.
âPussyâs so perfect.â
His eyes lift to yours in a lust-ridden daze, muscles flexing as he works you over on his length. You bounce on his lap, wet slaps of sweat and slick filling with air around you mixing with your soft whimpers and his deep groans.
You grip the arm rests, circling your hips and he throws his head against the back of the chair to get a better look, his eyes drifting between your face and the bounce of your tits, falling to his lap where your pussy swallows him up each time you sink down.
His legs spread a little wider, feet resting on the ground, hips pitching to fuck up into your soaked hole. Your head throws back as you rise on your knees, letting him hit that perfect spot, the knot in your belly tightening, your body impossibly hot.
âRafe,â you moan.
âYeah?â He asks, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. âBeen playinâ this shit over and over in my mind, pretty. Let me have it.â
You cry out as he pounds your pussy with his thick dick. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably, as your pussy flutters around him. He looks up at you in a haze, lips parted, brows softening as your release wets his lap and thighs.
âOh shit, that's my girl⌠Thatâs my baby,â he praises, making you gasp when he rolls you onto your back, not giving you a moment to breathe before heâs on you again.
He looks down at you with a smile, adjusting his hat, staring at the wet mess between your thighs. âWhy the fuck would I ever wanna leave you, huh?â He asks as he pushes your legs against your chest, hooking your ankles over his broad shoulders.
You whimper out a little breath as he taps his cock against your pussy, muscles jumping with each slap.
He pushes in slow, tilting closer to get as far as he can go, pressing a deep kiss to your trembling lips. âGonna cum in your pussy,â he whispers, his voice breaking with pleasure. âMâso, so fuckinâ close.â
His face turns slightly, pressing a kiss to your ankle, right against the charm. His ab muscles clench as he rolls his lips, sweat sliding down his temple.
âIâm so deep,â he mumbles. You nod quickly, lip bitten between your teeth, hands gripping the arm rests tight.
âSo fucking deep,â you whisper.
âYeah?â He asks breathlessly. âFuck me.â
He loses his rhythm, thrusts growing uneven as he snaps against your skin. His muscles quake, shoulders trembling, slamming into you in one heavy thrust.
His eyes pinch shut, head falling forward, cumming deep inside you with your name on his lips.
He lets your legs go but he doesnât let you get far, snuggling into you again, kissing your foreheadâthen your nose and your lips.
âGoddamn,â he mumbles, lingering while your breathing slows together.
He sits down next to you, dragging you close, kissing you as he grabs your thigh, tugging it over the top of himâclose not close enough.
âThis,â he huffs out a deep breath through a smile, relaxing into the lounge chair. âThis is whatâs good for me.â
âYeah?â You giggle, tilting your chin up for a kiss that he gladly steals. You rest your head on his shoulder, the warm summer breeze blowing against your skin, the soft music that you had playing while you were reading filling the space in between.
âYou sent that picture to me on purpose,â he breathes.
A smile stretches on his lips when you donât answer right away, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.
âHoly shit, you did? Didnât you?â He asks, tilting his neck to look you in the eyes and you shrug and smile.
âThought it would get you home quicker.â
His hand comes down heavy on your thigh as he dips in, brushing his nose against yours, chuckling deeply against your lips before he kisses you.
the five stages of grief were never meant to be a checklist your character moves through in chronological order across three chapters. Let me save you from writing a grieving character who is simply having scheduled emotions:
âš Grief is not primarily crying. i know that sounds wrong but hear me out. a lot of grief looks like doing laundry. cooking something the person liked and then not being able to eat it. watching a show they recommended and never told anyone you finished it. grief goes very quiet and very domestic for long stretches and then ambushes you at completely unreasonable moments like a petrol station or a Friday at 4pm for no reason at all.
âš people who are grieving often seem fine. not because they're suppressing or being brave or in denial, but because humans are genuinely capable of functioning and being devastated at the same time. your grieving character can make jokes. can go to work. can have a good day. can feel guilty about the good day. can feel guilty about not feeling guilty. grief has a very active internal bureaucracy that has nothing to do with what's visible on the outside.
âš Grief also changes shape over time in ways that aren't necessarily about getting better. the first year is often adrenaline, there are things to do, people around, ritual and structure. year two is frequently harder because the adrenaline is gone and the world has moved on and expects you to have moved on with it. your character being more visibly undone eighteen months later than at the funeral is not a pacing problem. it's accurate.
âš The relationship with the dead person doesn't stop. this is the one writers get most wrong. your grieving character is still in a relationship , still arguing with the person in their head, still updating them on things, still furious about something left unsaid, still finding out new things about them from other people and having to integrate a version of them they didn't fully know. grief is not the end of the relationship. it's the relationship continuing without any new information coming in.
âËâĄÂ Grief is not sad all the time and that will mess your character up more than the sadness does. There are going to be hours where your grieving character forgets. Where they're laughing at something stupid on their phone or annoyed about traffic or genuinely hungry and thinking about what they want for lunch and then it comes back and the forgetting makes it WORSE. The return of it after a moment of normal is its own specific violence. It feels like betrayal. Or it feels like proof that you're not grieving right, that you didn't love them enough to remember every second. Writers keep their grieving characters sad in every scene because it reads as respectful and consistent and it is WRONG. The grief that ambushes you in the cereal aisle is realer than the grief you perform at the funeral.
âËâĄÂ THE STUFF!!! nobody talks about the stuff. Someone dies and suddenly there is a BODY and there are OBJECTS and both of these things require immediate logistical decisions that do not pause for your feelings. What do you do with their half-finished cup of tea. Their reading glasses on the nightstand. Their voicemails still on your phone. Their shampoo in the shower that you cannot bring yourself to use but also cannot throw away so it just. Sits there. Getting lower somehow. Did someone use it. Did you use it without noticing???? the material reality of someone's absence is brutal and specific and most grief writing floats above it in abstraction like feelings are the main event. The feelings ARE happening inside a body that is standing in a house full of objects and that matters. SO WRITE THE OBJECTS.
âËâĄÂ Grief makes people act completely out of character and everyone around them handles that badly. Your character might get mean. Might get inappropriately funny. Might make a terrible financial decision or sleep with someone they shouldn't or stop showering or clean the entire house at 3am for the fourth time this week. Drief does not make people into better, softer, wiser versions of themselves on any reliable schedule. Sometimes it makes them into someone they don't recognize and that is terrifying on top of everything else. Snd the people around them (friends, family, whoever) they want the grief to be legible. They want it to look like grief is supposed to look so they know what to do. When it doesn't look right they get uncomfortable and then they get scarce and then your grieving character is also somehow dealing with the secondary loss of people who couldn't handle it. which is its own thing.
âËâĄÂ Someone died and your character didn't like them very much. Or loved them and also resented them. Or is relieved and then immediately guilty about the relief. Or is grieving someone who hurt them, someone with whom things were unfinished in a way that can never be finished now, someone who they had been estranged from, someone who they were about to reconcile with, someone who they had been slowly losing for years before the actual death so the death was almost anticlimactic except that it closes the door in a way that slow losing doesn't. Grief for a complicated person is complicated. You grieve who you wished they were alongside who they actually were. You grieve the relationship you deserved and didn't get. None of this is clean. None of this resolves. Stop writing grief like the person who died was beloved and simple. MOST PEOPLE ARE NOT SIMPLE.
âËâĄÂ The body keeps doing its thing and that's horrifying. You know what happens the week someone close to you dies? you get hungry. You get tired. You wake up at the normal time. Your body does not know. It has not been informed. It wants breakfast and it wants to stretch and at some point it is going to want things you feel like you have no right to want right now. The physical continuation of your own life in the immediate aftermath of loss is one of the stranger things a human being has to experience and almost nobody writes it. Your character needs to eat. They need to sleep. Their back hurts. They have a headache that won't quit because they've been crying and dehydrated for four days. They are a body doing body things in the middle of the worst thing that has ever happened to them and those two realities exist at the same time with no resolution.
âËâĄÂ Anniversaries and dates are only half the ambush. the random Friday is the other half. Everyone knows about the first birthday without them. The first holiday. The one year mark. Those dates are braced for. Your character knows they're coming and steels themselves and sometimes that even works. What nobody warns you about is the random Tuesday in March that isn't any significant date at all except that something small happens: the light is a certain way, a song comes on, they see someone wearing the same jacket, and it is somehow worse than the anniversary was. Grief has terrible aim. it does not respect the calendar you've organized it into. it goes quiet for weeks and then destroys you on an unremarkable Wednesday because you drove past a gas station you used to stop at together. Write the random Tuesday. it's realer than the anniversary scene and it will devastate people who know.
âËâĄÂ People say insane things to grieving people and the grieving person has to just stand there and take it. They're in a better place. Everything happens for a reason. i know exactly how you feel, when my dog died--and your character cannot say anything because this person means well and grief has a strange etiquette where the bereaved is somehow responsible for managing the comfort of everyone who comes to comfort them. The grieving person ends up performing okayness for the people who came to check on them. Ends up reassuring people. Ends up saying thank you for coming when what they want is for everyone to leave and also for no one to ever leave. This role reversal is so common and so rarely written and it is one of the most exhausting parts of early grief. Your character is drowning and spending energy making sure everyone else feels good about the life jacket they brought.
âËâĄÂ The person who died keeps getting fixed in time while everyone else moves. This one is strange and i don't see it written enough. Your character ages. Changes. Has experiences. Develops opinions. And the person they lost stays exactly the same age they were, exactly the person they were, forever. Which means the gap between who your character is now and who the person was gets wider as time passes. You become someone they never knew. You have thoughts you can't tell them. You reach an age they never reached. Eventually you outlive them. You are older than they ever got to be. And the version of them in your memory is younger than you now. The relationship you carry continues to evolve even though only one of you is still here to evolve it. That is bizarre and sad and completely human and almost nobody writes it. WHY??? :///
âËâĄÂ Sometimes grief makes people feel closer to the person they lost than they did when they were alive. This sounds counterintuitive but it is real. You finally understand them. You find the journals, the letters, the things people tell you at the funeral that you never knew. You have time to think about them with a clarity that the busy mess of being in relationship with a living person doesn't allow. You miss them in a way that is also a kind of intimacy. The relationship after death is one-sided and strange and ongoing and real. Some people feel the presence of the dead vividly for years. Some people talk to them. Some people make decisions based on what they think the person would have wanted. it's just the relationship continuing in the only form it still can. And it can be written seriously, without irony, without it being a sign that the character is unwell.
cw. athlete! reader, friend's older brother! rafe, perv! rafe, groping, massages, body oil, corruption kink, fingering, innocence kink, reader is a bit naive, prone bone, unprotected sex, creampies, somewhat dubcon
synopsis. athlete! reader keeps whining about being sore before her big game. good thing rafe is there to help.
Rafe's listening outside the door of Sarah's room while you whine to her about your body. He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, per se; you were just really loud and didn't seem to care about who overheard your conversation. Plus, when you were talking, you sounded all soft and whiny, and he really liked that. How you sounded so fucking sexy when you were frustrated.
His body slows instinctually and he leans near Sarah's door, listening to your complaints. "I'm gonna die, Sarah," You were saying. He could picture what you looked like right now. Probably splayed on Sarah's bed in those tiny, low waisted shorts and little t-shirts you always wore to be "comfortable".
"My back hurts like a bitch. I've been stretching constantly, I swear, but my body's just getting tighter and more stiff, and my performance in games has been sooo bad. I'm ruined, I swear."
Rafe hears Sarah mumble something back, but he mostly tunes her out, hyper-focused on you. His mind's locked on the way your voice rises in pitch and gets a little breathier with each passing moment, and every time you shift on the bed, you'd let out a little moan of pain.
Was it normal to get hard just from breathing and whines? Maybe Rafe just had a problem. "I just feel like my body isn't cooperating with me," You lament some more, dragging out each syllable so your voice comes out all slow and syrupy. "I can't even bend over without something locking up. What if I go out into my next game and it gets even worse? Coach'll throw me off the team!"
Rafe scoffs, pressing his ear more firmly against the door now, wanting to be sure he doesn't miss any of your little sounds. You were being overdramatic, in his opinion. He liked how petulant you always were, because it'd keep him on your toes. It all just made him want to spank you for being such a brat, and then fuck the attitude right out of you.
The pounding of his heartbeat in his ears makes it a little difficult to hear what you're saying, and he squeezes his hands into fists against the wood of the door to try and calm himself down. When you shift again, he has to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle the groan that surges up at the little moan of pain you let out, no doubt from some muscle twinge or another.
Surely Rafe's big hands could get those kinks easily. He knows how to use his hands. He has experience with that sort of thing, and would be more than willing to show off his skills to you, if you'd just stop being a stuck up princess for a minute and let him get his hands on you.
Imagining you going still under him, mewling softly when his hands spread you open to massage your glutes and the insides of your thighs, of him convincing you that the only way you'd feel better is if he slides two thick fingers into your pussy... he throbs, stepping back. He can't handle much more of you making noise and his daydreaming without nearly soiling his pants. He'd be back later, after he took care of the raging boner you gave him...
Later, you're almost to your bike at the end of the Cameron's driveway when you hear footsteps behind you, getting closer. "Yo," Rafe calls out, his voice smooth. "Where you going?"
You don't stop walking, but you slow your pace just a little. You know he won't back off until you give him some kind of answer, so you glance back at him and respond. "Nowhere, Rafe." You're so used to you acting this way around him, to keeping things casual, pretending you're not affected by him when you absolutely are.
"Come on," Rafe presses, his steps quickening as he catches up to you, walking at your side. He's close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him and the expensive cologne he wears filling your senses. "Just tell me. You've got me all curious now." He's grinning, gaze flickering down to your lips momentarily, then back to your eyes.
You just give him a little shrug, showing that you're not interested in playing his game anymore. "I'm just heading home," you murmur. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he makes you nervous, and so you back away a little. "Not that it's any of your business."
Rafe doesn't even falter, stepping in front of you before you can move. There's no hesitation in his body language because he's really got the confidence to match his cocky grin, and he's never been shy about using it on you. "Not my business?"
You try to move around him, but he steps in your path again, blocking you effortlessly. His body is like a wall, and for a second you don't know whether to be annoyed or turned on. He's always like this, making you feel like you can't get away from him.
You stare up at him, his blue eyes piercing into yours. He does this thing where he refuses to break eye contact until you look away, and when you do, he bends his head forward to chase wherever your gaze is pointed to put his face in your line of sight. He leans forward just a little, his voice dropping low. "Look," he says, drawing out the word like he's talking to a kid. "Are you really just heading home? You think you're just gonna leave me hanging, not even tell me what you're gonna be up to? I don't think so."
You exhale sharply, feeling heat in your cheeks now, but you don't back down. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, trying to hold onto your composure. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just going home to lie down and get some rest before my match tomorrow," you say, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. You're trying to play it cool, but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend.
Rafe notices, of course. He's always been good at reading you, and now he leans in a little more, his lips just inches from your ear. You can feel the heat from his body, his breath brushing against your skin, and it makes you shiver despite yourself.
"I heard you talking to Sarah earlier." He steps in closer, just close enough for you to feel his chest almost touching yours. "You're so tight from training, aren't you? I can help with that."
You're silent for a second, unsure how to respond. when he sees that, he leans in a little more, his hand reaching up to brush something imaginary off your face. The touch is gentle, but it makes you suck in a breath. You hate that it's so hard to keep it together around him.
"Come on," he coaxes, "Let me take care of you. I've got really good hands."
You take a step back, hoping to break the tension, but he follows you, matching each step. You're trying to stay firm, but there's something in the way he's looking at you, the way his hands are hovering around you like he's barely holding back.
"Of course you were spying on me. Creep." you scoff.
"I'm not a creep," he says a little too defensively, leaning down so his face is right in front of yours. "I'm just keeping an eye on you. And it paid off, because now i know you need to be taken care of. And I'll really help you, unlike those perv masseuses that just want to grope you. You know me. I'll be better for you."
You hold his eye contact for a moment, before giving him a little push back, scoffing a bit in a way that confirms that he succeeded in persuading you. "Ugh, fine. My house will be empty tonight. Everyone's out. I'll be alone."
"Good." he says, voice smooth. "I'll come by at 10, then. And you can stop pretending you don't want me... to help you out."
You turn to leave, but before you can, he calls after you, his voice teasing. "Don't wear much, sweetheart. Need to make sure nothing's restricting the flow of circulation."
You roll your eyes, hurrying off with your heart pounding.
ἍáĄ.
You're on your tummy in your basement, laying on a cushy gym mat a couple inches off the ground with Rafe hovering over you. You actually listened to him when he said not to wear much. Actually, you seemed to have gone all out. There's not a single piece of fabric on you other than the little pair of panties covering your butt. The rest of your body, glistening and smooth and soft, is bare for his eyes to take in.
Rafe's floored, to say the least. His brain is malfunctioning, eyes going from your smooth back, to your waist... hips... your plush ass, and then finally, your core, which is barely covered in the thin cloth of your panties. Fuck... jerking off twice in one day wasn't enough to prepare him for this.
He huffs out a breath, starting with digging his palms into your shoulder blades, rolling them repetitively like he's got any idea what he's doing. You moan softly, eyes fluttering shut, making him bite down his lower lip in response. His thumbs dig into your back a little too hard, and he hears the little whimpering sound you make. Rafe tenses, having to do a little pause to shake himself out of it and dial it back so he doesn't get overexcited and ram his cock into you without building up to earn your trust.
You're soft everywhere, he starts to realize. And warm. You hum softly every time he loosens up one of your sweet spots, and the noises you make make him so much more eager to know what you sound like when he's touching you where you're extra sensitive, and so his hands keep slipping. Grazing just too close to your nipples when he reaches around to massage your chest.
You gasp, your back arching just the tiniest bit as you blink your eyes open. "Ah! w-wait⌠is it supposed to feel like that there? All tingly?" Rafe freezes as you turn to look over your shoulder at him, clutching the mat with both hands. "Feels tingly, hm?" He murmurs, voice teasing. "Right here?" He intentionally cups handfuls of your breasts, flicking both your nipples. You jolt and cry out, squirming underneath him.
There's something very odd about the way his touch makes you feel, like heat spreads around your body and you can't seem to sit still. You rub your thighs together to try and soothe some of the heat coursing through you as whimpers leave your mouth in response to him groping your breasts.
Rafe's being very careful so that you don't realize what he's doing is pretty far from a massage, and that he's just feeling you up. He speaks again, telling you something he hopes you'll believe. "Mhm... that's normal. Means I'm doing everything real good."
What he doesn't say is that he's about ten seconds away from flipping you over and finding out exactly what other spots make you feel tingly. That little pair of panties barely counts as clothing. They're riding up in the back, too, showing off the curve of your ass like you wanted him to stare, and when you wiggle slightly underneath him, shifting your hips, he nearly groans out loud.
"Why're you moving so much?" he mutters, voice low. "Stay still."
You pout all innocent, "I'm just trying to relax."
His palms slide down again, pressing into the small of your back and gliding down to your hips. "Mm. Sure you are." His thumbs find the tops of your ass cheeks and press in gently. "You always relax in just your panties? Or is this just for me?" Your thighs squeeze together again, though you don't see how Rafe's eyes snap to the movement, and his dick twitches against your ass. He's so keyed in on you right now that he's buzzing. "You're the one who told me not to wear too much," You huff, moaning softly.
He sits back on his heels for a second just to look at you. Your body is small in his huge hands, your back arching real pretty. The way your panties are hugging your plump pussy lips makes his jaw clench so tight it hurts. He swipes a hand down his mouth like that'll help him focus, his eyes rolling back a little. He can't take this. Feels like his dick will explode any second now. Maybe he could just convince you his load is some body cream if he does accidentally finish on your ass. "Why'd you stop Rafe?" You complain.
He swallows thickly and leans forward again, hands slipping over your thighs now, trailing down until he's brushing just above your knees, then dragging them up, up, up again, grazing the sides of your ass with his thumbs this time.
"You knowâŚ" he says, voice low and teasing as he bends even closer, mouth practically at your ear now. "Most people wear more than this. Not just these tiny little things." He swipes his fingers across the waistband of your panties, letting it catch and snap lightly against your butt. You gasp, and he grins, pleased with himself.
"You're not most people, though, are you?" he says. "You're my special little tease." His hand fully cups the swell of your ass, fingers digging in a little harder than necessary like he's trying to convince himself you're real.
He doesn't move right away, his fingertips denting into the soft flesh like he's sculpting you. His thumb slides in toward the center, right where the curve dips down, and he grazes over the stretched fabric clinging to your core.
Then he shifts, lowers himself even more. Now he's straddling your calves, his weight heavy on you. The position forces him closer, lets him reach more of you without having to stretch.
"Mm, need to loosen you up right here," he murmurs, digging his thumbs into the tops of your thighs now, massaging slow circles just beneath the curve of your butt. "So tense, baby. That's not good for you."
His fingers knead into the backs of your thighs, spreading them just enough for your panties to pull tighter against your pussy. He watches it happen like a man possessed, staring openly at the way the fabric pushes up against your hole, admiring the little damp spot that's formed.
His hands slide further down your legs now, curling around your thighs and calves, squeezing, trailing back up, brushing the sensitive skin behind your knees and up along the insides of your thighs this time.
"Bet you're warm here," he says, his voice practically a whisper now as he presses a thumb against the inside of your thigh, just shy of your pussy. "And you're soaked down here, too."
You're a flushed, panting mess at this point, your mind hazy and hands clenched up. "D-dunno what that means..." He groans at your innocence, slowly pulling your panties down your legs. "That's okay. Just close your eyes and let me check, kay?" You nod lazily, eyes fluttering shut on his command. He pulls your panties all the way off and tucks them into his back pocket, planning to play dumb if you ask where they were later.
You're a little embarrassed at being so exposed to him now, but he's in awe. Your pussy is completely visible to him, folds slick and plush under your plump pussy lips. He's throbbing like crazy. "Hm." he tuts, trying to come up with a lie on the spot so he can take things further. "You need some help here too. This is the only way you can get your whole body to relax."
He traces two fingers up and down your slit, listening to the soft gasps that leave you as he slowly coaxes them inside you. His fingers back and forth slowly, trying to get you to relax and loosen up enough for him to shove them deeper.
Rafe's hands grip your hips suddenly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he tugs you backwards. Your ass is now raised and presented to him, his fingers never leaving the depths of your core. You swallow hard as you feel his thick, oil slicked fingers thrust in and out of you, making squelching sounds. "Mnh! It's so much, it feels so weird thereâŚ" Rafe huffs, eyes glazed. "Shit⌠Knew you'd sound pretty when I touched you. Just take it for me"
He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of you at a slow pace, curling them just enough for his fingers to stroke that spongey spot deep inside you that your own smaller fingers were never ever able to reach. You cry out, your back arching off the mat as jolts of pleasure shoot through you. "Shh... there we go. Doing so good. Just need to loosen you up."
You're whining now, his fingers diving in and out of you at a steady, repetitive pace that turns your brain to mush. "Rafe⌠feels s-good..."
He starts to pick up the pace, scissoring his fingers inside of your clenching pussy, turning his hand so that the angles of his fingers vary. You're bucking your hips back into him, unable to hold back especially as his fingers swirl deeper inside you. Rafe groans, feeling your silky walls squeeze his invading fingers. "Oh, you like that?" he says, drunk on the way your body reacts to him. "Such a pretty pussy, baby. Gonna make you make such a big mess"
You squirm and let out a little cry, gushing around him and clenching hard as your vision sparkles. He keeps fingering you as you cum, coaxing you to keep going and push you further off the edge. Your body's still trembling when you finally come down, hips twitching under his hands, your cheek pressed against the mat, lips parted as you gasp for breath. There's a high, dazed flush across your cheeks, hair stuck to your forehead, and your thighs won't stop shaking no matter how hard you try to clench them together.
He curses, staring at the mess you made on his fingers. "You came so fuckin' hardâŚ" One arm slides under your waist to lift you with ease, turning you onto your back like you weigh nothing. He's already crawling between your legs, big hands spreading your thighs wide and settling in close. "God, you're so sensitive," he murmurs, dragging a single fingertip over your clit, making you gasp. "You want more?"
You nod, pawing at his shoulders hazily. You're too far gone to realize that this stopped being a massage a while ago. His hands are everywhere again, palming your thighs, sliding up your hips, gripping your waist to yank you down the mat toward him. You let out a soft gasp, hands scrambling to hold onto his arms, but he nudges you of so he can focus on tugging his shorts down. He drops them and his boxers, cock springing free, which is thick and flushed with heavy balls. " 's my massage rod, baby. See? the last part of your treatment."
"Mh, y-yes..."
He chuckles at your whines, and lines himself up with your slick, oversensitive pussy, letting the head of his cock drag through your slick folds before just barely nudging your clit.
He leans over you, one hand next to your head, the other wrapped around himself as he teases your hole, circling it, tapping lightly, sliding just the head in before pulling back. "Easy, easy⌠just gotta prep you first, alright? Don't wanna hurt you," He fusses, watching your face scrunch in anticipation and listening avidly to each tiny noise you make.
One deep, slow thrust that splits you open and punches the air out of your lungs. He sinks into you like he belongs there, like he's been waiting his whole life to be buried inside you. When he bottoms out his hips press flush against yours and he feels your walls fluttering around him, he lets out a sound that's half groan, half growl.
He keeps one hand on your throat, thumb pressed lightly just beneath your jaw, not choking, just holding you there and feeling your pulse race under his fingers while his other hand cups the back of your thigh and shoves it up, folding you in, letting him go deeper, hit deeper.
"Oh fuckkkâŚ" he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel like heaven, baby."
He starts rutting into you with long, deep strokes at first, slow enough to feel every inch, to let your body adjust and to let you feel how big he is. His hips roll, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every push and he keeps his eyes locked on yours the whole time.
You're whining and babbling, vision spotty from the slight lack of air caused by his hand around your throat, but each time you try to shut your eyes and shut your legs due to the overstimulation from your recent orgasm, he catches your jaw and tilts your face back toward him.
"N-nuh uh," he pants, sweat beading on his forehead. His pupils are dilated and his lips are parted to let out heavy groans. "No looking away, ngh, wanna see that lil look on your face when you fall apart on my cock."
You can't stop the whines that spill from your lips as he shoves his cock deep inside you, strokes hard and rough enough to make your tits bounce with each thrust. "Ah, fuck... you're squeezing me so tight," Rafe groans as he thrusts into you, panting at the way your walls clamp down on his long, thick cock.
You keen, pussy creaming around him even more as you dig your nails into his hard biceps to keep yourself upright, struggling to keep your gaze focused on his. You're so wet that there's juices squelching onto the yoga mat each time he pushes into you, making a mess. The oil covering your body isn't helping either.
He's so deep inside of you, and his balls slapping against your swollen clit is starting to make your head swirl even more. Rafe's large hands grip your hips and guide them back against him with each thrust so you're fucking yourself on his dick. "Shittt, baby. Thought you were s-so fucking innocent, but look at you. Fuckin' yourself on my cock like mnh, a fucking slut."
"Rafe!" You cry out his name when he gets real deep inside you. "Sl-slower, please, mnh⌠you're⌠it's so deep," You're whining softly, body jerking on his cock as he huffs out a breath and refuses with a gruff "Don't wanna," and pounds into you a little harder just to spite you. He's not going to slow down when he's finally got you where he wants you.
The mat shifts around underneath the two of you as Rafe splits your poor little hole in half on his cock. He lets go of your neck to slide two fingers into your mouth, watching your eyes roll and your tongue swirl around his thick digits. "Atta girl, sweetheart, use that tongue. fuckk..." He throbs inside you, watching the way your pussy sucks him back in every time he tries to pull back. You squeeze him like you were made for him. Makes him wanna put a baby in you.
You gasp when he drives forward hard, hitting that sweet spot inside you that makes tears of pleasure spring to your eyes, and you suck on his fingers hard so you don't scream.
He keeps fucking his cock against that gummy, soft spot in you, angling his body so he can hit your g-spot over and over, and within seconds, you're creaming around his cock, a loud whine leaving your lips as your clear juices coat his thighs and cock.
He nearly cums on the spot at the way you make a mess on him like some silly mutt with no self control and how hard you clench down when you're cumming, but he has a little more self control and stamina than you. "Shit, feels s'good, princess, good girl, keep squeezin' me jus' like that,"
He grabs your hips hard with one hand and takes his fingers out of your mouth to grope at your tits, flicking your pebbled nipple and pinching it between the rough pads of his fingers.
"Anh, Rafe!" You scream, " 'S too much, oh my god Rafe," You wail and babble, overstimulated, but he just grunts and squeezes you tighter. He pulls on your nipple and pinches it lightly. He hilts himself inside you repeatedly with each thrust, not stopping until his heavy balls slap lewdly against your puffy clit.
Your pussy's swollen with overstimulation, and it's tightening up and is really sloppy around his cock. Rafe's heavy cock plunges into your sopping pussy with each thrust, creating squelching sounds as your juices stir up against his in a mess. He groans, throwing his head back. Your fucking pussy makes him crazy.
He stretches your poor puffy pussy to its limits, driving desperate moans from you that grow louder the dumber he makes you. Thick strands of your cum cling to his cock as your walls ripple around him as he fucks into your overstuffed cunt, your puffy lips kissing his slicked cock. "Look at you. You wanted this so bad, didn't you?"
You whine as he pounds you, his cock filling your pussy and hitting the gummy barrier of your womb with every other thrust. You can see the way your tummy plumps up around the outline of his big cock, stretching into your womb.
Your head lolls and he pushes down on your tummy. You cry out and cum again, and he groans and splurts inside of you, dumping heavy loads of cream inside your used pussy. He leans down to press open mouthed kisses against your cheek, fucking his cum back into you after stuffing you full.
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summary: you kiss victorâs scars and show him softness.
warnings: mentions and descriptions of scars.
amayaâs note: this is my first post! I've been debating about publishing some of my writings on here for a while now. well, here it is! constructive criticism is welcome, and I hope you enjoy :D
The warm light emanating from the lamp on top of the nightstand made Victorâs body look softerâdelicate, even. The sun had set, leaving only the stars and the moon as witnesses to this intimate moment. You and Victor sat across from each other on the bed.
You never doubted Victorâs toughness. You know what he is capable of and what his body can do. But, sitting across from him now and seeing countless scars decorate his arms, hands, and chest, you wonder if he has ever known gentleness.
On the court, everything is rough: hard fouls, shoves in the back, players' nails ripping skin, and elbows to chest. Since Victor has spent most of his life on the court, that is what he has grown accustomed to. He has never known anything different.
Except now.
His throat bobbed as he looked at you.
"Vic, it's okay, you don't have to be nervous. I'm not going to hurt you."
You saw his shoulders and back relax from their rigid position at your words. Progress.
"Mon amour, tell me why we're doing this," he pleaded with soft eyes. You had asked him to remove his shirt a few moments prior, without telling him why. You didn't want to scare him away.
âI want to show you that life doesnât always have to be rough. It can be soft, slow, undemanding.â You scooted closer and tenderly touched his arm. He flinched a bit, not expecting the contact, but slowly settled again.
âIs this okay?â you asked, carefully not to startle him again.
He nodded, unable to speak.
You ran your fingers across a long scar that stretched from the top of his elbow to the bottom. It looked like a deep scar that never healed properly. The thought of someone hurting him badly enough to leave that behind made your throat tighten.
âHow did this happen?â
Victor looked down to where your finger resided, brows furrowing.
"It happened on the court. I was reaching for a rebound, and when my elbow came down, I felt the nails from the player behind me tear a line through my flesh. It hurt pretty bad." His fingers traced his scar absentmindedly as he spoke.
You cautiously lifted his arm up to your face and looked at him for approval. His eyes met yours in a steady, unblinking gaze.
He nodded.
Slowly, you pressed a kiss against the scarred skin near his elbow, then another, following the jagged line down his arm.
You heard Victor let out a shaky breath at your actions.
"No one's ever done that..." he trailed off.
You looked up at him.
"Done what?"
His eyes flickered down to his scar. "That."
You realize that he is alluding to something deeper than the kiss.
That thought made your chest clench.
You let his arm down and nestled your palm against his cheek. "Yeah? Well, you better get used to it then."
Victorâs head leaned into your touch. You reverently traced his jawline with your thumb. Then, without warning, Victor leaned his head in for a kiss. A warmth spread through your body as you closed your eyes and crashed your lips against his, pouring in every ounce of love and adoration you have.
Victorâs warm palms came down to squeeze your waist. One thing you always admired about Victor was how he never made his giantness feel overwhelming for you. His arms, hands, feet, and overall body towered over you in any setting, but you never once felt threatened.
Reluctantly, you pulled away, resting your forehead against his. His heart rose and fell rapidly. You could feel his hot breath against your skin. You smiled a soft, telling smile that conveyed what words couldnât in that moment. A smile that said he was loved and that you would always show him he is deserving of gentleness, no matter how rough the court gets.
It's been a minute, ain't it? Trying to get back in the groove. Please, accept this peace offering.
In the dead of night, the backyard had become a raucous arena and mental prison all at once.
Moonlight and stars provided just enough light to illuminate the back half of the only basketball court in the neighborhood with someone crazy enough to put up shots hours before the sun would rise. Jaysonâs face and hair caught a glow as he put up a half-hearted jump shot that loudly clunked off the back iron. He cursed to himself before trotting to retrieve the basketball.Â
He was in an unimaginable slump. One tough game became three in a row then a full two weeks of subpar shooting numbers and growing frustration. Blaming his misfortune on a nagging wrist injury would make sense, but he didnât want the sympathy. He wanted the win.
Across the short path leading to the house, you watched him talk his way through a reverse layup that kissed the rim but didnât fall.Â
âFuck!âÂ
The ball was no match for his anger, receiving a hard bounce against the court before he regained control and tapped it against his forehead several times.Â
You stopped short of the metal gate and cleared your throat to announce your presence. âYou know you have an HOA right? Those quiet hour fines are steep.âÂ
âIâll pay it. Wouldnât be the first time.â He answered with his back turned to put up another missed shot. In frustration, he slapped the ball across the court before finally facing your sympathetic expression. He sighed. âI woke you up?âÂ
âNo. I had a bad dream and came out for some air.âÂ
Jayson accepted your partial truth with a nod. He was too tired to press for more answers. The world was on his shoulders. The last thing he had energy for was extraneous conversation.
Taking a deep breath, he carefully lowered his long body to the ground. His knees rose just enough to support his elbows and heavy head in his hands. You watched him for a few extra moments before gently pushing open the gate to join him at center court.Â
âItâs too cold for the future Finals MVP to be hooping in a tanktop. Here. â Your arm extended to pass Jayson a sweatshirt in hopes that heâd accept your peace offering. He accepted with no protest, his eyes never looking away from some distant spot in the night.
You let him sulk without interrupting the quiet. A few years and a couple of fiery disagreements had taught you a valuable lesson in letting him sort his feelings before stepping in with advice.
Several minutes of silence passed before finally he scoffed to himself and looked up to the sky. Â
âI give this shit everything I got. My heart, my body. Fuckinâ tears! None of this shit is working right now.âÂ
âMaybe youâre thinking too hard?â
âI just wanna fuckinâ win. You know that more than anybody. Iâm fighting through this shit with my wrist, taking in all the feedback while trying to block all the bullshit and Iâm hitting a brick wall every time I turn around. I donât understand why Iâm doing all this if, at the end of the day, I feel like Iâm being blocked from what I know I deserve.â
You watched him quietly rub a tender spot at the base of his thumb before his eyes met yours. He was searching for answers and comfort or at least something to make sense of his personal hell.
âSo, give up.â
Your matter-of-fact response made him snap his head in your direction. âWhat?â
âGive up. If itâs giving you this much grief and you arenât feeling up to the challenge, give up. I wonât hold it against you.âÂ
âMan, you know Iâm not doing that. I justâŚI donât know. I needed to vent or something. Iâm trying.â
âArenât we all,â you answered sympathetically. âBut we do what we gotta do to get through the hard parts for what we love, right?âÂ
âYeah, but does it have to be this hard?âÂ
âWould it be worth it if it wasnât?âÂ
A short chuckle filled the air before he diverted his eyes to a spot beyond the court.Â
âYou canât do the whole therapy thing for loved ones, remember? Get out my head before I call your dean.âÂ
âOkay! Fair enough. Can I at least say that Iâm proud of you?â
Jayson finally broke eye contact with the distance to look in your eyes, prompting you to scoot closer to him until your bodies were touching. He allowed you to hook your arm in his and rest your weight against his forearm before he leaned down to kiss the top of your head.Â
âThis shit is tough,â you continued. âThe late nights and long trips. The wear and tear on your body. Having to be somebodyâs something at all times. Even the strongest person in the world would be exhausted. But youâre doing it. And a really fuckinâ good job at that. Iâm proud of you. Weâre all proud of you.âÂ
âThank you.â His short sentence fell from his lips in a near whisper as he sat with your words.Â
âBut, when youâre at work, just be Jayson. Because, respectfully, nobody out there can touch you on your worst day. Except me, but thatâs a different conversation.âÂ
Your misplaced confidence coaxed a loud laugh from Jayson that grew once you stood to take a defensive stance in front of him.Â
âMan, what are you doing,â he asked, still amused by the sheer absurdity of you attempting to guard him.
âOh, Iâm funny to you? Check ball.âÂ
âNah, go inside. You just got your nails done.âÂ
âSo what! My girl makes house calls. Check ball, my boy. Hurry up before I get mad.âÂ
Jayson studied you for a second with a fond smile before taking the short jog across the court to retrieve his best friend and worst enemy. When he returned, you were still in a full-out defensive stance and ready to take on the challenge of guarding a man acclaimed as one of the best in his profession.Â
He started his path toward the basket from half-court with slow dribbles and uncontrollable laughter while you swiped at the ball.Â
âCâmon, now. I donât want you to get hurt. You made your point.âÂ
âThatâs crazy. I got a point but you donât have no points. Does that make me the best player in the world orâŚ?âÂ
âWoooow.â
A competitive fire burned behind his eyes as he sized you up and planned his next move. For a moment, you were able to shuffle your feet just enough to keep up with his probing attack. It didnât take long for Jayson to sense a shift in your intensity and capitalize on your lack of speed.Â
One quick step drove left you slightly off balance, giving him enough space to put up a stepback three that caused the net to make a loud pop once the ball went through.Â
âJT FOR THREEEEEEE!âÂ
He held his shooting hand in the air for an extra second with his eyes closed to soak in your impression of the in-arena announcement. Itâd been a while since heâd heard those words.Â
When he finally turned back to look at you, he caught your knowing smile as you folded your arms across your chest in preparation for the inevitable.Â
âJust, like, 30 minutes. I promise. You can time me!âÂ
âMhmm. Make sure you take a shower before you get back in bed.âÂ
âYou gone be up when I get in?âÂ
His question came with raised eyebrows and a few steps forward to wrap you in a sweaty hug. You relished the tickle of his beard against your neck between quick kisses before playfully pushing him away.Â
âNuh uh. Lock in. Iâll still be here when the work is done.âÂ
âCan I hold you to that?âÂ
âYou know Iâm good for it.âÂ
A cheeky wink initiated your shared handshake and signaled that your promise was sealed no matter what. Before he could lull you back into a hug and prolong the moment, a stiff breeze woke all six of your senses and forced a loud shriek in response.Â
âOh hell no. Iâll be rooting for you from the house. Keep shooting!â
Jayson watched you nearly sprint across the backyard with the ball tucked under his arm and a smile so goofy itâd be embarrassing if his friends caught him. Not willing to see you go just yet, he cupped his hands around his mouth to bid you a final good night.Â
âTHANKS, COACH! I LOVE YOU!â
Stopping at the back door, you returned the gesture. âI LOVE YOU! JVP! JVP! JVP!â
âTHAT AINâT IT! TRY AGAIN.â
âJUST KEEP REPEATING IT. ITâLL WORK, I PROMISE!âÂ
Once you were inside, silence blanketed the backyard again. This time, instead of racing thoughts, Jayson found a stillness as he bounced the ball between his legs. One dribble turned into another and another until he completed a crossover and midrange shot. Shot after shot hit the bottom of the net with crisp snaps.
When his legs grew exhausted, he stepped up to the free-throw line to complete his impromptu workout.Â
He took a few deep breaths and focused his eyes on the rim with a soft chant on replay under his breath.Â
-----------------------------
âThis is absolutely incredible. When it looked like his team was on the brink of another Game 7, Jayson Tatum took over the game and delivered the Boston Celtics their first NBA Championship since 2008. The Larry OâBrien trophy is back in Beantown.â
âHeâs the future of the league. One of the best, if not THE best small forward in the NBA right now.âÂ
âHe's not the future, Jeff. He's the right here and now. Humbly heâs one of the best players in the world. Mama, there goes that man.â
Green and white confetti rained down from the rafters, completely covering fans celebrating in the stands. Players on the court threw themselves onto one another to share the euphoria of the moment. Six games and four hard-fought quarters had led them to the ultimate goal. Â
Jayson stood at center court with his arms stretched and head tilted to the sky while he screamed at nothing in particular. His head felt light with pure excitement and fragmented replays of the last 48 minutes.Â
Finally, heâd completed the mission.Â
As reality began to rush through his blood, his eyes frantically searched for familiar faces in the crowd rushing toward him. The full breadth of excitement couldnât be released until the ones he cherished most were within arms reach. He ignored every instance of his name being called in favor of pushing through the bodies littered across the space.Â
His family greeted him first, led by his mother beaming with pride. You quietly stood to the side for an up-close view of the small celebration. Tears and laughter became muffled in the loud environment but the love was unmistakable.Â
When he finally directed his attention in your direction, a rush of heat made your ears and arms tingle. Sudden shyness made you laugh nervously and tug at your jersey during his short journey to where you stood.Â
Jokingly, he leaned down and rubbed his sweaty forehead against yours.Â
âYou did it,â you gushed. âYou fuckinâ did it.âÂ
âJVP,â he questioned with a silly smile.
âOh, donât make me do it. Because you know Iâll do it.âÂ
Jaysonâs laughter bellowed deep before he threw his head back for another triumphant scream. His joy felt like permission for others to join with no restrictions.
Stepping back, you accepted the invitation and began your new favorite chant. Participation started with a slow build. Others joined one by one then in small groups until the buzz had spread to the nosebleeds.Â
Standing in the center of it all, Jayson took a slow look at all the faces around him with pride swelling in his chest.Â
He was over the hump. Across the finish line. Atop the proverbial mountain.
