hii! this is random but i was wondering if you’d write a husband!jokic headcanon like you did with luka? maybe with a little smut? but if not i totally understanddd :)
HUSBAND!NIKOLA JOKIC HEADCANONS
NIKOLA is weirdly domestic in a way that doesn’t match his whole two-time-mvp, seven-foot-giant presence. he’s the type to silently start doing mundane tasks around you like fixing a crooked cabinet hinge, adjusting the thermostat, reorganizing something. not to be impressive but because he genuinely cannot sit still if something is slightly off
NIKOLA has this very dry, accidental sense of humor that catches you off guard constantly. you’ll be mid-rant about something ridiculous and he’ll deadpan the funniest possible response with zero change in tone, then look confused when you start laughing like he didn’t just deliver comedic perfection
physical affection with NIKOLA feels absurdly disproportionate because of his size but he’s incredibly gentle about it. his hugs aren’t tight or dramatic - they’re slow, almost absentminded like he just pulls you into him because that’s where you’re supposed to be
NIKOLA is a chronic “background presence” partner. not loud, just always there. sitting near you, leaning against a counter while you do something, existing in the same space with this quiet steadiness that somehow feels more intimate than constant attention
NIKOLA is deeply attached to routines, especially small ones involving you. a specific coffee order, a particular side of the bed, a certain way you both wind down at night. once something becomes your thing, he treats it like an unspoken rule of the universe
NIKOLA has a habit of absentmindedly touching you when you’re close like a hand on your back, fingers loosely hooked around your wrist or resting his chin near the top of your head. none of it feels possessive just instinctive, like he orients himself by where you are
NIKOLAS version of “romantic gestures” is hilariously unpolished but sincere. instead of grand surprises, it’s things like quietly making sure your car has gas, charging your phone if he notices it’s low, or bringing you something you mentioned wanting once three months ago
NIKOLA gets this faintly smug, teasing energy when you’re the one flustered or dramatic. he won’t openly gloat but you can see it in the tiny half-smile and the way he drags out his responses just enough to make you more worked up
background: bringing your 4 year old daughter to see her dad courtside doing his job makes something more wholesome out of it.
(all pics from pinterest, all rights reserved)
word count: 1.2k
notes: so to be fair whatever the fans want they get..
warning: this is a alternative universe, pure fluff
The arena lights inside the arena glowed a soft gold as the early crowd trickled in, the hum of sneakers squeaking against hardwood echoing through the space.
Luka had already been on the court for nearly twenty minutes, going through his usual pregame routine, methodical, focused, locked in.
But every so often, his eyes drifted toward the sideline because right there, courtside, sat his entire world.
Y/N leaned back comfortably in her seat, one leg crossed over the other, dressed effortlessly in a fitted Lakers jacket Luka had insisted she wear, her hair pulled into a sleek style that somehow still looked soft. Beside her, swinging her little legs and gripping a tiny basketball in her lap, was Lulu.
Four years old. Big eyes. Big personality. And entirely her father’s twin.
Lulu’s curls bounced every time she moved, her little sneakers kicking lightly against the edge of the seat as she watched the court with wide fascination. She didn’t fully understand the game yet, not in the strategic sense, but she knew one thing for certain.
“That’s my daddy.”
And she said it… a lot.
“Mommy,” Lulu whispered loudly, tugging on Y/N’s sleeve, her voice carrying that innocent excitement that didn’t care about volume control. “That’s my daddy right there!”
Y/N smiled, glancing down at her before following her finger toward Luka, who was just finishing a three point shot at the top of the arc.
“I know, baby,” she said softly, brushing a curl back from Lulu’s face. “He’s looking good, huh?”
Lulu nodded aggressively. “He’s the best.”
On cue, as if he could feel it, Luka turned his head, and the second his eyes landed on them, everything else faded.
His entire face changed.
The serious, locked in expression melted into something soft, something warm. A smile spread across his face, the kind that wasn’t for cameras, wasn’t for fans, it was just for them.
He jogged over without hesitation, ignoring a teammate calling his name, his focus completely shifted now.
And Lulu saw him coming.
“DADDY!”
She practically launched herself out of the seat, her little arms already reaching, and Luka didn’t even break stride before scooping her up mid motion like it was second nature.
“Hey, princesa,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that soft tone he only used with her as he lifted her high into the air before settling her against his hip.
Lulu immediately wrapped her arms around his neck, her cheek pressing into his shoulder like she hadn’t seen him in years instead of a few hours.
“You came!” she said, like it was a surprise.
Luka laughed under his breath, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Of course I came. You think I play without my girl watching me?”
She giggled, that high, bubbly sound that made his entire chest feel too full.
Y/N stood up beside them, smiling as Luka leaned over to press a quick kiss to her lips, his free arm instinctively wrapping around her waist for a brief second before pulling back.
“You good?” he asked her quietly.
She nodded. “We’re good. She’s been talking about you nonstop.”
“Yeah?” he said, glancing back at Lulu, who was now playing with the drawstring of his shorts like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Nonstop,” Y/N repeated with a soft laugh.
Luka shook his head, pretending to be exhausted, but there was nothing but pride behind it. He adjusted Lulu higher on his hip before stepping back toward the court.
“Come on,” he said to her. “You wanna see where daddy works?”
Her eyes lit up instantly.
“Yes!”
He carried her out onto the hardwood, one massive hand secure against her back as he walked her around like she owned the place. And in his mind, she did.
“This is the basket,” he told her, pointing up toward the hoop.
Lulu leaned her head back dramatically, her mouth falling open. “It’s so high!”
“I know,” he said, smiling. “You’ll get there one day.”
She looked at him like that was the easiest thing in the world.
“Yeah. I will.”
Y/N watched from the sideline, her heart swelling at the sight. Luka wasn’t just a great player, he was a girl dad in the most obvious, undeniable way. Gentle where he needed to be, playful, patient… completely wrapped around Lulu’s finger.
And Lulu?
She was a full blown daddy’s girl.
“Ej, poslušaj me,” Luka said softly, switching into Slovenian as he looked down at her, tapping her nose lightly. “Hey, listen to me.”
Lulu blinked at him, recognizing the shift immediately.
They’d been working on it, little words, simple phrases. Luka had made it a point. It mattered to him that she knew where he came from, that she could understand pieces of his world too.
“Kako si?” he asked, his tone warm. “How are you?”
Lulu’s face scrunched in concentration for a second before she answered, a little slower but proud.
“Dobro,” she said carefully. “Good.”
Luka’s eyes lit up like she’d just hit a game winning shot.
“You’re so smart, huh?”
She beamed, completely eating up the praise.
“I’m smart,” she repeated confidently, then added, “and I’m daddy’s girl.”
That made him pause.
Actually pause.
He looked at her for a second like he needed to memorize the moment, like he needed to lock it in forever.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice softer now. “You are.”
Then, without warning, he shifted her in his arms and started tickling her sides.
Lulu shrieked instantly, her laughter exploding out of her as she tried to squirm away.
“Daddyyyy!” she squealed, her giggles uncontrollable as she buried her face into his shoulder, her little legs kicking wildly.
Luka laughed with her, the sound fuller than anything he gave on the court.
“Who’s my girl, huh?” he teased, still tickling her lightly.
“Me! Me! Stop!” she cried, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
Y/N shook her head from the sideline, smiling so wide it almost hurt. Because no matter how many arenas, no matter how many games, no matter how big Luka’s career got…
This was him.
Not the superstar.
Not the highlight reels.
Just a man completely in love with his daughter.
Eventually, he slowed the tickling, letting Lulu catch her breath as she clung to him, still giggling in little bursts.
“I gotta go play, okay?” he told her gently, brushing her hair back.
She pouted immediately.
“But I wanna stay with you.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But you gotta watch me. Be my good luck.”
She considered it for a moment, then nodded seriously.
“I’ll watch.”
He smiled, pressing one last kiss to her forehead before handing her back to Y/N, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
“Both my girls,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
Then he jogged back toward the court, slipping right back into game mode, but this time, there was something lighter in his step.
Behind him, Lulu settled into Y/N’s lap, clutching her little basketball again as she watched him with shining eyes.
Keeping an alive tumblr in 2026 is proof of one's sincerity and authenticity - a type of person who enjoys posting for the sake of it with absolutely nothing to be gained....just the enjoyment of curation and self expression untainted by opportunity and relevance
note — (all manips are made by me!!) i've been wanting to make a nba fic for a while and it HAD to be a luka fic so i hope u all enjoy this as much as i do !! likes, reblog's and comments are appreciated ❤
Liked by lukadoncic, anyataylorjoy and 3,263,875 others
yourinstagram night off and got to see a W in LA 💜💛💜💛💜
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user1 that mugler top is so gorg
lukadoncic how many points you scoring?
->yourinstagram at least 50
->lukadoncic i believe it
->user2 oh im sure you do
->user3 bro stop that's my girl...
user4 these face cards are actually crazy
user5 oh so that's why he dropped almost 50
devonleecarlson 💜💛💜
->yourinstagram the happiest i've seen you
->devonleecarlson im always happy with u
->yourinstagram 🤭
->user6 chillll devon has a man
user7 bro looks happy asf meeting u 😭
user8 y/n is in the starting 5 btw
->yourinstagram my talents can't be wasted on the bench
user9 LAKERS IN 5 🖐😝
user10 please come to every game we need a ring
user11 the commentators were also gagged that u were there lol
user12 he played so good tonight ty for blessing the lakers 🙏
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Liked by yourinstagram, austinreaves12 and 763,875 others
lukadoncic First of many W's💛
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user1 🔥🔥🔥
user2 All i can say is…. WOW. 👏
yourinstagram i would've had 50
->lukadoncic at LEAST
->user3 okay are they flirting??
->user4 yes user3 they are 😭
user5 Ez mode 😭
user6 LUKA MAGIC!!!
user7 💜💛🐐
austinreaves12 🤦🏻♂️ make a free throw
->lukadoncic shut up
->user8 he's making 3's it's fine for now
user9 best player in da league idc what nobody say
user10 LUKA THE DON!!
user11 plz come back to dallas
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Liked by lukadoncic, anyataylorjoy and 2,774,675 others
yourinstagram on set to dinner 🌹
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user1 looking stunning as always
user2 the fit is so cuntyyy
user3 and who did you leave that dinner with? 👀
user4 wait what is she filming???
->user5 "Pretty Woman esque movie with Oscar Isaac" is what google said
->user6 two hotties in a romance? we all cheered
user7 obsessed with this "rumored wag" era
user8 they left together and there were flowers in the car? yeahhh ik whats going down
user9 serving as expected 👏
user10 pretty angel
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Liked by lukadoncic, ayoedebiri and 2,774,675 others
yourinstagram my camera roll recently <3
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user1 obsessed with you as always
lukadoncic movie star in the last picture
->yourinstagram you could say that...
->user2 guy can u just confirm it please
->user3 u two couldn't be anymore obvious
user4 oh oscar issac my king
user5 is it bad i can tell that was the game @ charlotte 🙃
anyataylorjoy wish i could've come to the pasta class :(
->yourinstagram we missed you dearly
->anyataylorjoy i appreciated the picture of you feeding a picture of me pasta ❤
->yourinstagram wanted you to feel included <3
->user6 😭???
->user7 why is that weirdly sweet
user8 that first picture is so iconic
user9 we need u at the game on nov 28 please
->user10 we've been winning chillll
->user11 need the guarantee win against dallas
user12 actually living the life oh my goddd
user13 can't wait for the movie with osacr im already sat
user14 last pic has to be confirmation right????
user15 take care of our slovenian king please
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Liked by user1, user2 and 125,683 others
deuxmoi Y/n L/n seen at dinner with Oscar Isaac amid dating rumors with NBA player Luka Doncic ... 👀
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user1 the woman standing right next to him is literally his wife....
user2 are you guys this dumb on purpose?
user3 omg two co stars have dinner together?!?!!?!? they must be dating 😦
user4 you are not a serious publication dude just stop
user5 do you not get tired of just posting slop everyday?
user6 why do you do this every time y/n is seen with a man, let her live DAMN
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Liked by yourinstagram, austinreaves12 and 2,663,875 others
lukadoncic 🔒 in
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user1 keep it up 🐐
user2 another W!! the ring is otw
yourinstagram what a nice caption, your best work yet!
->jvando_ couldn't agree more!
->austinreaves12 any other captioned wouldn't have worked
->lukadoncic all of you are annoying
->user3 luka's flirting with everyone smh
->user4 keep your inside jokes to yourselves i feel left out
->user5 not them all ganging up on luka 😭
user6 three letters baby M V P !!!
user7 team synergy 🔛🔝
user8 hot player
user9 the celly was 🔥
user10 second picture omggg that's family 😭
user11 our glorious king, i’ll never stop loving you
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Liked by lukadoncic, anyataylorjoy and 2,874,786 others
yourinstagram 🕶🌹❤
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user1 2nd slide is the new mantra
user2 a bouquet of flowers being a 2 man job is hilarious
anyataylorjoy love u
->yourinstagram ily <3
user3 such a "im taken" post, i love it
user4 come to another game so he can score 40 please
devonleecarlson the most perfect <3
->yourinstagram says you 😚
user5 movie theater date... my dream
user6 luka liking this and that other post? yeah they're together
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Liked by yourinstagram, austinreaves12 and 2,848,683 others
lukadoncic Last night 🔮
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user1 Y/N ON MAINNN
yourinstagram 5th pic is my new lockscreen
->lukadoncic mine too
->yourinstagram mhmm couldn've sworn i saw a pic of someone else..
->lukadoncic no comment
->user2 keep the flirting to yourselves
->user3 y/n being horny on main is crazy
->user4 1st pic in my new homescreen
->yourinstagram respect user4
user5 i felt y/n's aura before i even opened insta
user6 Yessir 👏
user7 another meet and greet in the 2nd picture
user8 the queen and goat, im so here for this 🐐👑
austinreaves12 🔥 Liked by lukadoncic!
user9 thank you nico
user10 they all just wanted to hold his hand in the fourth pic
cw: hybrids, he's a naughty bull, mildly ooc description of könig's appearance.
the suns glare is sharp as it falls down on your squinted gaze, eyes slitting with the same intensity as the yellowish rays that lanced downward on to light up könig's startling baby blue's, kept cast down toward the hay ground, hidden beneath heavy swoop of sooty eyelashes, staring at his own feet, the fluffy tip of his tail flickering in a frantic, anxious rhythm against his ankle, brawny shoulders hunched towards his ears as your voice rattles stern and cold, chastising him for what's clenched in his trembling, scarred fingers, the frilly pair of your panties, crusted with long since dried cum, exactly what they had been stolen for.
könig’s curl fluffy ears were pinned flat against the crown of his head and below sharp horns, trembling with every sharp inflection of your voice, suffocated by raw embarrassment, one he could no longer shroud behind his hood, for you had stripped the rag mask from him the moment you hauled him toward the farm's barn, leaving him stood exposed, a deep crimson tide rolling up from the wide stretch of his meaty chest, climbing the column of his throat to stain his earlobes before flooding his scarred face entirely, pinkish lips trembling, glistening slick with the frantic, nervous sweeps of his tongue, and when you spoke his name once more, loud for attention, his gaze snapped to yours, vibrant eyes wide and shimmering wet.
“es tut mir leid, i was acting very bad, i'm so sorry”
a low, incoherent rambling spilled from under the shadow of his crooked nose, gravelly voice cracking into small, piteous whimpers, scarred fingers twisting together restlessly, crushing the delicate fabric of your undergarments he held, bunched and forgotten for now, tail thrashing behind his looming body, striking the hay littered ground before sweeping toward a bale with a sharp, echoing swoosh that sent dry stalks scattering into the tail's furry tip like burrs, your anger starting to thaw, a slow softening taking hold of your furrowing features as you reached out to retrieve the soiled cotton from his trembling grasp, calloused digits twitching with a start, reluctant yet obeying, prying away with his head bowing low, outgrown hair falling down in unruly locks, but there's still twin salt beads escaping his fluttering eyes, tracing down ruddy cheeks and silver scars, catching both the suns ray and your attention, enough to feel that twist of guilt.
a heavy sigh escapes you, pinching the bridge of your nose for a moment before reaching over, he stood unmoving, with only frantic quivering of his lashes, which caught the salt beads of his tears, shoulders remaining squared and tense until your hands found the strong curve of his neck, coaxing könig to melt beneath your touch, every muscle loosening in a moment as your nails began to scrape gently against his flushed skin, a soothing caress that drew him closer, leaning into you, his massive frame looming as he pressed his forehead against yours, careful of the sharp arc of his horns, hearing the soft, rhythmic flap of his ears as his damp face nuzzled into your temple, breath hitching in a quiet hiccup as you cooed low, sweet soothings, drawing him into a firm embrace and tangling your fingers in the mussed curls at his nape, while he breathed you in.
it's not könig's fault the overwhelming proximity of your body and the intoxicating tease of your scent makes him visibly, painfully strained in his pants, throbbing girth tenting the front of the fabric obscenely, already leaking and demanding urgent attention, and with the way you scratched his sensitive skin and murmured tender, high pitched nonsense, he couldn't resist, restraint snapping, trembling hands reaching out to palm your curves, fingers trying to knead into your own pants and shimmy them off, it's hard to deny him, not after you made him cry, his eyes still wide and simmering like water pools as he glanced down at you, gauging your reaction, curl furry ears no longer plastered beneath his horns, but flickering with renewed excitement that keeps him shifting restlessly on his feet, picking at the ground beneath.
so you let him spread you against the golden hay bales stacked up, plump ass cushioned by the discarded fabric of his mask which had been placed just in time to shield your tender skin, the frantic hump of his broad hips leaving you breathless and wriggling, quivering legs dangling at his sides, stretched as your cunt gushes everytime his veiny, meaty cock pumps in and out the pulsing grip of your gummy walls, trying to keep him nestled inside, thick cockhead jamming against sweet little bump until your chest heaved with broken, keening cries, muffled into the brawny hard curve of könig's shoulder your head lolled against, corded muscles rippling beneath the skin on his back while bending over, draping his weight and pining you down, whining and babbling little thank's when your drooling hole clenches in tummy twisting pleasure.
“thank you, verdammt — thank you so much, liebling”
könig kisses you with sloppy, unbridled hunger, tongue trailing a slick, desperate path across your teeth and the velvet of your cheeks while your breath hitched in a series of shallow, broken stutters, breasts pressed flush against his salt damp chest, sending a violent shudder through his spine, moaning into the hollow of your mouth, his lips heavy and seeking until yours were swollen, he's overwhelmed, trembling and letting out low, throaty whines, your arms reaching up with great force, finding his ears, thumbs tracing the soft, curly fur at the base of his ears.
frantic lashing of his tail finally stilling to contented swish against the ground, lengthy cock nestled deep in your gooey cunt, jerking in the velvet vice clutch of warm walls, supple thighs glistening, thin strings of slick stretching when he withdraws to grind against your fluttering pussy, and drip down onto the fabric of the mask crumpled below your ass, soaking through with sweat and arousal, there's no need to steal any panties now, your scent would be with him, right on his face, he wouldn't let anyone try to wash it away.
Your head shoots up from his chest, eyes narrowing as you study his face in the dim hotel room light. "Excuse me? Are you trying to fucking joke with me right now?" König shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, sitting up against the headboard.
"Are you supposed to ask for the money? I'm sorry, I've never been approached by a prostitute before." You slap him before you can even think about it. He's much bigger than you, and you know from not even ten minutes ago how strong he is but you don't care.
"You think I'm a prostitute?" You hiss angrily, pulling yourself away from him and out of bed. "Fuck you, König. God, you really know how to make a lady feel special." You find your clothes tugging on your panties as König gets to his feet.
"Liebling! No, wait, please, I don't know how to!" You pause, staring at him with anger and humiliation burning in your chest.
"Don't know how to what!?"
"Make a lady feel special. I... This is my first time with a woman."
"Sexually?"
"Ever."
The admission hangs heavy in the air. Your anger still hissed and whispered in your gut, still appalled by what he had said. But he looks down at you, pleading with his eyes to stay. To talk.
"Why would you assume that I'm a prostitute?" You cross your arms over your still bare chest, not missing the way he glances at your breasts. "Eyes up." He obeys immediately.
"You're very pretty. Very nice to me. Your outfit is also very..." You raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to contine. He doesn't. "I did not think you would be interested in me."
"There's a lot to be interested in, König." You walk over to him slowly, gently easing him to sit on the bed so you can straddle his lap. "I'm very, very interested in you, okay? Even without pay."
König shudders when your clothes crotch makes contact with his softened cock, head burrowing into your chest. "Stay, liebling... Stay here with me tonight?" He whispers, mouthing your tits softly as he finally looks up at you.
"Okay..." You whisper, stroking his face softly. "I'll stay."
content: vampire au, smut, female masturbation, unprotected sex, biting, vampire haunting, intruder.
a/n: first fic in a while, so feel free to comment your thoughts lol i am a chronic em dash user, this is not ai and will never be ai (i despise ai with my entire being). listened to “fire in my heart” by escape from new york while writing if you want to be immersed.
You were restless.
Another sleepless night spent tossing, sweating, and finding your sheets thrown to the floor.
Others were beginning to notice, including your professor whom you’ve grown close to since undergrad.
“Maybe the graduate program is getting to you…” she trailed off, assessing your disheveled appearance during office hours. All you could do was sit up a bit straighter and swallow the embarrassment.
Could your entire schooling and potential career be completely wasted? All because of him?
Him.
Yes, him- and you couldn’t even tell anyone who he was because you were not sure yourself. Every night for the past three weeks he comes to you, filling your thoughts as soon as your lids shut.
At first, it was nightmarish. A large, towering figure propping himself up above you in your bed. There was no face, only darkness engulfing where it should be. You couldn’t move a limb, completely petrified at the thought of it being real. No words could escape your mouth- not even a meek “help.” Not like it would’ve made any difference since you live alone with nobody to save you from this night terror- which terrified you even more.
You thought you were just overworking yourself, scrolling through video lectures and notes too late at night. So you tried reading or meditating an hour before bed to clear your mind.
It was no use, he still came.
Though instead of just towering over your still body as he had before, he began to move- to speak. The first time, he had situated himself above you- though you did not feel his weight on you at all. All you felt was his frighteningly cold breath as he’d lean closer to your head, one large hand slowly removing the hair that covered your ears as he whispered.
Come to me.
You felt the cold from his breath trace down your spine, your legs twitching at the sensation. His lips pressed against the sensitive skin of your earlobe as he spoke, an unnaturally sharp tooth grazing you.
You jolted upright, the room completely empty and lifeless- save from your curtains billowing gently from the open window you swore you had closed.
It has been like this the past five days. He looms over you, caressing you slightly before whispering- his thick accent making your eyes flutter slightly.
Come to me.
You’re sat at your desk, the sun completely removed from the sky- the only light illuminating your bedroom coming from the crescent moon. You stare blankly out the window, watching the few people still out make their way through the cobblestone streets under the orange streetlights. You remember when you had the energy to still be outside at this hour, clamoring through the quiet city streets with your friends. Now, you’re in your nightgown and completely ready for bed before ten as you anticipate him.
You pull the open window shut, latching it even though you know it’s no use.
Moving through the dark room, you peel your sheets back, sliding under them and laying flat on your back. Your heart is already beginning to pound with your pulse beating in your ears. You hated that you knew he’d come- that his presence was inevitable. And what you hated more was the knot in your stomach when you thought about him.
There should be nothing exciting about a figure that haunts your sleep- turning you into a shell of a person during the day and a nervous wreck at night. Despite all this, you can’t help but imagine what he’d look like, if you could see the face that speaks to you so clearly- luring you through your petrified state.
As you thought about the grayness of it all, your beating pulse lulls you to sleep.
-
Your eyes shoot open.
Your heart pounds through your ears as you glance around, assessing your room. It was empty, completely silent, and the open window brought a breeze in.
You pulled yourself up, a deep sigh escaping you. Had you finally stopped dreaming of him? Confused, you throw yourself back down and crashed onto your pillow, screwing your eyes shut in slight embarrassment.
Maybe now that you’ve come to accept his presence, your mind no longer lets you see him. Why did this fill you with a bit of sadness- longing?
Come to me.
You could hear him so clearly in your mind now. His deep, gruff voice- his accent. You screw your eyes shut harder.
As his voice rang through your head, you pull your hand from the pillow behind your head and slowly slip it under the sheets. Lifting your nightgown slightly, you slid your panties to the side- feeling the slick already accumulating.
You moan before you even touch yourself, imagining him grazing your folds as he had with your hair. If it’s all in your head, why does it all feel so real in this moment?
Your middle finger rhythmically circled your clit, your free hand pressing on your abdomen for support. You let your mouth hang open, huffing at the sensation.
You open your eyes for a split second and he’s there.
You couldn’t even scream, only letting out a high pitched moan from your touch.
“Come for me,” he spoke, changing the mantra you’ve been repeating in your head the past minute. He was still faceless, but his figure seemed even larger now. He still hovered over your body- it was too dark to see if he really was levitating like you’d imagined. It all felt so real now.
You didn’t feel the fear you had felt weeks ago. Instead, you listened- tracing your puffy clit once more. As you started, it felt as though the moon had shifted and began revealing him to you. His face was white, with a beautifully hooked nose and a brown colored beard. His bright eyes gazed into yours, and you thought the moon cascaded over the blue color.
Now that you could see him better, he had both his large hands on either side on your head and his body planking over you. He was covered in a black cloak-like fabric that hid his body from you.
“Will you?” He asked, taking you out of your trance.
“…y-yes,” you finally croaked, feeling the knot in your stomach about to come undone. You ignored your sensitive clit and pressed your middle and ring finger deep inside of you, drilling as you stared into his eyes. With your back arching and your breath hitched in your throat, you let out a moan and squeezed your eyes shut. One of his large hands gently held your face and aligned it with his, forcing your gaze onto him.
After you rode your orgasm to its finish, you stared up at him. His eyes scanned over your flushed face and your parted mouth that begged for a command.
As though you had asked him verbally, he situated himself between your legs and lifted himself upright- completely towering over you. Slowly, he drew back his cloak, revealing his bare broad shoulders and chest to you as the fabric slid to the floor.
After letting you stare wide eyed at his figure, he crawled towards your face, his unnaturally cold chest pressing slightly against your own. He found himself in your ear again, that familiar chilly breath hitting your neck when he spoke.
“I want to make you feel the same way,” he began, “if not better. Can I?” He pulled back to meet your gaze.
“Yes,” you breathed out, “please.”
He grinned slightly, and you basked in the feeling of finally seeing his face. As his lips widened, he revealed two abnormally sharp upper canines.
Before you could even furrow your brows at the sight, he raised himself upright again. He stared into your pleading eyes as he undid the dark pants he had on, sliding them down to reveal his full length to you. You gawked as he tossed his pants next to the cloak and crawled back up to you.
His right hand found its way to your throbbing pussy, sliding from your hole to your clit and feeling how wet you were. You notice that throughout it all, his eyes remained locked on yours, and you couldn’t move your gaze. He pulled his hand away from you, sliding his fingers into his mouth- brushing them against his canines, watching you bite your lip hard.
He pulled his hand back down, pumping himself before aligning with you. He pushed his tip in slowly, before placing both hands next to your head and pushing completely inside of you all at once.
Your back fully arched, convulsing at the feeling as you yelled out. You could feel him stretch you completely, balls deep inside of you. His eyes watched as you gasped for air and grabbed at his biceps. Before you could fully take it in, he began pumping deep into you- slow, rhythmic thrusts.
You stared into his eyes, mouth agape as his hips met yours with each thrust. You thought you could feel him in your throat, each pump pushing a quick breath out of you.
He grabbed both your legs, straightening them in the air with one hand as he pushed into you hands-free, picking up his rhythm. Still, you could only stare at him in awe, scared to close your eyes and find that it was all a dream once more.
It was hard to keep his eye, as your lids fluttered hard at the sensation. You found yourself incoherent, only drunkenly mumbling out “fuck”s and “oh my god”s in between your guttural moans.
He let your ankles go, placing your legs around his waist as he propped himself above you once more. He kept his quick pace without losing breath, his breathing completely steady and unwavering. He found the crook of your neck, the first he’s broke contact to mumble in your ear.
“You feel so amazing,” he growled, “I want you to come for me.”
His voice in your ear was the perfect touch to push you over the edge. You felt tears welling in your eyes from pleasure as you continued huffing with each thrusts.
“I want you to make me come, please” you moaned loudly, finding yourself reaching your climax. Just as you felt yourself clench and twitch, his lips found the softness of your neck and you felt the pinch of his teeth against your flesh.
You screamed out in pleasure, eyes squeezing shut instinctually. You grinded yourself against him, your breath shuttering with each movement- reveling in the bliss. Your body collapsed back against the bed, rising and falling with each deep breath.
When you opened your eyes to meet his, you were alone once more- the morning sun shining across your empty bedroom. Confused, you sat up completely straight, still regaining your breath and consciousness.
There was nothing- nobody. There was only the sound of the birds and morning commuters outside, your sheets tossed to the floor like usual, and the curtains moving with the breeze.
You fell back against your pillows, grabbing your head in confusion. It all felt so real. Just as you decided to start moving for the day despite your frustration, your hand clasped your neck- your fingers rubbing and feeling two punctures against your flesh.
a/n: thank yall for the love on the last one, got me blushinnnnn’ <3 also send me recs, requests, or whatever cause i wanna interact with yall lol listened to the danny crush remix of WFHTDH for this lolll
Maybe you’d bitten off a bit more than you could chew with this one.
You’d been with Luka for a few months now- seen in tabloids and social media outlets together with no secrecy about your relationship. But it was also no secret to Luka that you’d also been seeing Nikola- who you’d been sleeping with on the side.
Luka didn’t care much about it considering you made it clear you weren’t exclusive.
“I just…don’t feel like being tied down to anybody right now,” you’d passively say.
He’d make a sarcastic comment at text messages you’d get while you were lying together, asking if your “other boyfriend” was trying to reach you. He’d roll his eyes, but you visibly noticed how hard he got at the thought.
For Nikola, you knew he loved the competition of it all- having something of Luka’s after commentators have been pitting them against each other for so long now.
“How does Luka feel knowing I’m fucking you too?” he’d groan in your ear while fucking you dumb.
And for you, you loved the freedom. Two of the hottest athletes in the world were available at the tap of your finger, and it worked just fine.
You’d never thought about what you’d do if they had crossed paths though.
One night, while you and Nikola were in your living room, you got a text from Luka:
I’m outside.
You paused, looking around slightly confused. You were both half naked and dangerously close to being completely undressed and underneath him.
“One sec,” you trailed off, grabbing your robe and making your way to the door. Looking through the peephole, sure enough, Luka was standing outside- jaw clenched with his hands shoved in his pockets while he glanced around.
You slowly crack the door open, trying to hide your figure behind it.
“Hey…” you said with confusion.
“I know he’s here,” he said, moving to lean against the door frame so he was closer to your face.
Before you could even ask how he knew, you felt a large hand creep from behind you and rest on your waist.
“Because I texted him,” Nikola’s deep voice reverberated in your ear.
-
On your knees, resting on the edge of your bed, you let Nikola slowly pull the robe off of your shoulders- exposing your naked chest to the cold air.
Despite the height of your bed, he still towered over you- reaching his hands around you to hold your chest while he sucked on the tender skin of your neck.
Across the bed, Luka stood and watched while taking his sweatshirt and sweatpants off. Through his boxers, you could see his hard length pressing against the fabric.
You move your head back and hold Nikola’s chin, pulling him into a kiss. He moaned slightly into your mouth, sliding his tongue across your lips to meet yours.
This riles him up- as he reaches to lift you up in his arms. You wrap your legs around him, not breaking away from his lips. The sensation of being completely pressed against his bare chest and body left you just as hungry.
Nikola moves towards the bed, laying you on your back as Luka moves to stand next to him- now completely undressed. You look up at the sight, both men standing over you and you’re completely slick just from looking at them.
Luka bends down, situating himself above you before kissing you. He moves from your lips, down to your neck and collar bone.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers in your ear with a chuckle.
“God, yes,” you moan, wrapping your arms around his neck. With one arm propping him above you, Luka used the other hand to snake down to your folds- rubbing against them before sliding his fingers inside of you.
You jump at the feeling, tightening your grip around his neck. You let your head fall back, turning slightly to see Nikola at the end of the bed. He stared intently while stroking his cock- his teeth biting down on his bottom lip.
Luka kept his pace, watching you squeeze your eyes shut and let your mouth hang open. He stops abruptly and pulled you down to the end of the bed. He spread your legs, staring at the sight before lining himself up with you. Slowly, he pressed his cock against your hole before thrusting in. You moan loudly, arching your back off of the bed from the feeling.
Luke stands up straight now, holding your ankles and starting to thrust into you with deep movements.
“Fuck,” he groans, watching himself move in and out of you.
Nikola moves now to lay next to you as Luka continues. He rests on his side and reaches up to your face, completely turning your gaze towards him.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he says lowly- one hand holding your chin and the other stroking his cock.
You could barely hold his gaze- looking between him and his cock while trying to not squeeze your eyes shut from the feeling of Luka inside you.
You felt his pace quicken before groaning, “Fuck, I’m gonna come.” He fell forward, still keeping his pace while holding himself above you- his face tucked in the crook of your neck and grunting in your ear.
The sensation of his breath on your neck sent you over- a loud moan escaping your mouth as you grabbed Luka. Your fingers dug into his back all while you still held Nikola’s eye.
Despite forcing your gaze, Nikola was the first to break- throwing his head back as he continued working himself. With a guttural moan, he finished- roping his come across his stomach.
Luka continued breathing heavy on top, still twitching inside of you, as Nikola laid beside you while still catching his breath.
You stare up at the ceiling, a smile creeping onto your face as you thought about doing this every time.
but i had this idea of like teenage dax having a girlfriend or someone he’s interested in, but JELLY is the one to expose him to the moms. idk i just felt like it could be a funny/cute idea, but no pressure!!
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MOM OF THE YEAR TAG | MOM OF THE YEAR AU
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 fluff, paige being protective, jelly being a little instigator
Takeout night is sacred in your house.
It’s the one evening of the week where nobody pretends to have their life together. No cooking, no meal prep, no “balanced family dinner” aspirations. Just greasy bags on the kitchen counter, mismatched sauces and everyone eating something that would absolutely horrify their nutritionist.
Tonight’s offering: Wingstop.
The entire kitchen smells like fried food and salt and wings. Boxes are spread across the island, lids flipped open, steam still rising. Fries spilling everywhere. Wings in neat little rows like they’re about to be evaluated instead of devoured.
Jelly is already seated, legs swinging impatiently under her chair, eyes locked on the food like she’s been stranded for weeks instead of coming home from practice thirty minutes ago.
“Can I start?” she asks for the third time.
“No,” Paige says automatically, setting down a stack of napkins. “We’re waiting for your brother.”
“He’s literally in the house.”
“He’s also literally not here.”
Jelly groans dramatically, collapsing against the back of her chair. “This is child abuse.”
You snort, sliding into your seat. “It’s five minutes of patience.”
“I don’t have that.”
“That’s very obvious.”
Footsteps echo down the hallway.
Right on cue, Dax wanders in, tall and loose-limbed and entirely too relaxed for someone who just finished an intense practice. Sixteen years old and somehow already carrying himself with that easy, unbothered energy that feels genetically unfair.
Jelly immediately points at him.
“Finally.”
Dax blinks. “What did I do?”
“Walk too slowly.”
He rolls his eyes, dropping into his chair. “You’re so weird.”
“Says you.”
Paige watches them with mild amusement while pulling a container of delicious ranch closer. “Okay, everybody relax. Eat.”
That’s all the permission Jelly needs.
She practically launches forward, grabbing fries with reckless enthusiasm. Dax follows suit, already halfway through a lemon-pepper wing before you’ve even fully opened your drink.
For a few minutes, dinner is just noise.
Sauce-stained napkins, Jelly talking with her mouth full, Dax making fun of her for it, Paige pretending not to be equally guilty of doing the exact same thing.
You’re halfway through a sentence about something completely forgettable when Jelly speaks again, completely unprompted.
“Oh, by the way, Dax has a girlfriend.”
Silence.
Not gradual silence. Immediate, full-stop silence.
Even the rustling of the Wingstop bags seems to pause.
You blink.
Paige freezes mid-reach for a fry.
Dax chokes, actually chokes. Coughing violently, eyes wide, face turning red as he scrambles for his Diet Coke.
Jelly, meanwhile, looks deeply confused by the sudden chaos she has unleashed.
“…What?” she says.
You and Paige turn to Dax at the exact same time.
In horrifying sync: “HE HAS A WHAT?”
Dax is still coughing, pointing accusingly at his sister like she just committed a federal crime.
Jelly frowns. “Why are you acting like that?”
“Why are you acting like that?!” Dax wheezes.
Paige slowly lowers her hand, staring at him. “You have a girlfriend?”
Dax immediately goes defensive, which is almost comical considering he’s twice Paige’s size now. “No!”
Jelly scoffs loudly. “Yes you do.”
“I literally do not.”
“You literally do.”
You lean forward, fully invested now. “Dax.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Paige narrows her eyes, skepticism already settling in. “Why did Jelly say you do?”
“Because she’s a liar.”
“I’m not a liar!”
“You are absolutely a liar!”
“You talk about her constantly!”
Another beat of silence, all heads swivel back to Dax.
His face betrays him instantly. Just for a second but it’s enough.
Your eyes widen as Paige’s jaw drops.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “There is someone.”
Dax groans, dragging a hand down his face. “This is unbelievable.”
Paige leans forward like a shark sensing blood in the water. “WHO?”
“No one.”
“Dax.”
“No one.”
“Dax.”
He looks at you desperately for backup.
You offer none, because absolutely not. This is the most entertaining development of the week.
Jelly sits back smugly, munching fries like she didn’t just detonate a nuclear device at the dinner table.
“I told you,” she says.
“You told us nothing!” Dax snaps.
“You’re obsessed with her.”
“I am not obsessed!”
Paige points at her immediately. “Jelly, details. Now.”
“I don’t know details.”
“You just said he has a girlfriend!”
“I said... there’s a girl.”
“WHICH GIRL?”
“The one he likes.”
Dax looks like he’s about to pass away.
You’re barely holding in laughter, while Paige is fully locked in now, all disbelief gone, replaced by an almost frightening level of curiosity.
“Dax,” she says slowly, dangerously calm. “Who is the girl?”
“No one.”
“Dax.”
“No one.”
“Ducky.”
He exhales sharply, realizing resistance is futile.
“…she’s not my girlfriend.”
You immediately perk up. “Oh, so there is someone.”
“That is not what I said.”
“That is exactly what you said.”
Paige is staring at him like this is the greatest plot twist of her life. “You like a girl.”
Dax mutters something incoherent.
“Dax.”
“Yes, okay?! There’s a girl.”
The kitchen erupts.
You gasp like this is breaking news, as Jelly beams triumphantly. Paige actually clutches her chest.
You lean across the table, eyes sparkling. “What’s her name?”
Dax hesitates, which is adorable cecause Dax is not the mysterious type. He’s many things. Confident, talkative, painfully honest but secrecy has never been his strong suit.
“…Lena,” he admits.
Your heart instantly melts.
“Oh my god, that’s so cute.”
“It’s just a name.”
Paige is still processing. “Lena.”
“Yes.”
Paige squints suspiciously. “Do we know her?”
“No.”
“Is she in your grade?”
“Yes.”
“Is she on the basketball team?”
“…Yes.” Dax nods reluctantly, already doomed by his own inability to lie convincingly.
Paige’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“She plays center.”
There’s a beat. Then Paige barks out a laugh - a full, startled laugh.
“A center?”
Dax glares. “Yes.”
“That’s hilarious.”
“Why is that hilarious?”
“Because of course you’d like a center.”
You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s impossible. “That is actually very on-brand.”
Dax looks deeply offended. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Paige grins. “You’re impossible to guard, she must be brave.”
Dax tries to maintain annoyance but fails completely, because now he’s smiling. And once he starts smiling, it’s over.
“She’s really good,” he says, pride creeping into his voice. “Like… really good.”
You immediately soften. “Yeah?”
“She’s the only one who can actually guard me.”
You gasp dramatically. “No way.”
“I’m serious.”
Paige leans back, amused but intrigued despite herself. “Okay, now I’m interested.”
“She’s... strong,” Dax continues, fully warming up now. “Really strong. Doesn’t bite on fakes. Good footwork. She talks trash but like… in a nice way.”
“In a nice way?” you repeat, laughing.
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
Paige watches him carefully now, something shifting in her expression because this isn’t casual teenage nonsense, this is Dax being sincere.
“She’s just…” he trails off, shrugging slightly. “She’s sweet.”
Your entire heart explodes.
“Oh my god!”
“She’s funny. And she doesn’t act weird about anything. Everyone else gets all awkward or competitive but she’s just… chill.”
Jelly makes a gagging noise. “This is gross.”
“You started this!” Dax says.
“I don’t regret it.”
You’re practically glowing at this point. “That’s adorable.”
Paige, however, is squinting again.
Not hostile. Just deeply, instinctively skeptical.
“How long has this been going on?”
“It’s not ‘going on.’”
“How long?”
“…a while.”
“A while meaning...?”
“I don’t know, like… a few months.”
Paige’s eyes widen. “MONTHS?!”
“There was nothing to announce!”
“You like a girl for MONTHS and say NOTHING?!”
You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts.
Dax shrugs helplessly. “It wasn’t a thing!”
“It is CLEARLY a thing!”
You reach across the table, completely charmed. “Have you hung out outside of practice?”
“Yes.”
Paige snaps her head toward him. “YOU WHAT?”
“Relax!”
“With her?!”
“Yes, with her!”
“ALONE?!”
“Mom!”
Jelly is absolutely cackling now.
You’re grinning like this is the best dinner entertainment ever while Paige looks torn between interrogation and existential crisis.
“…Would I like her?” she asks finally.
Dax blinks. “What?”
“Would. I. Like. Her.”
“I don’t know, you’ve never met her!”
“Well... describe her better!” She gestures vaguely.
“She’s normal!”
“That is not helpful!”
You laugh, nudging Paige gently. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed!”
“You are absolutely not relaxed.”
Dax shakes his head, smiling. “You’d like her.”
Paige narrows her eyes. “That’s a bold claim.”
“She’s nice.”
“That means nothing.”
“She’s... not annoying.”
“Better.”
“She works hard.”
Paige pauses. That one lands.
“Okay,” she admits cautiously. “That’s promising.”
You’re already fully emotionally invested. “I love her.”
“You don’t even know her!” Paige says.
“I don’t care, she sounds perfect.”
Dax laughs. “See? Mama gets it.”
Paige points at him with a fry. “I... am reserving judgment.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re sixteen.”
“And?”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“I am not dramatic!”
“You absolutely are.”
“I just said she’s sweet!”
“You said you ‘immediately fell in love’ earlier,” Jelly adds.
“I DID NOT SAY THAT!”
“You literally did!”
The table dissolves into chaos again - laughter, bickering, overlapping voices.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Paige watches Dax with that tender, slightly bewildered expression she gets whenever confronted with the reality that her baby is not a baby anymore.
He’s still smiling, still talking about Lena, still completely, transparently smitten.
Paige exhales softly, shaking her head.
“A center,” she mutters again.
You grin. “It’s cute.”
“It’s suspicious.”
“It’s adorable.”
“She can guard him.”
“Which you respect.”
“Which I respect.”
Dax beams and just like that, despite all her skepticism, despite all her protective instincts…
Paige is already a little bit sold, even if she’ll never admit it.
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the gym is loud in that specific way it only gets when something historic is about to happen, banners trembling slightly from the bass of the crowd, sneakers squeaking sharp against polished wood.
your name has already been said twice over the loudspeaker and once by a reporter standing too close to the scorer’s table. earlier that week espn mentioned you again—“one of the most electric freshmen in the midwest”—and your teammates replayed the clip like it was a music video.
you pretended not to care, you always pretend.
you play like you’ve been here before, even though you’re only fourteen. controlled, precise, reading the defense two steps ahead. by halftime you already have eighteen. by the fourth quarter they’re double-teaming you and it doesn’t matter. you finish with thirty-four, eight assists, five steals. the buzzer sounds and you don’t scream.
you just exhale.
your team doesn’t as they crash into you, arms around your shoulders, chanting your name like you’re something bigger than a girl from naperville, illinois. middle school national champion. two-time state mvp. gatorade player of the year finalist. ranked number one in your state for your class. first team all-state since eighth grade. the golden girl with a quiet face and a loud game.
your coach is nearly shaking when he hugs you. “that’s how you close,” he says, voice thick with pride. “that’s how stars respond.”
you shrug slightly, because this is what you do. you don’t realize someone important is watching until your coach leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “we’ve got a scout here,” he says. “flew in from connecticut.”
connecticut as you tilt your head, calm. “he’s been asking about you,” your coach adds, barely containing his excitement. “wants to talk.”
you nod once, not surprised and yet not cocky just steady. the locker room is loud, your teammates still cheering, still replaying your crossovers like folklore. your coach beams at you before bringing the scout inside. the man introduces himself politely, shakes your hand firmly, tells you he’s been following your tape for years. years.
he talks about footwork, about vision, about leadership. says you play older than you are. you thank him, you listen as you don’t promise anything. when you step outside after changing, your parents are waiting to take you to dinner. your mom hugs you tighter than usual. your dad’s smile looks practiced.
you notice.
the restaurant is warm and smells like butter and celebration, but something feels different. your mom keeps glancing at your dad as your dad keeps clearing his throat. finally he sets his fork down. “i got the offer,” he says.
your heart pauses.
“minnesota,” he continues. “hopkins. it’s…a really good opportunity.” your mom squeezes your hand. “better hours, more stability and it’s the right move.”
mid-freshman year.
that’s when you’d leave. you nod while they explain it, because you can see how much it means to them. you don’t want to ruin that, you don’t say that you’ve built everything here. that your banners hang in this gym. that espn article just said your name like it belonged here.
you don’t say you don’t want to go, the car ride home is quiet. your dog greets you at the door like nothing is changing. your room looks the same—medals on the wall, framed articles, your middle school championship ring glinting softly on your desk.
you sit on your bed and you cry softly, privately into your pillow so no one hears. friday becomes your last day before winter break. boxes fill the living room. your trophies are wrapped in newspaper. your dog sits in the backseat when you finally pull away from the only house you’ve ever known.
you don’t look back—minnesota greets you with cold air and skies that feel too wide. hopkins high school is bigger than you expected. the gym smells different, the banners aren’t yours.
you’re mid-year new, which means everyone already knows who everyone is and they definitely know who she is, you see her before she sees you.
blonde ponytail, effortless jumper, the ball barely touching the net as someone whispers her name behind you like it’s obvious.
paige.
she notices you watching. “you must be the illinois girl,” she says, catching the rebound without breaking eye contact. “espn’s been busy.”
it’s not cruel but it’s not welcoming either. “you must be the minnesota one,” you reply evenly.
her mouth curves slightly—practice is tense two girls used to being the headline. two girls who don’t like being second—she bumps you harder than necessary during a scrimmage. you respond by crossing her clean and finishing through contact.
the gym goes quiet, rivals—because pride meets pride and neither of you flinch.
because you both heard the whispers—which one is better? which one will lead? which one is the future? after practice, though, most of the team leaves.
you stay—she stays shots echo in the empty gym. she rebounds for you, you rebound for her as no one says anything for a while. finally she tosses you the ball and says, “you’re good.”
it sounds honest. “so are you,” you answer and something shifts.
rivalry softens into competition with a grin. competition melts into partnership. partnership turns into late nights studying at her kitchen table, her dad offering snacks, your dog asleep at her feet. it turns into her hand brushing yours after a win, lingering a second too long.
it turns into high school sweethearts without either of you meaning to.
years later, when people talk about paige and the girl who moved halfway through freshman year, they’ll say it was inevitable. two midwest stars in one gym but you know better.
it wasn’t inevitable—it was a rivalry that turned into love and it started on a cold morning in hopkins, when neither of you were ready to lose—and neither of you realized you’d just found something better than winning.
the final buzzer sounds and the scoreboard glows 83–43, blue and white lights reflecting off polished wood like the night belonged to hopkins and no one else. the student section is still screaming, still stomping, and your teammates are laughing like forty-point wins are normal, like this is easy. you stand near the free throw line for a second longer than everyone else, hands on your hips, chest rising slow, eyes finding her before you even mean to.
she’s already walking toward the bench, jaw set, ponytail swinging, looking like she carried something heavier than the stat sheet will ever show.
you finished with twenty-four, seven assists, four steals. she had twenty-eight, nine rebounds, five assists. it should feel clean. it should feel like balance.
it doesn’t.
because you remember the second quarter, the way you cut backdoor and lifted your hand, wide open, and watched her drive instead. you remember the third, when you flared to the corner and she waved you off without even looking. you remember every moment you were ready and she chose not to see you.
the locker room is loud when you walk in, music bouncing off tile, girls shouting about the margin, about how st. michael-albertville didn’t stand a chance. your coach is grinning, clapping shoulders, telling everyone this is what discipline looks like.
she sits at her locker, unlacing her shoes, focused on the knot like it personally offended her.
you step in front of her. “i was open,” you say. not loud, not sharp, just true. she doesn’t look up right away. “we won.”
“that’s not what i’m talking about.”
now she looks at you steady yet unreadable. “what are you talking about then?” you cross your arms, not defensive, just grounding yourself. “you didn’t pass.”
a small exhale leaves her, something between frustration and restraint. “i don’t know you yet.” the words settle heavier than the score ever could. “you don’t have to know me,” you reply. “you just have to trust the read.”
her jaw tightens slightly. “this isn’t where you came from.” you hold her gaze. “i know.”
“everyone talks about you,” she continues, voice lower now, less edge, more honesty. “espn, rankings, golden girl from out of state. i need to know you’re not here for yourself.” you blink once, steady. “i had seven assists.”
she stands then, close enough that you feel the heat of her frustration. “that’s not what i mean.”
“then say what you mean.” a beat stretches between you. the music in the background suddenly feels too loud, too far away. “i don’t trust you yet,” she says finally.
it doesn’t feel like an insult—it feels like a confession. you nod slowly, even though something in your chest tightens. “then i’ll earn it.” she studies you for a second, like she’s trying to decide whether you’re serious.
“prove you’re here for the team,” she says. “i am.” your shoulders brush when she grabs her bag, not rough and not gentle either.
she takes a few steps toward the door, then pauses until she doesn’t turn fully around—just enough that you can see her profile. “you were open,” she admits.
the words are quiet, almost swallowed by the noise of the room, but they reach you anyway. you don’t smile, you don’t chase her, you just stand there, letting the moment sit where it is, unfinished and fragile. because this isn’t hate, it isn't even anger.
it’s two girls who have only ever been the centerpiece learning what it means to share the court without losing themselves and somewhere beneath the pride, beneath the rivalry, beneath the bruised egos and bright lights, something softer is forming.
not trust yet but the start of it.
the parking lot is quieter than the gym was, the echoes of sneakers and student sections swallowed by cold air and exhaust smoke. your mom’s car is warm when you slide into the passenger seat, heat humming low, the windows fogging softly at the edges, and she glances at you once before pulling out, streetlights passing in slow intervals across your face like they’re counting something you don’t want counted.
“you okay?” she asks gently.
you watch the road ahead instead of her, the snowbanks, the empty sidewalks as your reflection faint in the glass, jaw set tighter than you meant it to be.
you don’t answer.
because you’re thinking about the first night she came over, how she stood in your doorway like she didn’t know whether to step in or wait to be invited, how your dog didn’t give her a choice, barreling into her legs, tail wild, claiming her immediately.
she laughed then, surprised and bright, crouching without hesitation, letting him lick her hands like she’d always belonged in that space. your mom loved her before dessert. your dad asked her about school, about practice, about her goals, and she answered respectfully, steady, eyes clear in a way that didn’t feel rehearsed.
you remember meeting her dad too, sitting at her kitchen table while her stepmom set out snacks like you were something important. you remember the way she nudged your knee under the table when you got quiet, a small grounding touch, like she’d already figured out the rhythm of you. like she was paying attention.
and then her voice cuts through the memory.
i don’t trust you yet.
your mom’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “tough night?” you shake your head once, eyes still forward. “we won.”
“then what is it?” she asks, softer now.
you swallow; how do you explain that it isn’t about the scoreboard, that it isn’t about twenty-four points or seven assists or the margin glowing bright against a dark gym. how do you explain that it’s about someone who’s met your parents, who’s sat on your couch, who’s thrown a tennis ball for your dog in the backyard, telling you she doesn’t trust you.
that it felt less like basketball and more like distance. you lean your head against the window, cold glass against warm skin, and let the quiet stretch. “nothing,” you say finally.
your mom studies you for a second but doesn’t push. she never does when she knows you’re holding something fragile. the car fills with a different kind of silence now, heavier, thoughtful, the kind that wraps around you instead of leaving.
outside, minnesota looks still, snow untouched, houses glowing softly from inside. inside your chest, nothing feels still at all.
because you trusted her early, maybe too early. trusted the way she stayed after practice to rebound for you. trusted the way she laughed when you teased her about her free throws. trusted the way she looked at you sometimes, not like a rival, not like competition, but like something softer she wasn’t ready to name.
and now you’re left wondering if you misread it. if you built something in your head that hasn’t fully formed in hers as your mom pulls into the driveway and the porch light is on, warm and familiar. you can already picture your dog waiting at the door, paws against the wood, tail thumping because to him nothing has shifted.
before you reach for the handle, your mom says quietly, “i’m proud of you.”
you nod—but pride isn’t what you’re carrying tonight it’s something quieter, something that sits low and steady beneath your ribs. something that feels like hurt and hope tangled together. something that feels like wanting her to choose you—on the court, in the quiet, in the spaces that matter—without having to be convinced first.
morning comes too fast, like it skipped the part where you were supposed to rest. your alarm cuts through the quiet and you shut it off before the second ring, staring at the ceiling while pale light presses through your curtains in thin, stubborn lines. you didn’t sleep much. every time you drifted off you heard it again—i don’t trust you yet—softer each time, but never lighter, never easier to hold. the words don’t echo loud anymore, they just sit there, steady, like something placed carefully on your chest.
you roll onto your side and stare at the wall for a second longer than you mean to before forcing yourself up. the floor is cold under your feet. you move through your routine without thinking, brushing your teeth, splashing water on your face, pulling your hair back into something simple. you choose a hoodie without really seeing it, just reaching for whatever is closest, whatever feels familiar. when you lace your shoes, you tug the strings tighter than necessary, pulling until your fingers ache, like tension can be drawn into something clean and symmetrical if you just focus hard enough.
your dog follows you down the hallway, nails clicking softly against hardwood, tail brushing your calf every few steps. he doesn’t know anything shifted last night. he doesn’t know about locker rooms or pride or trust. he just knows you’re leaving and he wants to be near you for as long as he can. you crouch for a second and press your forehead lightly against his, breathing in the comfort of something uncomplicated.
outside, the air is sharp and bright. minnesota mornings feel colder than they need to be, like the sky is always trying to prove something. your mom drives quietly, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. when she pulls up to the curb, she squeezes your shoulder before you step out, not asking questions, just reminding you she’s there.
the hallways are already alive when you walk in. lockers slam. laughter bounces off tile. someone replays a highlight from last night on their phone, the sound tinny but unmistakable. you hear the score again—eighty-three to forty-three—hear your name, hear hers right after it, paired together like a headline that writes itself. you keep your eyes forward.
you don’t look for her.
you don’t have to.
you feel her the same way you did the first time she checked into a game against you—that subtle shift in the room, the way attention leans without meaning to. she’s at her locker, laughing at something someone says, hair falling loose around her shoulders, one hand resting against the metal door. for a second your eyes almost stay too long.
you make them move, you walk past without slowing down, shoulders straight, expression neutral.
first period feels heavier than it should. you take your seat before the bell rings, notebook already open, pen in your hand like you’re prepared for something important. the chair beside you scrapes lightly against the floor a few minutes later. you don’t look, but you recognize the rhythm of her movements now—the quiet drop of her bag, the soft exhale before she sits, the way she adjusts her sleeve.
the teacher begins talking and you focus so hard your temples start to throb. you write down sentences without absorbing them, underline phrases you won’t remember. halfway through the period, something slides gently onto your desk.
a folded piece of paper, neatly creased as your pulse shifts anyway. you keep your eyes on the board. you don’t touch it. you don’t even glance down. you can feel her attention in the corner of your vision, steady and patient, waiting for some kind of reaction.
the paper sits there for a full minute, then two.
you ignore it. eventually she reaches over and taps it once with her finger, subtle but deliberate, like she’s testing how far your silence will go. you keep writing. your pen moves in straight lines that don’t match how your chest feels.
a quiet exhale leaves her.
the chair shifts back. she stands without raising her hand, mutters something about the bathroom, and walks toward the door. for a second you think that’s it, that she’ll let it sit between you untouched.
but she doesn’t.
before stepping out, she circles back around your desk. you finally glance up because she’s close now, close enough that the air feels thinner. she doesn’t speak. she just places the note directly in front of you this time, closer, impossible to pretend it doesn’t exist.
her fingers linger on the edge for half a second.
then she flips it over.
— p.b.
not her full name, not dramatic just initials like you would recognize them anywhere. she holds your gaze for a beat. not defensive, not sharp. not the girl from the locker room standing tall behind pride. just quieter, in a way uncertain in a way she never is under bright lights.
then she walks out. the classroom noise rushes back in around you. chairs creak, someone coughs as the teacher keeps talking like nothing has shifted.
you look down at the folded paper, your hands hesitate ignoring her across a court was easy. pride made sense under noise and adrenaline. this feels different; this feels private, and yet so fragile.
slowly, you unfold it.
her handwriting is neat, slightly slanted, careful in a way you wouldn’t expect from someone who plays as fast as she does.
i’m not used to sharing the floor.
i’ve always had the ball in my hands. i’ve always been the one they trust.
when you came here, it felt like i was supposed to compete with you, not trust you.
that’s not your fault.
last night wasn’t about you being open. i saw you. i just…hesitated.
and i don’t like that i did.
— p.b.
you read it once then again she said she didn’t trust you but she wrote that she hesitated and hesitation isn’t the same as doubt.
you sit there for a long second, the paper open between your hands, the words steady and unguarded in a way her voice wasn’t. this isn’t arrogance inked in confidence. this is someone admitting they felt threatened, someone admitting they faltered.
you fold the note carefully, slower this time, smoothing the crease with your thumb, the hurt from last night doesn’t disappear, it shifts less sharp—less defensive more like something that might, if you let it, turn into understanding instead of distance.
you don’t realize you’ve been staring at the folded paper until the bell rings and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping back, voices rising, the normal chaos of transition swallowing whatever quiet moment you were sitting in. you slide the note into the front pocket of your hoodie instead of your backpack, closer than it needs to be, like it matters where it rests, like proximity might change what it means.
she’s not back yet, and you tell yourself that doesn’t bother you, that it doesn’t matter whether she comes through that door or not, but your eyes still flick up once before you leave.
second period passes in a blur you don’t register, you answer a question when your name is called, nod when someone makes a joke about last night, move through the hallway with the same steady expression you’ve perfected over years of cameras and commentary and expectations. you know how to look unaffected, you know how to let things roll off you in public, but your fingers keep brushing the edge of that folded paper like it’s there to remind you this isn’t just noise.
by lunch you finally see her again.
she’s at the far end of the cafeteria with a few teammates, tray untouched in front of her, fork balanced loosely in her hand like she forgot what she was doing. she looks up when you walk in, and it’s subtle, the way her posture shifts, shoulders straightening just slightly, like she’s bracing for something without wanting anyone else to notice.
your friends are already waving you over, calling your name, sliding over to make room.
you go to them, you sit down as you talk about homework and practice later and how coach is probably going to make you run because even forty-point wins aren’t enough around here, you laugh at the right moments, nod when someone says you two are unstoppable, pretend that word doesn’t sit strangely in your chest.
and you feel her looking at you not constantly just enough. at some point you glance up without meaning to and she’s still watching, not intense, not challenging, just waiting, like she’s trying to read whether the note changed anything.
you break eye contact first because this isn’t the court, there’s no scoreboard here to hide behind, no crowd to drown out the quiet.
practice comes after school and the gym feels different than it did last night, quieter but still charged, sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, coach’s whistle cutting sharp through the air. drills start simple, passing, spacing, timing, the fundamentals that decide whether talent turns into trust.
you line up opposite her for a three-man weave, the two of you at the top like you’ve done this a hundred times already.
the first run is clean, automatic. the second, the ball comes to her at the top of the key and you cut hard, fast, without hesitation for a split second you think she might pause again.
she doesn’t.
the pass is sharp, direct, right into your hands without you breaking stride, you finish the layup smooth and controlled, not flashy, not forced.
no words, you jog back and by third rep, she calls your name before you even cut, it’s small and almost lost under the echo of the gym, but it’s intentional, deliberate in a way that makes your chest shift slightly. the pass comes earlier this time, quicker, like she trusts the angle before it fully opens, and you catch it, glance once at the rim, then swing it to the corner for the assist instead of taking the shot yourself.
she notices—you can feel it in the way her head tilts just slightly, in the way she nods once as you reset.
practice ends with sprints, lungs burning, legs heavy, everyone collapsing near the baseline when coach finally blows the last whistle. girls start filing out in clusters, laughing, complaining about homework, about how tired they are.
she stays back to grab her water bottle—you stay too.
for a second it feels like that first empty-gym afternoon all over again, the one where rivalry softened into something quieter without either of you admitting it.
she walks over slowly, not dramatic, not rushed, just close enough that you don’t have to raise your voice.
“you read it,” she says.
it’s not a question. “yeah,” you answer, steady. a small pause, then she nods like she didn’t know what she would’ve done if you said no, like she was bracing for rejection and didn’t want to show it.
“okay,” she murmurs. you shift your weight, glance at the floor for half a second before meeting her eyes. “you hesitated.”
she exhales, something almost like a laugh but not quite, more relief than humor. “i did.” you study her for a moment, the girl who never hesitates on a fast break, who never doubts a shot under pressure.
“don’t,” you say, not sharp, not accusing, just honest.
her eyes flick up to yours, surprised by how simple that sounds, surprised that you aren’t angrier, louder, more defensive.
“i won’t,” she replies.
and this time it doesn’t sound like pride, doesn’t sound like someone protecting their spotlight.
it sounds like promise, quiet and real, like the first step toward something that isn’t about headlines or rivalry or who gets the ball last.
it sounds like trust beginning, even if neither of you say the word out loud.
you don’t realize you’ve been staring at the folded paper until the bell rings and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping back, voices rising, the normal chaos of transition swallowing whatever quiet moment you were sitting in. you slide the note into the front pocket of your hoodie instead of your backpack, closer than it needs to be, like it matters where it rests, like proximity might change what it means.
she’s not back yet, and you tell yourself that doesn’t bother you, that it doesn’t matter whether she comes through that door or not, but your eyes still flick up once before you leave.
second period passes in a blur you don’t register, you answer a question when your name is called, nod when someone makes a joke about last night, move through the hallway with the same steady expression you’ve perfected over years of cameras and commentary and expectations. you know how to look unaffected, you know how to let things roll off you in public, but your fingers keep brushing the edge of that folded paper like it’s there to remind you this isn’t just noise.
by lunch you finally see her again.
she’s at the far end of the cafeteria with a few teammates, tray untouched in front of her, fork balanced loosely in her hand like she forgot what she was doing. she looks up when you walk in, and it’s subtle, the way her posture shifts, shoulders straightening just slightly, like she’s bracing for something without wanting anyone else to notice.
your friends are already waving you over, calling your name, sliding over to make room.
you go to them, you sit down as you talk about homework and practice later and how coach is probably going to make you run because even forty-point wins aren’t enough around here, you laugh at the right moments, nod when someone says you two are unstoppable, pretend that word doesn’t sit strangely in your chest.
and you feel her looking at you not constantly just enough. at some point you glance up without meaning to and she’s still watching, not intense, not challenging, just waiting, like she’s trying to read whether the note changed anything.
you break eye contact first because this isn’t the court, there’s no scoreboard here to hide behind, no crowd to drown out the quiet.
practice comes after school and the gym feels different than it did last night, quieter but still charged, sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, coach’s whistle cutting sharp through the air. drills start simple, passing, spacing, timing, the fundamentals that decide whether talent turns into trust.
you line up opposite her for a three-man weave, the two of you at the top like you’ve done this a hundred times already.
the first run is clean, automatic. the second, the ball comes to her at the top of the key and you cut hard, fast, without hesitation.
for a split second you think she might pause again.
she doesn’t as the pass is sharp, direct, right into your hands without you breaking stride, you finish the layup smooth and controlled, not flashy, not forced.
no words.
you jog back by the third rep, she calls your name before you even cut, it’s small and almost lost under the echo of the gym, but it’s intentional, deliberate in a way that makes your chest shift slightly. the pass comes earlier this time, quicker, like she trusts the angle before it fully opens, and you catch it, glance once at the rim, then swing it to the corner for the assist instead of taking the shot yourself.
she notices.
you can feel it in the way her head tilts just slightly, in the way she nods once as you reset.
practice ends with sprints, lungs burning, legs heavy, everyone collapsing near the baseline when coach finally blows the last whistle. girls start filing out in clusters, laughing, complaining about homework, about how tired they are.
she stays back to grab her water bottle, you stay too and for a second it feels like that first empty-gym afternoon all over again, the one where rivalry softened into something quieter without either of you admitting it.
she walks over slowly, not dramatic, not rushed, just close enough that you don’t have to raise your voice. “you read it,” she says. it’s not a question.
“yeah,” you answer, steady. a small pause, then she nods like she didn’t know what she would’ve done if you said no, like she was bracing for rejection and didn’t want to show it. “okay,” she murmurs.
you shift your weight, glance at the floor for half a second before meeting her eyes. “you hesitated.” she exhales, something almost like a laugh but not quite, more relief than humor. “i did.”
you study her for a moment, the girl who never hesitates on a fast break, who never doubts a shot under pressure. “don’t,” you say, not sharp, not accusing, just honest.
her eyes flick up to yours, surprised by how simple that sounds, surprised that you aren’t angrier, louder, more defensive.
“i won’t,” she replies and this time it doesn’t sound like pride, doesn’t sound like someone protecting their spotlight.
it sounds like a promise, quiet and real, like the first step toward something that isn’t about headlines or rivalry or who gets the ball last and yet it sounds like trust beginning, even if neither of you say the word out loud.
senior year feels different, not louder, not brighter, just heavier in a way neither of you say out loud. hopkins still smells the same, that mix of polished wood and old banners, the gym still echoing with every dribble, every whistle, your names stitched high above like history already decided you mattered. but something between you and her has shifted, stretched thin over something small that somehow became too big. it was a stupid fight, the kind that starts over nothing—a comment taken the wrong way, a practice where tempers were short, jealousy neither of you wanted to name—and somehow it ended with silence that lasted longer than it ever should have.
you’re still friends, technically, you sit near each other at team dinners, laugh at the same jokes, share glances during games when something chaotic happens on the court. you still know how she moves before she moves, still feel when she’s about to pull up instead of drive, still cut at the exact second she lifts her head. the chemistry never left the hardwood, it never could. but off it, there’s space, and space can be louder than yelling, louder than any argument you could’ve finished.
college talk is everywhere now, recruiters calling, emails stacking up, coaches standing along the baseline pretending not to stare. your name has been on highlight reels for years, espn still pairing you together like a headline that refuses to separate, like minnesota built something special and doesn’t want to let it go. uconn has been calling you for years, quietly at first, then seriously, then with a tone that feels less like a question and more like inevitability.
you visited in the fall without telling her, walked through those halls, saw the banners, felt the weight of legacy pressing down in a way that didn’t scare you, just steadied you. it felt like expectation instead of pressure, like something you could grow into instead of something chasing you. you liked the cold there, liked the way it reminded you of minnesota but sharper, more focused.
you committed two weeks ago, signed the paper in your living room with your parents watching, your dog asleep at your feet like nothing monumental was happening. your mom cried quietly, your dad squeezed your shoulder, and you smiled for the camera, composed, steady.
you didn’t tell her because you haven’t really been talking and because the last real conversation you had ended with sharp words and pride and both of you deciding to protect yourselves instead of fix it.
because she’s been quieter too.
you heard through someone else—not her—that she committed as well. you found out the same way everyone else did, an instagram story, a caption, blue and white emojis, congratulations flooding in. you stared at your phone longer than you meant to, thumb hovering over her name, not typing, not calling.
neither of you texted.
the first game of senior season is electric, packed gym, cameras lining the baseline, the usual noise turned up a notch because everyone knows this is the last year of something. you stand at the free throw line and she’s at the wing, and for a second it feels like freshman year again, like rivalry and longing and everything in between never complicated itself. you make eye contact, it lingers half a second too long, long enough to remember what it felt like when you were closer.
the pass she throws you later in the third quarter is perfect, threaded through two defenders like muscle memory never forgot, like silence never touched it. you finish without hesitation, smooth and controlled, the crowd roaring as if this is what they’ve been waiting for.
you don’t celebrate, you just glance at her—she nods once.
it’s small, but it means everything after the game, reporters crowd around both of you, asking about the future, about next year, about how it feels to represent hopkins one last time. microphones hover too close, cameras blinking red.
“we’re focused on this season,” you both say, almost in sync and that’s the truth but it’s not the whole truth.
because next year you’ll both be in connecticut, under the same banners, wearing the same jersey, and neither of you have said it out loud.
that night, senior banners hanging fresh above the court, you sit alone in the bleachers long after everyone leaves, gym lights dimmer now, softer, shadows stretching across the hardwood. you trace the lines of the court with your eyes, the places you’ve memorized, the spots where everything changed once before.
you hear footsteps.
you don’t have to turn around to know it’s her; she sits two seats away, not touching, not far, close enough that you feel the warmth of her presence without brushing shoulders.
“you going to tell me,” she says quietly, staring at the court instead of you, “or were you just going to let me find out with everyone else?”
your breath catches, subtle but real.
so she knows.
you look at her profile, older now, sharper, but still the same girl who once passed you a folded note signed in small neat letters, still the same girl who learned to trust you one pass at a time.
“i was going to tell you,” you say, steady but softer than you expect.
“when?” you don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound weak, so you don’t give one right away. she exhales slowly, shoulders dropping just slightly. “i didn’t think we’d let something stupid carry this far.”
“neither did i.”
the silence that follows isn’t angry, isn’t defensive, just tired of pretending distance feels safer than honesty.
“i’m going,” she says softly, like she needs to hear it spoken between you.
“i know.”
“are you?”
you nod.
for the first time in months, something close to a smile tugs at her mouth, not amused, not mocking, just relieved, like a weight she didn’t realize she was carrying finally shifted.
“guess we’re not done with each other,” she murmurs.
you look out at the empty court, at the lines you’ve memorized, at the place where rivalry turned into something softer once before and where maybe it could again.
“i never thought we were,” you admit and the silence that settles between you now doesn’t feel like space anymore, doesn’t feel like distance or pride or something left unfinished.
it feels like possibility, quiet and steady, like the beginning of something neither of you are brave enough to name yet, but both of you are finally ready to stop running from.
the drive home feels longer than it should, even though you’ve taken this road a thousand times, past the same frozen lakes, the same streetlights, the same houses with porches you could probably sketch from memory. senior season is over, banners taken down, lockers cleaned out, the finality of it settling in slowly instead of all at once. you’re leaving in the morning, heading to connecticut, heading toward something that feels both inevitable and fragile.
your mom talks softly about logistics from the passenger seat, about departure times and hotel confirmations, about how your dad already loaded most of the bigger bags. you nod at the right moments, but your mind isn’t on directions or suitcases, it’s on the gym, on the bleachers, on the way she said guess we’re not done with each other like it was both a question and a promise.
when you pull into the driveway, the house looks the same as it always has, porch light warm against the evening air. your dog meets you at the door, tail thumping against the wall, unaware that tomorrow shifts everything. you crouch and hug him tighter than usual, breathing in the familiarity of it.
your room is half empty now, posters taken down, shelves cleared, trophies wrapped in newspaper and stacked carefully in boxes. the walls look bare without your history on them. it feels strange seeing space where there used to be proof.
you kneel by the last open box on your floor, folding a hoodie you’ve had since freshman year, the fabric soft from too many washes. when you lift it, something flutters out and lands near your knee.
a folded piece of paper neatly creased as your chest tightens before you even pick it up but you know what it is.
you sit back on your heels slowly, the room quieter than it’s ever been, and unfold it carefully, like it might fall apart if you rush.
her handwriting hasn’t changed in your memory.
i’m not used to sharing the floor.
i’ve always had the ball in my hands. i’ve always been the one they trust.
when you came here, it felt like i was supposed to compete with you, not trust you.
that’s not your fault.
last night wasn’t about you being open. i saw you. i just….hesitated.
and i don’t like that i did.
— p.b.
you read it again, even though you could probably recite it by heart.
freshman year feels like another lifetime now, two girls stubborn and proud, circling each other carefully, learning trust one pass at a time. you remember how your hands shook when you first unfolded this, how hurt and relief tangled together in your chest. you remember deciding to believe her.
so much changed after that.
you became inseparable for a while, late practices turning into late-night drives, rivalry dissolving into something softer neither of you named out loud. then senior year came, pride resurfaced, distance growing where there used to be easy closeness.
and still, this note survived.
you smooth the crease with your thumb, eyes tracing the slight curve of her letters, the way she pressed harder on certain words like she needed them to mean more.
i hesitated.
back then, hesitation was the problem now, you wonder if you both hesitated again, just in different ways.
you glance around your half-empty room, at the boxes labeled college, at the suitcase waiting by the door. tomorrow you’ll be on the same campus, wearing the same colors, walking the same halls. tomorrow, there won’t be space for pride the way there was here.
your phone buzzes on your desk, your heart jumps before you can stop it, her name lights up the screen and for a second you just stare at it, the note still open in your lap, freshman year staring back at you in ink and honesty.
you answer. “hey,” you say softly.
there’s a pause on the other end, then her voice, quieter than usual but steady. “you packing?” you look down at the paper again, at the words that started everything once before. “yeah,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your mouth, “i found something.”
“what?”
you hesitate, just for a second not out of fear but out of memory. “a note,” you say. “from freshman year.”
silence stretches between you, not awkward, just aware. “you kept that?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone that sounds like hope. “yeah,” you answer.
another pause, softer this time. “guess we’ve both been holding onto things,” she murmurs. you fold the paper carefully, not hiding it away, not shoving it into a box, just holding it for a moment longer.
“guess we have,” you agree.
and as you sit there, room half empty, future waiting, the weight in your chest doesn’t feel like distance anymore it feels like something unfinished, finally ready to be finished the right way.
the drive to connecticut feels longer than minnesota ever did, your car packed tight with suitcases and duffel bags and the last pieces of a life you’ve been slowly folding away, your dad driving the first half while your mom turns around every so often to ask if you’re warm enough, if you’re hungry, if you’re nervous, and you keep saying you’re fine because you are, mostly, because this is what you wanted even if wanting something doesn’t make it easy. it’s your first day at uconn, move-in day, the start of something you’ve been circling for years, and when the campus finally rises into view with brick buildings and banners and history stitched into every corner, your chest tightens in a way that feels like excitement pretending not to be fear.
your car is fully packed, the trunk barely closing, your parents laughing about how you somehow brought your entire room with you, and when you pull up to the dorm there’s chaos everywhere, upperclassmen directing traffic, shouting instructions, carrying boxes like this happens every day. it doesn’t feel routine to you. your heart beats faster the second your shoes hit the sidewalk, the air different here, sharper, focused, like everyone is already moving toward something big.
your parents help you unload everything, your dad balancing two boxes at once like he refuses to admit he’s tired, your mom carrying your bedding and reminding you to text when you’re settled, and you try to memorize the way they look standing there, proud and emotional and pretending not to be. you hug them quickly because lingering makes it harder.
when you step inside the room, it’s already half set up.
string lights pinned along one wall, a comforter spread tight over a made bed, shoes lined up with careful symmetry, everything neat in a way that feels intentional. you pause in the doorway for half a second before a voice cuts through the quiet.
“you must be my roommate.”
you look up and see her, azzi fudd, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her phone in her hand, smiling easy and open like she’s been waiting for you. she tells you it’s her third day on campus, she came early for workouts and orientation, already knows where the best dining hall is, already figured out which stairwell not to use because it smells weird, and you laugh before you mean to because something about her is effortless, comfortable in a way that makes the nerves settle.
you introduce yourself even though you both obviously know who the other is, because that’s how this works, two highly recruited players pretending this is normal, and within ten minutes you’re both sitting on the floor surrounded by half-opened boxes, comparing hometown stories and high school chaos like you’ve been doing this longer than a day.
“i watched your senior highlights,” she says casually, not fangirling, just honest. “that step-back was crazy.”
you shrug even though you’re smiling. “i watched yours too.”
her grin widens.
your parents hover a little longer, helping you sort things into drawers, your mom smoothing your blanket twice before she finally says goodbye, your dad squeezing your shoulders like he always does before big games. when they leave, the room feels bigger and smaller at the same time, quiet settling in where their voices used to be.
azzi helps you make your bed without being asked, shifts your boxes out of the walkway so you won’t trip later, hands you a hanger when she sees you struggling with one, and it’s easy, fast, like friendship didn’t need permission or buildup, just proximity and shared understanding.
by evening your side of the room looks lived in, hoodies folded, shoes tucked away, photos taped lightly to the wall. you and azzi sit on your beds with your legs stretched out, talking about practice tomorrow, about rumors of how intense the coaching staff is, about how weird it feels to finally be here after years of hearing about it.
your phone buzzes.
you glance down.
her name.
paige.
you hesitate for half a second before answering, turning slightly away without meaning to.
“you moved in?” she asks, no greeting, just straight to it.
“yeah,” you say, glancing at azzi who pretends not to listen but absolutely is. “just finished unpacking.”
“who’d they room you with?”
“azzi.”
there’s a pause on the other end, not long, just enough to notice.
“oh,” she says, tone controlled, neutral in a way that sounds practiced. “already friends?”
you look at azzi across from you, the way she’s scrolling through her phone, the way she offered earlier to show you around campus, the way she made this unfamiliar place feel less overwhelming.
“yeah,” you answer honestly. “she’s cool.”
another small pause.
“that was fast,” paige replies, and you can’t tell if it’s teasing or something sharper hiding underneath.
you lean back against your pillow. “it’s move-in, everyone’s trying.”
she hums softly, and you picture her wherever she is, probably unpacked in record time, probably already knowing the gym schedule by heart.
“practice is early,” she says finally. “don’t oversleep.”
“i won’t.”
there’s something unsaid sitting between you, something familiar and tight, the same tension that’s followed you since senior year, since all the things neither of you said when you should’ve.
“see you tomorrow,” she adds.
“yeah,” you say softly.
you hang up and azzi raises an eyebrow. “that was her?”
you nod.
“she sounded…intense,” azzi says lightly, teasing but curious.
you roll your eyes, warmth creeping in anyway. “she’s just competitive.”
“about basketball?” azzi asks.
you hesitate.
“about everything,” you admit.
later that night the lights are off, the room quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner, azzi already half asleep across from you, and you stare up at the ceiling thinking about the way paige’s voice shifted when you said azzi’s name, the way it tightened just slightly like she didn’t mean for you to hear it.
jealousy looks different on her now, quieter, more controlled, but you know her well enough to recognize it, and as you lie there in a brand new room hundreds of miles from home, you can’t help wondering if maybe it isn’t just about basketball anymore, if maybe whatever this is between you followed you all the way here and is waiting to be figured out.
practice starts early, the kind of early where the gym lights feel too bright and everyone’s voices sound softer than usual, shoes squeaking as people trickle in one by one, duffel bags dropped near the baseline, laughter mixing with nerves because even the best players in the country are still figuring each other out on day one. you step onto the court beside azzi and it already feels easier than it should, like you’ve been teammates longer than a few hours, the two of you stretching side by side while music plays low in the background.
geno’s voice cuts through the noise before warmups even begin, sharp but familiar from years of watching him on tv, and suddenly everyone straightens a little. chris and marisa move around the court setting things up, tossing balls into racks, calling out drills, the rhythm of a program that’s run this way for years.
you glance around and realize this is real now.
olivia laughing near the sideline. christyn tying her shoes tighter. nika bouncing a ball like she’s impatient to start. aaliyah stretching quietly, focused already. evina joking with anna while caroline adjusts her ponytail. everyone moving like pieces of something bigger that you’re only just stepping into.
and somehow, within minutes, it feels natural.
you and azzi fall into drills together, passing quick and clean, laughing when one of you misses a read, nudging each other during water breaks like you’ve always done this. she’s easy to joke with, easy to trust, and the more you move the more the nerves fade. the team energy pulls you in fast, conversations happening between reps, people asking where you’re from, how move-in went, what you thought of campus food.
you answer, you laugh, you settle and every time you laugh with someone new, you feel it that quiet shift in the air, paige
she’s on the other side of the court, hair pulled back, expression focused, moving through drills like she’s trying to outpace her own thoughts. she jokes with nika once, smiles briefly at christyn, but her attention keeps sliding back to you, almost involuntary, like she’s checking something without meaning to.
during shooting drills, you and azzi end up in the same line, teasing each other over who missed more warmup shots. “that didn’t count,” azzi mutters when her three rims out, and you laugh so hard you miss your next one too.
the sound carries. you catch paige looking over. her jaw tightens just slightly before she turns away and drains her next shot without touching rim.
scrimmage starts and the energy changes, everyone more serious now, movements sharper. you end up on azzi’s side first, the two of you running in sync, cutting instinctively, the chemistry coming faster than expected. you throw her a pass in transition and she finishes clean, grinning as she jogs back.
“we’re cooking already,” she says under her breath. you laugh, breathless. on the next possession you hear your name paige’s voice.
you look up and the pass hits your hands perfectly, threaded through traffic, precise like she’s been waiting to prove something. you finish at the rim and glance back at her.
she doesn’t smile just nods once, like that was supposed to happen.
scrimmage goes on and the gym gets louder, sneakers squeaking, coaches yelling adjustments, balls slapping against hardwood. you move between lineups, playing with everyone, building rhythm fast. by the end of practice you’re laughing with nika about her trash talk, talking footwork with aaliyah, joking with evina about who’s going to survive conditioning tomorrow.
it happens quickly you belong.
and that’s exactly when you notice the way paige’s energy shifts, quieter but heavier, like she’s carrying something she doesn’t know how to say. she plays harder every rep you’re on the court, drives sharper, passes quicker, like she’s trying to remind everyone—maybe herself—where her place is.
during a water break, you and azzi sit side by side, shoulders bumping while you catch your breath. azzi leans over, whispering something ridiculous that makes you laugh again, and out of the corner of your eye you see paige watching.
not angry, way worse protective.
intense in that quiet way she gets when something matters too much.
geno blows the whistle and everyone resets. next drill pairs you and paige together. the two of you stand across from each other, balls in hand, silence hanging for half a second.
“having fun?” she asks, tone light but eyes searching. you shrug slightly. “yeah. everyone’s nice.”
she nods, spinning the ball in her hands. “good.” but the word sounds tight, controlled, like she’s holding something back.
you run the drill and she goes hard, faster than necessary, pushing you to keep up, pushing herself even harder. when you score on her once she smirks faintly, competitive fire flashing.
there it is that familiar edge.
the sense that she would burn through anything standing between her and what she cares about, not out of anger but devotion, loyalty wrapped in intensity.
practice ends with everyone exhausted, jerseys damp, laughter returning as the tension fades. girls gather their things, talking about food and showers and how dead their legs already feel. you stay back for a second, stretching near midcourt.
paige walks past you, slowing just enough. “you fit in fast,” she says quietly. you glance up. “is that a problem?” she shakes her head, small smile tugging at her mouth. “no.”
a beat. “just…don’t forget who you run best with,” she adds, voice softer, almost teasing but not entirely.
then she walks away before you can answer, joining nika and christyn near the exit. you stand there for a second longer, heartbeat still high from practice but something else layered underneath it now.
because today felt easy too easy—and the way she looked at you, like she’d protect something even if it meant tearing through everything else first, sits quietly in your chest as you grab your bag and follow the team out, wondering how long it will take before whatever this is finally stops pretending to be just basketball.
you and azzi leave the gym side by side, bags slung over your shoulders, the late afternoon air cooler than you expect after the heat of practice, both of you moving a little slower from tired legs but still buzzing from the energy of the first real run. campus feels louder now, students crossing between buildings, bikes weaving past, everyone moving with purpose while you and her walk like you’re trying to stretch the moment a little longer.
“i didn’t realize college practice would feel that intense already,” azzi says, laughing softly, adjusting the strap of her bag.
you glance at her. “you literally looked fine the whole time.”
“that’s called pretending,” she replies, and you laugh, the sound easy between you.
you talk about little things on the walk back, where you’re from, the weird adjustment of being around people who are all just as good as you, how strange it feels not being the only star in the gym anymore. she tells you about arriving early, about wandering campus alone the first night because she couldn’t sleep, about how quiet it felt until everyone else got here.
you tell her you almost turned around twice on the drive because leaving home felt heavier than you expected she nods like she understands without needing details.
by the time you reach the dorm, the conversation feels natural, less like getting to know someone and more like settling into rhythm. you both drop your bags by the door and collapse onto your beds at the same time, laughing at how synchronized that looked.
“i think i’m going to sleep for twelve hours,” azzi mutters, throwing her arm over her face. you smile, but your phone buzzes with a reminder.
class.
you groan quietly. “i forgot i actually have somewhere to be.” azzi peeks over at you. “already?” “yeah,” you say, sitting up and pulling your hoodie back on. “first day and they’re already making us be responsible.”
she laughs. “tragic.” you grab your notebook and keys, pausing by the door. “don’t rearrange the whole room without me.”
“no promises,” she replies. the walk to class feels different from the walk back from practice, slower, your body finally noticing how tired it is. your legs ache climbing the stairs, your mind drifting back to the gym—the passes, the laughter, the way paige watched you sometimes without meaning to.
class passes in a blur of introductions and syllabi you barely absorb, your pen moving automatically while your brain catches up to the day. people whisper about basketball when they recognize you, subtle glances, quiet curiosity. you’re used to it by now, but it still feels strange in a new place.
when it finally ends, the sky outside is darker, campus lights flickering on one by one. you walk back to the dorm slower, exhaustion settling into your shoulders, the day catching up all at once. you expect the room to be quiet when you open the door.
it’s not. azzi is sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone, music playing softly from somewhere in the room. she looks up immediately. “hey,” she says. “how was class?” you drop your bag with a sigh. “i already forgot everything they said.”
she laughs. “same energy.” you kick off your shoes and sit down, letting yourself relax for the first time all day. the room feels warmer now, lived in, less temporary. “someone stopped by,” azzi says casually. you look up. “who?” she shrugs lightly. “paige.”
your stomach does something small and annoying. “oh,” you say, trying to sound neutral. “she just asked if you were here,” azzi continues. “i said you had class.” you nod slowly. “did she say anything else?” azzi tilts her head. “not really. she kinda…looked around the room though.”
you laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “what?” azzi asks, curious. “nothing,” you say, but you’re smiling slightly because you can picture it clearly—paige standing in the doorway, quiet, observing, taking in the space where you’re starting over, trying to understand where she fits in it.
you lean back against your pillow, the weight of the day finally pressing down, but it feels lighter now somehow. azzi starts telling you about a random conversation she had in the dining hall, and you listen, half focused, half drifting.
your phone lights up again. a text this time.
paige: you survive class?
you stare at it for a second, thumb hovering. then you type back.
“barely.”
her reply comes fast.
“good. need you alive for practice tomorrow.”
you smile before you can stop yourself. azzi notices. “that her again?” you nod. she grins knowingly but doesn’t push, just goes back to talking about something funny nika said earlier.
you settle deeper into your bed, listening, laughing when you need to, the day slowly softening around you and somewhere underneath the exhaustion, underneath the newness of everything, you feel it again—that quiet pull between you and paige, not loud, not dramatic, just steady, like something that followed you here and refuses to be left behind.
sleep pulls you under before you even realize you’re tired, your body heavy from practice, your brain finally quiet enough to let go. the room stays dim and calm, azzi’s breathing soft across from you, the kind of quiet that makes the new place feel almost familiar. for a few hours everything pauses, no expectations, no decisions, just rest.
morning doesn’t feel kind.
your alarm goes off too early, sunlight barely filtering through the blinds, and your body protests the second you sit up. your legs already ache from yesterday, your shoulders tight, and you stare at the ceiling for a moment trying to remember where you are before the reality settles in—uconn, classes, practice later, a full day already waiting for you.
azzi groans from her bed. “tell me we don’t have to be functioning humans today.” you laugh softly. “five classes.” she throws a pillow over her face in despair. the day moves fast and slow at the same time, walking across campus with your backpack heavier than it should be, introductions blending together, professors talking about syllabi and deadlines like you’ve been here forever instead of barely a week.
by class three you’re already over it, pen moving but your brain lagging behind. by class four you’re staring at the clock more than your notes, and by class five your professor casually assigns homework due next week like it’s nothing. you blink at the page already college doesn’t wait.
when class finally ends you step outside, air cool against your face, exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. your phone buzzes and you expect maybe a teammate or azzi, but instead it’s a message from an upperclassman you barely know yet.
“party tonight. you and your roommate should come.”
you stare at it longer than you mean to—a party feels like the last thing you want right now. when you get back to the dorm, azzi is halfway through changing, music playing low while she sorts through her clothes.
“long day?” she asks without looking up. “five classes,” you sigh, dropping your bag dramatically. “and homework already.” she laughs. “welcome to college.”
you hesitate before holding up your phone. “also…got invited to a party.” azzi perks up immediately. “wait really?”
“yeah,” you say, falling onto your bed. “i don’t wanna go though. i’m tired.” she studies you for a second, head tilted. “you should go.” you groan. “azzi.”
“no seriously,” she says, walking over. “we’re new here, everyone’s trying to get to know each other. you don’t have to stay long, just go, show your face.” you hesitate. she softens a little. “it’ll be fun. and i’ll go with you.”
that makes it easier after a moment when you nod slowly. “fine. but if it’s weird, we leave.” “deal,” she says, already opening your closet. “okay, what are you wearing.” you end up standing in front of the mirror while azzi judges options like it’s a serious competition, tossing things onto the bed until she finally holds up something and nods decisively.
“this.”
you change, pulling on the outfit she picked, adjusting it uncertainly once you’re done. the top feels a little more bold than usual, paired with jeans that sit perfectly, layered necklaces catching light when you move.
you turn toward her. “is this too much?” azzi’s eyes widen slightly. “no,” she says immediately. “it’s perfect.” you narrow your eyes. “you’re sure.”
“trust me,” she laughs, fixing a strap slightly. “you look good. like…effortlessly cool good.” you roll your eyes but you’re smiling now, nerves mixing with amusement. she finishes getting ready too, and suddenly the room feels charged with pre-party energy, music louder, laughter easier.
on the walk over, campus feels different at night, music drifting from houses, voices louder, lights glowing warm against the dark. you tug lightly at your sleeves once, still unsure. “relax,” azzi nudges you. “we’re just going to hang out.” you nod, taking a breath as you step inside.
the party is loud but not overwhelming, people talking in clusters, music pulsing through the floor. someone immediately waves you both over, introducing you around, and within minutes you’re laughing at something silly while holding a drink you keep forgetting to sip.
it’s easier than you expected you catch yourself relaxing. azzi stays close, leaning over occasionally to comment on something funny, and for a moment you forget about being tired, about homework, about practice tomorrow.
until you glance toward the doorway and freeze slightly because she’s there.
paige.
standing just inside, eyes scanning the room until they land on you her expression shifts almost imperceptibly when she sees what you’re wearing, the way you’re laughing, the way azzi’s standing close beside you.
not anger something quieter, yet sharper you feel it from across the room, that familiar intensity rising, the kind that never announces itself but fills the space anyway.
azzi notices your attention shift. “you okay?” you nod slowly, but your heart beats a little faster because you suddenly realize tonight might not be as simple as just showing up and the way paige’s gaze doesn’t leave you feels like the beginning of something you’re not sure you’re ready for yet.
the music feels louder the second she walks in, not because it actually is, but because your pulse shifts, because something low in your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with bass or flashing lights. you’re mid-laugh at something azzi said when you feel it, that familiar pull, that subtle awareness you’ve carried since you were fourteen and stubborn and pretending not to look at her from across a gym.
she doesn’t look away when you catch her staring doesn’t pretend she wasn’t she just walks toward you, slow and steady, like she’s already decided something and the only thing left is saying it.
the room feels smaller as she gets closer “can we talk,” she says, voice calm but edged with something underneath it, something tight.
you nod before you think about it, telling azzi you’ll be right back. azzi studies paige for half a second, reads something in her expression, then squeezes your hand lightly like she understands more than she says.
outside the air is cooler, quieter, music muffled behind closed doors. porch lights cast soft shadows across the pavement, yellow against dark, and for a second neither of you speak. she runs a hand through her hair, exhales slowly like she’s been carrying this all day, maybe all year.
“i didn’t plan on coming,” she says finally. “but i heard you were here.” you cross your arms lightly, not defensive, just steady. “and?”
“and i didn’t like it.” you tilt your head. “didn’t like what.” she looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes sharper than usual, less guarded. “the idea of you being here without me,” she says, voice lower now, more honest than it’s been in months. “the idea of you laughing with someone else and it not being me.”
your heart skips in a way that feels too loud for how quiet the night is. she steps closer not enough to touch just enough to feel. “i’ve had feelings for you since freshman year of high school,” she says, the words tumbling out before she can catch them, before pride can interrupt. “since that day i wrote you that note. since you didn’t walk away when i pushed you. since you looked at me like i was more than just competition.”
your breath catches the night feels suspended, like everything else paused to listen. “paige—”
“i was jealous,” she interrupts softly, and there’s no ego in it, no defense. “not because of basketball. because every time you got close to someone else, it felt like i was losing something i never even claimed. like i was watching you drift away and i didn’t know how to stop it.”
the honesty hits harder than anything else, harder than the fight, harder than the silence before you can process it fully, she steps forward and kisses you. it's not tentative, it’s not rushed, it's like she’s been holding it in for years and finally lets herself stop holding back.
for a second you freeze, stunned, breath caught somewhere between surprise and something deeper. her lips are warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense because this is the first time then instinct takes over.
you grab the front of her shirt lightly, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling her back toward you instead of away, your hands pressing against her chest like you need to feel that she’s real. you kiss her back, not careful, not cautious, and it feels like something inside you finally aligning after years of circling each other.
her hands slide to your waist, firm and sure, grounding you, thumbs brushing against the curve of your hips like she’s memorizing the shape of you. your hands move from her chest to her neck, fingers brushing into her hair, holding her there like you’re afraid she’ll disappear if you loosen your grip.
the world narrows to the space between you to the way her breath catches when you pull her closer to the way your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure she can feel it the music inside fades into nothing.
there’s only this when you finally pull back, foreheads almost touching, neither of you speak right away. her hands are still at your waist. yours are still at her neck. the air between you feels charged, fragile, real.
“you could’ve said something,” you whisper, voice softer than you expected. she lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, shaky at the edges. “so could you.” you smile despite yourself because she’s right because every glance across a court, every late-night text, every moment of jealousy and pride and hesitation led here. you trace your thumb along her jaw, slower now, deliberate. “i thought i was the only one.”
“you never were,” she says quietly and as you stand there under dim porch lights, hands still tangled together, you realize this was never just about rivalry or ego or who got the last shot. it was about two people who didn’t know how to admit they wanted more, who hid behind competition because it felt safer than saying the truth.
it was always this always the way she looked at you like you were hers even before she said it always the way you felt steadier when she was near not jealousy not pride just waiting for one of you to finally be brave enough to step first.
you stand there for a second longer than either of you meant to, the night quieter now, the air cooler against your skin but your pulse still warm and unsteady. her hand lingers at your waist until she finally pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes softer than you’re used to seeing, like whatever wall she’s been holding up finally came down.
“we should probably go back,” you say softly, though neither of you moves yet. she nods, small and almost shy, which feels strange for her. “yeah.”
your hands brush when you start walking and this time she doesn’t hesitate, her fingers threading through yours naturally, like it was always supposed to happen that way. it’s simple, the way your palms fit together, but it sends something quiet through you anyway, a kind of calm that feels new and familiar at the same time.
you walk back toward the house slowly, not rushing, listening to the muffled music grow louder with every step. the lights spill through the windows, silhouettes moving inside, laughter drifting out every time the door opens.
“you okay?” she asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. you squeeze her hand lightly. “yeah. just…processing.”
she smiles faintly. “me too.” when you step back inside, the warmth hits you immediately, music loud again, people talking over each other, cups clinking. for a second you wonder if anyone will notice, if it’ll feel obvious, but the moment feels strangely normal, like the world didn’t stop just because yours shifted.
azzi spots you first. her eyes drop to your joined hands and her eyebrows lift slowly, a knowing smile spreading across her face. you feel your cheeks warm a little. paige doesn’t let go. if anything, her grip tightens slightly, protective, steady, like she’s not interested in pretending this didn’t just happen.
“you guys good?” azzi asks, tone casual but curious. “yeah,” you say, unable to stop smiling. paige nods once beside you. “we’re good.” azzi’s smile widens but she doesn’t tease, just shifts over to make space for both of you. conversation picks back up around you, music swelling, someone pulling azzi into a story that makes her laugh loudly.
you stand there for a moment, still hand in hand, taking it in. paige leans closer so only you can hear. “i was worried you’d pull away.” you look up at her. “i almost did.” she winces slightly. “yeah, that’s fair.”
“but i didn’t,” you say quietly. something soft flashes across her face, relief mixed with disbelief, like she’s still catching up to the fact that this is real.
you stay near each other the rest of the night, not glued together but orbiting close, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other again every time the crowd shifts. people talk to you, laugh with you, but everything feels quieter underneath it all, grounded by the way her thumb keeps tracing slow circles against your hand.
at one point she leans down and murmurs, “so…this means i don’t have to pretend anymore?” you smile, turning toward her slightly. “no more pretending.”
she laughs softly, shaking her head like she can’t believe it either and for the first time since you stepped onto uconn’s campus, since freshman year of high school, since that folded note passed across a desk, everything between you feels simple.
not easy, not perfect, just honest and when she squeezes your hand again, standing beside you in the middle of noise and lights and laughter, you realize this is what you’d both been circling for years—not the rivalry, not the tension, but this quiet certainty that feels like coming home in a place that’s still brand new.
the night before minnesota, your suitcase sits open on the dorm floor, half packed, half ignored, jerseys folded with careful hands, sneakers lined up heel to heel at the bottom, headphones tossed in last minute like an afterthought. the room smells faintly like detergent and whatever candle azzi insists on lighting when she studies, something vanilla and too calm for how fast your heart is moving. you reach for one more hoodie draped over the back of your chair and pause.
it’s hers—navy, oversized, sleeves too long, cuffs worn soft from her tugging at them during film sessions. it still smells like her shampoo, like the cologne she swears she doesn’t wear but somehow lingers anyway. you press it to your face for a second, breathing in something steady, then pull it on, letting it swallow you whole azzi watches from her bed, chin propped in her hand. “you’re dramatic.”
“i’m layered,” you reply, tugging the sleeves over your fingers. your phone buzzes against your comforter.
mom: row 12 tomorrow. don’t pretend you didn’t see us.
dad: drop 30 or 40. we’re flexible.
you smile at the screen, chest tightening in that warm, pre-game way, the kind that feels like nerves and pride braided together. minnesota, home state, familiar cold, familiar noise, the place that made you and the place that made her.
paige walks in from across the hall, duffel slung over her shoulder, hair damp from a shower, cheeks still flushed. she looks at the hoodie and smirks.
“that’s mine.”
“was,” you correct lightly. she steps closer, tugging the hem once, eyes lingering on you a second longer than necessary before she leans down and kisses your temple. “bring it back in one piece.”
“no promises.” she leaves like tomorrow is just another game, steady, composed, but you know her well enough to feel the undercurrent on the bus ride to the airport she grabs both bags before you can reach for yours, swinging her duffel over one shoulder and yours over the other like the weight doesn’t exist.
“i’ve got it,” she says when you protest.
you don’t argue in the airplane you take the window seat on the team bus, paige sliding into the aisle beside you. you put your headphones in before the engine even hums, music low and steady, something that lets you sink inward. your head rests against the cool glass and you fall asleep almost instantly, exhaustion from travel and anticipation catching up, the rhythm of the road rocking you under.
paige lets you sleep as her shoulder brushes yours every time the bus turns, her knee steady against your leg like an anchor.
the arena is louder than november should allow, maroon and gold spilling down from the rafters, uconn blue scattered like defiance through the crowd. during warmups you find row 12 without trying, your mom waving too obviously, your dad standing with his hands in his pockets like if he moves too much something fragile might break.
tip-off feels electric.
first quarter you’re locked in, hit your first three from the wing, smooth release, net snapping clean. the sound is sharp and satisfying, the crowd quieting just enough to notice. second possession you drive baseline, draw two defenders and kick to paige in the corner, she buries it and nods at you like that’s expected. by halftime you’ve got 16 points, 4 rebounds, 3 assists, shooting lights-out, crisp and controlled.
third quarter comes fast.
uconn pushes the pace and you’re at 22 now, 5 rebounds, 4 assists, 8–13 from the field, 3–5 from three, the game slowing down in that way it does when you’re in rhythm. you catch the ball beyond the arc on the right side, toes just behind the three-point line, defender closing late. you rise without thinking.
knees bend, jump release high over her hand, wrist snapping clean time slows midair, the kind of suspension that feels almost cinematic you come down—and your foot hits wrong, not dramatic at first, just off, a slight shift that your body doesn’t recognize. your knee caves inward at an angle it was never meant to, a hollow pop cutting through the noise, sharp and final.
boom.
you’re on the floor before your brain catches up, the ball already dropping through the net behind you like a cruel punchline. the crowd noise splinters into confusion, a wave of sound that doesn’t match what just happened.
you don’t scream as you just know. your hands press into the hardwood, breath stuck halfway in your chest, pain blooming fast and white-hot, wrong in a way that feels permanent.
in row 12 your mom’s hand flies to her mouth your dad stands before he realizes he is, eyes wide and unblinking. paige is there instantly, dropping beside you, hands hovering over your leg like she’s terrified to touch the wrong place. “look at me,” she says, voice steady but tight at the edges. “hey, look at me.”
you try to sit up and the pain spikes, sharp enough to blur the edges of the arena lights. trainers rush in, geno frozen on the sideline for half a second before chris signals for help, aaliyah stepping back with her hands at her mouth, nika muttering something under her breath that sounds like a prayer and a curse tangled together.
they help you up slowly, your weight uneven, the crowd quiet in that uncomfortable, collective way, thousands of people holding their breath at once. as they guide you toward the tunnel you glance once toward row 12.
your mom looks like she’s trying not to cry but your dad looks like he wants to run down the steps and catch you himself.
uconn finishes the game 62–44.
you watch part of it from the locker room, ice wrapped heavy around your knee, adrenaline draining until only ache and realization remain. paige doesn’t leave your side once she’s off the court, sitting close enough that her shoulder presses into yours, thumb rubbing slow circles against your hand.
after the buzzer, media waits. geno steps to the podium first in the press room, lights too bright, microphones crowded together with logos from espn, star tribune, hartford courant. cameras flash.
“geno,” a reporter from espn asks, “what’s the initial outlook?”
“we don’t speculate,” geno answers flatly, jaw set. “we’ll get imaging tomorrow. she was playing one of the best games of her career.” another voice cuts in. “she had 22 through three, how big was her impact before the injury?”
“huge,” geno says without hesitation. “efficient, composed, aggressive. she set the tone. she’s a competitor.”
they bring you in after, brace wrapped tight, paige walking just behind you before stopping short of the cameras, her presence close but just out of frame. you sit down carefully, adjusting the mic, flashes reflecting off the metal table. “can you describe the play?” a reporter from the hartford courant asks. you swallow. “caught it at the three-point line, went up, landed wrong. it happens fast.”
“did you hear anything?”
“yeah,” you admit quietly. “a pop.” a murmur ripples through the room. “are you concerned it’s serious?” someone from the star tribune presses.
you hold the mic steady. “i’ll handle whatever it is. i’ve handled things before.” another question follows, softer but pointed. “how do you mentally reset after something like this?” you pause, thinking of freshman year of high school, of rivalry, of silence, of choosing each other anyway. “you don’t reset,” you say finally. “you adjust.”
your voice doesn’t shake—not there later, back at the hotel, the silence is heavier than the arena ever was. the brace presses into your skin, reality settling slowly and loudly, the kind that doesn’t ask permission. you lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the game replaying behind your eyelids.
paige sits on the edge of your bed, your hand in hers, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin like she’s memorizing the shape of you all over again.
“it doesn’t change anything,” she says quietly, you don’t answer at first. she leans closer, forehead pressing gently to yours, voice low and fierce in a way only you hear. “if you think this scares me off, you don’t know me at all.”
and even with the ache in your knee, even with uncertainty pressing down like weight on your chest, you believe her because some things snap in a second and some things hold steady no matter how hard you land.
morning comes without asking if you’re ready for it, pale minneapolis light slipping through the half-open curtains and stretching across the carpet like nothing catastrophic happened twelve hours ago. for a second you forget, for a second you’re just heavy and tired and normal, cocooned in hotel sheets that smell like detergent and travel. then you try to move.
the brace reminds you first. the stiffness. the deep, dull ache behind your kneecap, something lodged there that doesn’t belong to your body, something foreign and permanent-feeling. the memory follows quickly after—hardwood, pop, silence—and your stomach tightens.
you don’t cry, you just stare at the ceiling and let the reality settle properly this time, not as adrenaline, not as noise, but as fact it’s quiet in the room, too quiet for a team trip. you turn your head and paige is already awake, sitting in the chair by the window, hoodie on, elbows resting on her knees, watching you like she hasn’t blinked in hours. her jaw is tight, but her eyes soften when you meet them.
“hey,” she says softly. “hey.” you try to sit up and she’s beside you instantly, one hand steady at your back, the other adjusting the pillows behind you like she’s done this before, like she’s been preparing for this exact version of you.
“don’t rush it,” she murmurs you hate that she has to say that. hate that your body now requires caution, instructions, careful movements.
there’s a knock at the door an hour later, trainers stepping inside with quiet voices and professional expressions. follow-up evaluation before imaging, swelling checks, stability tests, words like anterior drawer and laxity and inflammation, clinical language that sounds detached while your body feels anything but. you grit your teeth through it, knuckles white against the sheet.
paige doesn’t leave—not when they bend your knee carefully. not when you inhale sharply. not when the trainer nods in that way that says they already know. when they finally leave the room, the silence feels heavier than before. you let your head fall back against the pillow, staring at nothing.
“i felt it,” you say quietly. “when it happened i knew.” she nods once, not pretending otherwise. “i know.” the bus ride back to the airport is quieter than the ride there, no music in your ears this time, no soft sleep against the window. just the low hum of the engine and teammates speaking softly a few rows up.
nika squeezes your shoulder as she passes, whispering something about how you still owe her dinner. aaliyah leans over the seat and says, “we’ve got you.” azzi sits across the aisle and keeps glancing at you like she’s trying to stay upbeat without forcing it, offering small smiles that feel steady.
paige sits beside you again, aisle seat, one hand resting carefully on your thigh just above the brace, not over it, just enough to let you know she’s there. you watch the city pass by outside the window and try not to think about how different it looks now, how one play rewrites entire seasons.
back in storrs the imaging appointment feels sterile and too bright, white walls and quiet machines humming in the background. your parents flew in overnight, your mom’s eyes tired but determined, your dad pacing like he’s about to check into a game instead of you. paige sits beside you in the waiting room, knee touching yours, fingers threaded loosely through yours like she refuses to let go of something that fragile.
the doctor doesn’t take long. “it’s a complete tear,” he says gently. “acl.” the words land exactly how you expected, heavy and final, like a door closing your mom inhales sharply and your dad closes his eyes for half a second before nodding once you nod too like this is just information.
like this isn’t the kind of injury that rewrites seasons, shifts timelines, tests patience in ways you’ve never had to practice before surgery is scheduled quickly, timelines are discussed in the nine months ten recovery protocol and physical therapy small goals controlled progress patience. patience—that’s the word that catches in your throat, the word that feels heavier than pain.
the next practice you’re there in sweats, brace locked in place, sitting on the sideline while the team runs through drills. the gym smells the same, sneakers squeaking against hardwood, balls echoing off the rim, geno’s voice cutting through the air like always. but it feels different when you’re not moving inside it, when you’re watching instead of reacting.
paige glances at you between reps.
every time—geno walks over during a water break and crouches beside you, expression unreadable but firm. “you’ll come back stronger,” he says, not sentimental, not dramatic, just certain you nod because that’s easier than saying anything else.
when practice ends paige sits beside you on the sideline, both of you watching the court empty slowly, the noise fading. “you scared?” she asks quietly—you consider lying.
“yeah.”
she laces her fingers through yours, squeezing once. “good.” you frown slightly. “good?”
“means you care,” she says, looking straight ahead. “means this matters.” she leans her head briefly against your shoulder, careful of the brace, voice softer now. “you’ve never been the kind of person who lets something define you. don’t start now.”
that night in your dorm azzi moves your laundry basket closer to the bed without you asking, rearranges your desk so you don’t have to stretch too far. nika texts something ridiculous that makes you laugh despite yourself. christyn sends a video of practice with a caption that reads still your team. little things, small acts that feel louder than sympathy.
you sit on the edge of your bed, staring down at your knee, the brace bulky and unfamiliar. paige kneels in front of you, hands resting gently on your thighs. “look at me,” she says again, softer than the night before but just as steady you do. “we’re not done,” she says.
not just basketball, not just the season, not just you we and for the first time since the pop, since the hardwood slammed against your palms, something inside you steadies, something that feels less like loss and more like resolve.
this wasn’t how the year was supposed to go but it isn’t the end it’s just a different version of the fight and you’ve never been afraid of that.
two weeks post-surgery, your dorm room feels smaller than it ever has, crutches leaning against the wall like an accusation, ice machine humming beside your bed through the night like a reminder that this is real. the scar is still fresh, stitched and swollen, skin tight and unfamiliar, your knee wrapped thick in gauze and caution. movement is measured now, calculated, every shift deliberate, every step negotiated with pain.
you used to move without thinking now you think about everything. paige sits cross-legged at the foot of your bed while you try to adjust the brace yourself, jaw tight, fingers fumbling with straps that suddenly feel too complicated.
“let me,” she says quietly. “i’ve got it.” you don’t—your hands shake, frustration rising hot and humiliating, and she sees it before you say anything. she doesn’t argue, doesn’t tell you to calm down. she just shifts closer, knees brushing the mattress, hands gentle but sure as she tightens each strap with careful precision.
“i hate this,” you admit, staring at the wall instead of her. “i know.” she doesn’t try to spin it into something positive she just stays. she stays when you’re irritable, stays when you’re quiet, stays when you pretend you’re fine and both of you know you’re not.
march 2023 arrives loud and relentless, brackets filling screens, commentators dissecting matchups and storylines, your name drifting through broadcasts like a shadow that refuses to leave. you’re in sweats on the sideline, brace gone but knee still not ready, hands clasped tight while the arena roars around you. every possession feels amplified when you’re not inside it.
uconn advances as paige drops 28. she plays like she’s carrying something invisible with her, something stitched into every drive and pull-up. when she hits a dagger three late in the fourth, she turns without thinking and points toward the bench, toward you.
the cameras catch it after the game a reporter asks her if she feels extra pressure without you on the floor. she doesn’t hesitate. “we’re still playing together,” she says, eyes steady. “she’s just not in uniform.”
you swallow hard behind the bench, chest tightening in the locker room she finds you before anyone else can, sweat still clinging to her hair, breathing heavy, and presses her forehead to yours like the noise outside doesn’t exist. “told you,” she whispers. “we’re not done.” and for the first time since surgery, you believe that in your bones.
six months later the brace is gone for good. you’re walking without thinking about it, climbing stairs without gripping railings, the muscle in your quad slowly returning to where it used to be. rehab has become routine, early mornings in the training room, resistance bands and controlled squats, small victories stacked quietly on top of each other.
strength returns in increments so small no one else notices. you do. media starts shifting their tone. from injury to comeback. from uncertainty to timeline. from “if” to “when.”
the first time you jog on the anti-gravity treadmill, your weight supported artificially, paige stands just outside the glass wall, phone raised like it’s a championship moment.
“don’t post that,” you warn, breathless but smiling. “never,” she lies easily. that night you sit on the floor of her dorm, legs stretched out in front of you, ice pack resting loosely over your knee. she studies you the way she studies film, quietly, thoroughly.
“this changed you,” she says. “yeah.”
“for the better.” you think about the silence after the pop, the fear in row 12, the helplessness of watching from the bench. you think about patience, about staying, about love that doesn’t evaporate when things get hard. “maybe,” you admit. she bumps her shoulder against yours gently. “definitely.”
first non-contact practice back as the gym smells the same, hardwood and sweat and echoes, but you feel different inside it. leaner. quieter. not less confident, just more deliberate. geno watches closely from the sideline, arms crossed, expression unreadable. teammates clap once when you step across the baseline, a small acknowledgment that means more than they realize.
paige stands at half court with a ball tucked under her arm, waiting like she’s been counting down to this moment. “don’t baby it,” she says. you smirk. “wouldn’t dream of it.” the first jumper feels foreign, release slightly off the second feels closer and by the third swishes clean, net snapping sharp and honest.
the gym goes quiet for half a second before noise returns in a rush, sneakers squeaking, someone shouting your name paige doesn’t cheer, she just nods once that nod feels like trust restored.
full clearance day arrives almost quietly. the doctor scrolls through your chart, taps your knee once, smiles faintly. “you’re good.” you stare at him like you misheard. “cleared?”
“fully.”
for a second the room feels suspended, like you’re waiting for someone to take it back paige squeezes your hand so tight you laugh through the shock, the sound shaky but real. when you step outside into the sunlight she doesn’t hesitate, pulling you into her chest without caring who’s watching, forehead pressed into your hair.
“you did it,” she says, voice thick. “we did,” you correct softly because she was there for every band, every ice pack, every quiet spiral. that night, back in her room, it’s quiet in a way that feels earned. no crutches leaning against the wall. no brace buckled tight. no ice machine humming in the background. just you and her and the soft glow of a lamp casting gold across the ceiling.
she’s lying on her back, staring up, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your arm. you’re curled into her side, knee warm and solid against her thigh, no longer fragile.
“i love you,” she says. not dramatic, not rehearsed, just said. the words settle between you, simple and enormous. you freeze for half a heartbeat. she freezes too, like she didn’t mean to let it slip. “you don’t have to say it back,” she adds quickly, voice softer now, almost uncertain in a way you’ve never heard from her.
you lift yourself onto one elbow, looking at her properly, at the girl who stayed in hospital rooms and empty gyms and quiet nights when you felt like less than yourself.
“i love you too,” you say. it doesn’t feel like a confession, it feels like something that’s always been true finally finding language. she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a year, hands sliding to your waist, grounding herself in something solid and certain.
“took you long enough,” she murmurs, smiling faintly.
you smile back because somewhere between hardwood and hospital rooms, between sidelines and rehab, between jealousy and devotion, something shifted. the injury didn’t break you. it stripped everything unnecessary away. it revealed who stays when the lights dim. revealed who you are when you can’t perform.
and when you fall asleep that night with her hand steady against your back, breathing even and close, you realize the comeback was never just about basketball, it was about resilience, about patience, about a love that doesn’t flinch when seasons change and about choosing each other through every version of the game and meaning it.
fall 2023 arrives quieter than the year before, but heavier in a different way, like the air itself understands what it took to get here. the first time you step into gampel fully cleared, fully dressed, jersey hanging right where it belongs against your shoulders, the lights feel brighter than you remember, the court wider, the air thinner.
your name is announced during starting lineups and the sound that follows isn’t just noise, it’s recognition layered with relief, it’s something close to reverence, a crowd exhaling all at once. you jog to the line and paige is already there, bouncing on the balls of her feet, jaw set in that focused way she gets before tip. her fingers brush yours briefly, quick and subtle before you break apart, almost invisible to anyone watching, but it steadies you more than the brace ever did.
you don’t need tape wrapped tight around your knee anymore, you need that touch, that reminder that you’re not stepping into this alone. first possession comes to you faster than expected. ball swings around the perimeter, snaps to your hands at the wing. defender closes hard, feet chopping, crowd rising with anticipation.
a year ago you would’ve attacked without thinking, pure instinct and adrenaline. now you feel everything—your feet planted evenly, your balance centered, the floor beneath you solid and forgiving—and you rise anyway.
release, net, clean the sound is sharp, satisfying, a swish that doesn’t just echo through the arena, it answers something inside you that’s been waiting since the pop, since the hardwood, since the hospital room. you don’t celebrate wildly, just backpedal with a small nod, but paige is already in your face, grinning, not loud, not exaggerated, just proud in that quiet way she gets when something matters.
“told you,” she murmurs as you run back on defense.
the game moves quickly after that, instincts returning in layers, not rushed, not forced, just unfolding naturally. you find a rhythm, slipping into passing lanes, cutting at the right angles, trusting your body without second-guessing it. 14 points by halftime, 3 assists, 4 rebounds. efficient, controlled. not frantic, not proving anything, just playing the way you used to, only calmer.
but it’s the third quarter that seals it, that makes the comeback feel real instead of symbolic.
you drive left, defender shading you toward the baseline, and for a split second the memory flashes—that same knee, that same plant. you don’t hesitate. you plant hard, feel the muscle engage, feel strength instead of weakness, and spin back right into the lane. contact meets you midair, shoulder to chest, but you absorb it and finish through it, ball kissing the glass before dropping clean. whistle blows.
the arena erupts and you land steady you don’t look at your knee you look at her. she’s already looking at you, eyes bright, no fear in them anymore, no flash of worry like there used to be every time you cut hard, only fire, only pride and only something that says she always knew you’d get here. postgame feels different too. you sit at the table, jersey still damp with sweat, hair pulled back, mic angled toward your mouth. reporters don’t ask about the injury like it defines you now, they ask about rhythm, about growth, about how it feels to be back in control of your own body.
“what did that first basket mean to you?” someone asks. you lean forward slightly, hands folded together. “it meant i trusted my body again,” you say, voice steady. “it meant i stopped waiting for something bad to happen.”
a murmur ripples through the room. they ask paige what it’s like playing beside you after the year you both had. she doesn’t look at the reporters when she answers. she looks at you, direct and unwavering. “worth the wait,” she says simply. the room laughs softly, but you feel the weight of it. she means more than basketball.
later that night, back in her dorm, jerseys tossed over chairs, sneakers kicked off near the door, adrenaline still humming faintly under your skin, you sit cross-legged on the floor while she leans back against her bed, watching you with that same careful attention she’s had since rehab.
“you weren’t scared,” she says, like she’s testing the truth of it. “i was,” you admit. “i just didn’t let it win.” she studies you like she did months ago on that anti-gravity treadmill, but this time there’s no tightness behind her eyes, no quiet worry. just admiration.
“you’re different,” she says softly. “so are you.” because she is. steadier, less reactive, less sharp around the edges. the year sanded something down in both of you, smoothed pride into patience, turned jealousy into certainty.
she reaches for you then, pulling you closer until your knees bump and your hands settle naturally at her waist, familiar and unforced. “we’re not the same as last season,” she says. “good,” you whisper, because you don’t want to be who you were before the injury, before the fear, before the waiting.
she smiles against your mouth before kissing you slow, unhurried, nothing desperate about it. this isn’t tension snapping or adrenaline spilling over. this is something earned, something built quietly through hospital visits and rehab mornings and nights when neither of you said much but stayed anyway.
when you pull back, foreheads resting together, she murmurs, “next time you hit a spin like that, maybe warn me.” you laugh softly. “you survived.”
“barely,” she says, though she’s smiling. you fall asleep tangled together, no brace on the nightstand, no ice machine humming in the dark, just steady breathing and the distant hum of campus outside the window.
her hand rests low on your back like it belongs there, like it always has. as the season stretches ahead, bigger games waiting, bigger stages looming, you realize something has shifted permanently. you didn’t just come back. you grew back stronger in places you didn’t know needed strengthening, softer in places you used to armor.
this time you’re not playing to prove you’re unbreakable you’re playing because you know exactly what it took to rebuild and she’s right there beside you, not carrying you, not protecting you, not hovering just running with you exactly where she’s always meant to be.
april 2024 doesn’t rush you.
it unfolds slowly, deliberately, like the moment knows exactly how much weight it’s carrying and refuses to be careless with it. the arena hums long before tip, a low electric sound that vibrates under your shoes as you walk out for warmups. south carolina is already on the floor, bodies moving with that familiar confidence, size and strength and discipline all wrapped into one presence. you clock them once, then look away. you’ve learned where to put your focus.
your jersey settles against your shoulders like it belongs there, not borrowed, not tentative. paige jogs beside you, loose but locked in, the two of you moving in parallel without thinking about it. when your eyes meet, there’s no nod this time, no reassurance needed. everything you had to survive already happened.
the lights dim as introductions roll when your name echoes through the building, the sound doesn’t lift you, it anchors you. it reminds you of hospital ceilings and rehab mornings and quiet dorm rooms and promises whispered when no one else was listening. you don’t smile, you don’t close your eyes, you just breathe and let it settle.
tip-off is sharp and physical from the jump. south carolina establishes the paint early, pounding the ball inside, testing whistles, testing patience. the first few minutes are bruising, bodies colliding, rebounds ripped down with intent. you miss your first look, a jumper that rattles out, and for half a heartbeat the noise spikes.
then paige steals an entry pass and pushes.
you fill the lane instinctively, catch on the move, finish through contact whistle and-one the sound shifts not loud yet just aware.
first quarter becomes a chess match, adjustments layered on top of adjustments. you start slipping screens instead of forcing them, finding seams where there shouldn’t be any. azzi hits from deep, calm and lethal. aaliyah controls the glass. paige orchestrates, patient, surgical.
19–14.
second quarter slows everything down. south carolina throws different looks at you, length on the perimeter, pressure up high. you respond by trusting movement instead of shots, swinging the ball until something opens. you hit a pull-up from the elbow, then thread a pass through traffic for a backdoor cut that makes geno clap once from the sideline.
by halftime your stat line sits quietly impressive, 12 points, 5 assists, 4 boards, nothing forced, nothing wasted. paige’s towel is draped over her shoulders in the locker room, sweat darkening her hairline.
she leans toward you, voice low. “they’re going to make a run.”
“i know.”
“let them,” she says. “we’ll answer.” third quarter arrives exactly how she predicts it. south carolina surges, bodies crashing harder, pace quickening. an 8–0 run flips momentum and the crowd tilts, noise spilling over itself. geno calls timeout before doubt can get a foothold. you sit, hands on knees, breathing controlled.
“reset,” he says, not angry, not urgent, just certain but back on the floor, paige takes over without taking over, driving into traffic, absorbing contact, drawing fouls. you space wide, defender cheating just enough. when the pass comes, you don’t hesitate. step-back beyond the arc release high.
swish.
the arena exhales next possession you fight through a screen, contest a shot, secure the rebound yourself, pushing pace before anyone can set. this time you kick to kk. net again. tie game. fourth quarter comes by at 64, every possession suddenly enormous. you feel it in your calves, in your lungs, in the way the crowd holds its breath with each bounce of the ball. south carolina doesn’t fold. they never do. they answer inside, then outside, then inside again.
two minutes left as uconn up twenty two south carolina cuts it to three on a putback that rattles the rim twice before dropping. the building roars. you bring the ball up slowly, clock ticking under your control, defender pressing tight. paige comes to set the screen, solid and unyielding. you use it, draw help, see the opening before it fully forms.
you could force the shot you don’t you kick up as paige catches on the wing, one defender scrambling late, one dribble pull-up. the ball hangs just long enough to stretch time thin—net, clean everything breaks open after that.
final buzzer.
82–59.
this one isn’t close, it's decisive. it’s complete. confetti falls thick and fast, blue and white sticking to sweat-damp skin, catching in hair and lashes. you don’t stand still this time. you run straight to her, arms wrapping around her shoulders as she lifts you slightly off the floor, both of you laughing, breathless, overwhelmed in the best way.
your stat line flashes overhead, 24 points, 8 assists, 6 rebounds, 4–7 from three. hers follows, 17 points, 6 boards, 3 assists, efficient and ruthless when it mattered most. but the numbers feel like footnotes because this isn’t about proving anything anymore.
during the trophy ceremony, the net cuts clean under your fingers, nylon warm and rough as you loop it around your wrist. paige stands beside you, confetti clinging to her hair, eyes bright in a way that isn’t adrenaline, it’s certainty.
“we did it again,” she says, quieter now. you nod, throat tight. “we weren’t done.” in the press conference they ask about legacy, about repeating, about what separates this team from the rest. you lean into the mic, paige a few chairs down, listening.
“we trust each other,” you say. “and we didn’t panic when things got hard.” they ask her about leadership, about growth. she glances at you before answering. “we learned how to win when everything was stripped away first.”
later, when the cameras finally thin out and the locker room settles into something close to quiet, you sit side by side on the bench, trophy resting a few feet away, the echo of celebration still humming faintly in your ears.
“remember minneapolis,” she says. you smile softly. “yeah.”
“remember thinking it was over.” you lean into her shoulder, comfortable, steady. “yeah.” she exhales, long and slow. “look at us now.” and you do. one championship, two years one fall, one rise, one domination last year taught you how to survive. this year taught you how to stay and as the confetti finally settles and the lights dim, you realize the story didn’t end with a comeback or a repeat.
it settled into something stronger, something earned something unbreakable with her right there exactly where she’s always been.
april 2024 doesn’t begin with noise; it begins in the locker room, quiet and heavy and sacred.
your jersey hangs in front of you, crisp white with navy trim, senior stitched into the fabric like a promise kept. the tape around your fingers is tight, the smell of it mixing with sweat and detergent and something almost electric in the air. outside, gampel is already shaking, a sold-out crowd packed shoulder to shoulder, white towels draped over every seat, signs lifted high as senior night and a national title in the same breath. it feels impossible and inevitable all at once.
geno stands in the middle of the room; he doesn't yell, he doesn't need to. “legacy,” he says, voice steady, eyes scanning each of you. “you don’t build it in one night. you build it in the mornings no one sees. in the rehab sessions. in the losses. in the discipline. tonight is just the receipt.”
kk stands first, clapping once. “for the seniors,” she says, voice sharp and bright. “for everything they carried.” azzi looks at you and paige, eyes soft but fierce. “you set the tone but we finish it.”
aaliyah bumps her fist against yours. “forty minutes,” she says quietly. paige doesn’t speak right away she just looks at you, jaw tight, eyes shining in a way that makes your chest ache. “we didn’t survive last year to stop now,” she says finally. “we finish this.”
geno turns to you at the end “you ready?” he asks you nod, but your throat tightens anyway. he pulls you into a hug, quick but firm, one hand heavy on the back of your head. “proud of you,” he murmurs, and that’s when it hits. not the game. not the pressure.
the journey minneapolis, the pop, the brace, the sideline, the treadmill and the first jumper back as you blink hard but the tears come anyway, quick and hot. paige squeezes your hand once, steadying you without saying a word. “hey,” geno adds quietly, stepping back, “go enjoy it.”
senior night ceremonies happen before tip.
parents walk onto the court. your mom clutches your arm like she did freshman year when she dropped you off. your dad looks older somehow, proud and overwhelmed at the same time. the crowd stands, long and loud, applause stretching into something almost deafening. a tribute video rolls on the big screen, highlights flashing—high school rivalry, freshman assists, the injury, the comeback, the spin move in the championship.
you glance at paige beside you and see her blinking fast too. “don’t start,” she whispers. too late when they call your name, the roar shakes the rafters. you wave, half laughing, half crying, heart too full to contain.
tip-off against south carolina feels like fate.
two powerhouses again. undefeated narratives. analysts debating pace and size and perimeter shooting. you block it out.
first quarter is physical, bodies crashing inside, rebounding wars erupting in the paint. south carolina tries to establish dominance early, pounding the ball inside, but aaliyah answers with a block that sends the crowd into hysteria.
you push in transition. kick to paige in the corner. three. net snaps clean.
paige drives hard the next possession, absorbing contact, finishing with a kiss off the glass. she backpedals with that calm expression, the one that says she’s locked in.
end of first quarter, uconn up five.
second quarter, the game tightens. south carolina makes a run, cutting it to two. geno calls timeout. you huddle tight, sweat dripping, lungs steady.
“pace,” he reminds you.
back on the floor, you come off a high screen, defender trailing. hesitation dribble. pull-up from the elbow.
bucket. you don’t celebrate. you just run back. by halftime you’ve got 13 points, 4 assists, 5 rebounds. paige at 10, azzi heating up from deep.
locker room at half is focused, not frantic.
“forty minutes,” paige says softly, repeating what’s been said all season.
third quarter is the turning point.
south carolina throws a full-court press at you. you split it with a bounce pass to nika, who swings it ahead. fast break. you trail. paige finds you on the wing. plant. rise. release. swish.
the sound is loud and final. the crowd feels like it’s levitating. fourth quarter. uconn up eight.
south carolina makes one last push, cutting it to four with under two minutes left. tension thick, every possession heavy.
you bring the ball up slowly paige sets a screen you use it defense collapses. as you kick out to azzi. three. good. gampel explodes. final minute ticks down.
82–59 flashes across the scoreboard as the buzzer sounds, blue and white confetti cannons firing into the air, students spilling over rails, seniors collapsing into each other’s arms.
you don’t freeze this time.
you drop to your knees, hands on the hardwood, overwhelmed.
paige is there immediately, pulling you up, arms wrapping tight around your waist. she lifts you slightly off the floor, spinning once through the confetti storm.
“champions,” she breathes into your ear.
“again,” you laugh through tears.
your stat line scrolls across the screen: 24 points, 8 assists, 6 rebounds, efficient and controlled. hers reads 17 points, 6 boards, 3 assists, steady leadership.
geno hugs each of you in turn, longer this time. when he gets to you, he doesn’t say anything at first. he just holds you.
“full circle,” he says finally.
trophy presentation feels surreal. nets cut down. paige hands you a piece of nylon. you wrap it around your wrist like a reminder.
press conference afterward is calmer, almost reflective.
“what does it mean to win on senior night?” a reporter asks.
you lean into the mic. “it means we finished what we started,” you say. “it means growth isn’t linear, but it’s worth it.”
they ask paige about playing beside you through injury and return.
she smiles softly. “we learned how to win the hard way first.”
later, long after the cameras leave, you sit alone at half court for a moment. the arena is mostly empty now, confetti swept into piles, lights dimmed softer.
paige sits beside you.
“remember freshman year?” she asks.
“yeah.”
“remember minneapolis?”
you nod.
she bumps her shoulder into yours. “look at us.”
you look around at the banners, at the empty seats that were once shaking, at the place where you fell and rose and built something unbreakable.
last year was survival.
this year was domination.
senior night wasn’t just a game.
it was proof.
and as you lace your fingers through hers one last time on that court, you realize something simple and overwhelming.
you didn’t just win a championship.
you finished the story the right way.
confetti is still caught in your hair when you sit down for the final presser.
not the televised one from the floor. not the chaotic trophy moment. this one is smaller, quieter, the room upstairs at gampel where the banners line the walls and the microphones are already set before you walk in. your jersey has been swapped for a navy blazer, uconn stitched over your heart one more time.
geno sits on your right.
kk on your left, still in warmups, still buzzing from the win.
you settle into the chair, fingers brushing the edge of the table, and for the first time all night the noise isn’t overwhelming.
it’s still.
reporters shuffle papers. cameras click.
“we’ll start with the seniors,” someone says.
your name is first.
five years.
2020 feels like another lifetime, like the freshman who arrived in storrs with a rivalry and a chip on her shoulder wasn’t you but someone you used to know. bachelor’s degree finished. master’s degree nearly complete. national titles. an acl. a comeback. a legacy that doesn’t fit neatly into a stat sheet.
“can you reflect on your time here?” a reporter asks.
you breathe in slowly.
“uconn wasn’t just basketball for me,” you say. “it was growth. academically, mentally, emotionally. i came here at eighteen thinking talent was enough. i’m leaving understanding discipline is everything.”
geno shifts slightly beside you, but you don’t look at him yet.
another question follows quickly. “five years is a long time in college basketball. what kept you here?”
you smile faintly. “unfinished business and a master’s degree,” you add, earning a few soft laughs. “but really, it was the people. my teammates. the culture. i didn’t want to rush something that was building the right way.”
“how did the injury change you?”
the room quiets a little at that.
you nod once. “it forced me to separate who i am from what i do. basketball is part of me. it isn’t all of me. that lesson matters more than any trophy.”
geno clears his throat softly, like agreement without interruption.
another voice cuts in. “have you decided about the draft?”
there it is.
the question that’s been hovering all season.
you glance briefly to your left. kk meets your eyes, eyebrows lifting slightly like she already knows the answer. to your right, geno doesn’t look at you, but his hand folds calmly over the other, steady.
you don’t rush it.
“yeah,” you say finally.
the room stills.
“i’m declaring for the draft.”
cameras flash harder.
pens move quickly across notepads.
kk nudges your elbow under the table, subtle but proud.
“why now?” someone asks.
“because i’m ready,” you answer simply. “academically, i’m finishing my master’s. athletically, i gave everything i had here. emotionally… i think it’s time.”
a reporter in the front leans forward. “what do you hope to bring to the next level?”
you think about minneapolis, about rehab mornings and about senior night.
“resilience,” you say. “and perspective. i know how fast things can change. i don’t take a possession for granted anymore.”
“what will you miss most?”
this one makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.
“the tunnel before games,” you admit. “the way gampel sounds when it’s full. and this,” you gesture slightly between geno and kk. “the family part.”
geno finally speaks then.
“she changed this program,” he says evenly. “not just with points or assists. with toughness. with leadership. you don’t replace that.”
you swallow hard, blinking quickly.
another reporter asks, “what do you want your legacy at uconn to be?”
you sit with that.
“growth,” you say. “not perfection. growth. i want the next freshman who walks in here to know you don’t have to start complete. you just have to be willing to evolve.”
kk leans toward the mic next. “she’s the reason i believed i could survive my first year,” she says bluntly. “she made it safe to struggle.”
you glance at her, eyes soft.
“any message for uconn fans?” someone calls out.
you smile properly now. “thank you for staying,” you say. “through injury. through doubt. through everything. this place made me better.”
the final question comes softer.
“what are you feeling right now?”
you pause.
five years collapse inward—freshman rivalry, first assist to paige, the note, the pop, the brace, the comeback jumper, the two championships, senior night confetti.
“grateful,” you answer. “and proud.”
the moderator thanks everyone. chairs scrape softly as people stand. cameras shut off one by one.
you rise too.
geno pulls you into a hug before you can step away, firm and brief, like it always has been.
“go do great things,” he murmurs.
kk squeezes you next, tighter, laughing into your shoulder. “draft night watch party at my place,” she says.
you laugh.
when you step out of the room, the hallway feels quieter than it should. banners lining the walls. echoes of five seasons stitched into every inch of this building.
paige is waiting at the end of the corridor, hands in her hoodie pocket, watching you.
“so,” she says softly. “draft?”
you nod.
she smiles, not surprised.
“about time.”
you walk toward her, slower now, taking in the hallway one last time.
five years ago you arrived here chasing something.
now you’re leaving with it.
and when you lace your fingers through hers as you step out of gampel together, it doesn’t feel like an ending.
it feels like the next beginning.
you didn’t believe you would be here.
even sitting in the hotel suite hours before the draft, robe tied loosely around your waist, garment bags hanging along the closet door, heels lined up in a careful row, it still feels like something you’re watching from outside yourself. the television is already tuned to espn, draft preview graphics rotating across the screen, analysts debating projections like your future is a math equation.
your phone will not stop buzzing.
group chat notifications stack one on top of the other. uconn team thread exploding with blue heart emojis. aaliyah sending “YOU READY?” in all caps. nika posting an old freshman practice photo. azzi texting a mirror selfie from her own room: don’t trip walking up there please.
and then kk.
voice memo after voice memo.
you tap one open.
“AHHHHHH YOU’RE GONNA CRY AND I’M GONNA CRY AND IF YOU DON’T ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW I’M DRIVING TO THE HOTEL.”
you laugh out loud.
the mua pauses mid-brush. “sorry, am i tickling?”
“no,” you smile, glancing at the screen lighting up again. “my teammates are feral.”
she’s blending highlighter along your cheekbones, soft champagne shimmer catching the light just enough. foundation flawless but not heavy. brows shaped clean. a subtle wing, lashes lifted, lip gloss clear and simple. you watch yourself transform slowly in the mirror, not into someone new, just into the most polished version of who you already are.
your hair is pulled sleek and low, clean lines framing your face.
“okay,” the mua says finally, stepping back. “draft night ready.”
your phone buzzes again.
geno: proud of you.
you swallow.
uconn teammates start arriving at the hotel lobby in coordinated fits, not matching, but intentionally sharp. they insisted on being there. “family shows up,” nika said earlier. so they did.
paige is already dressed.
black. tailored. sharp shoulders. clean lines. understated but powerful. she leans against the window scrolling through her phone when you step out in the white gown.
she looks up.
goes completely still.
the dress is sculpted ivory, high neckline, open back dipping low and smooth, fabric hugging your frame before falling clean to the floor. minimal gold earrings. nothing flashy. everything intentional.
“okay,” she breathes.
“too much?” you ask automatically.
“not even close.”
she steps closer, smoothing a wrinkle at your waist gently. “they’re not ready for you.”
the drive to the venue is a blur of flash photography and traffic control and nerves rising and falling in waves. when you step onto the orange carpet, the lights hit immediately. cameras. espn backdrop. reporters lined up with mics extended.
your phone vibrates one more time before you slip it into your clutch.
kk: I SEE YOU ON TV DON’T FALL.
you inhale.
paige squeezes your hand once before you walk forward together.
“we’re here with two projected top picks,” the espn reporter says brightly. “how are you feeling?”
“grateful,” you answer, voice steady. “and excited.”
“you’ve both had remarkable college careers,” the reporter continues. “what does it mean to share this moment?”
paige doesn’t hesitate.
“it means everything,” she says calmly. “we built something real at uconn, on and off the court. this isn’t just draft night. it’s the next chapter for us.”
the reporter’s eyebrows lift slightly. “on and off the court?”
paige turns slightly toward you, not shy, not coy.
“yeah,” she says simply. “she’s my person.”
the words land clean no ambiguity, no hedging, just a hard launch.
cameras flash harder. somewhere behind you, you can practically hear the internet combusting.
you feel heat climb up your neck but you don’t look away. you lace your fingers through hers more deliberately this time.
“we’ve been through a lot,” you add softly. “it’s special to be here together.”
the reporter smiles knowingly. “so draft night date?”
“always,” paige says.
inside, the draft hall is electric. team tables draped in colors. large screens replaying your highlights— your championship spin, her game winner, senior night tears. the uconn crew is scattered throughout the seating, dressed sharp, cheering louder than anyone else when your faces appear on screen.
kk blows you a dramatic kiss from three rows back.
you roll your eyes.
first pick.
paige’s name.
the room erupts.
you stand instantly, hugging her tight, whispering “go” against her ear because you can’t get more out than that. she squeezes you back hard before walking to the stage, commissioner waiting at center.
flashbulbs.
jersey reveal.
pose.
applause.
she looks over her shoulder at you before stepping off stage.
a few picks later, your heart starts hammering.
“with the second pick in the 2025 wnba draft…”
your name.
for half a second you don’t move.
paige is already up, pulling you into her arms before you fully process it. she laughs into your hair.
“told you,” she whispers.
you walk the stage in white, lights hotter than anything you’ve played under, commissioner shaking your hand firmly. jersey placed into your hands. the weight of it heavier than expected.
when you step down, your uconn family is on their feet.
kk is crying openly.
geno claps once, proud and composed.
post-pick interview, espn mic in your face again. “you and paige both drafted tonight. how does that feel?”
you glance sideways at her in black.
“like the work was worth it,” you say. “like everything we went through mattered.”
later, when the cameras thin and the noise fades, you sit back in the hotel room, makeup still flawless, heels abandoned on the carpet.
your phone is exploding again.
instagram notifications. headlines. teammates sending screenshots of the orange carpet clip. kk sending another voice memo screaming “HARD LAUNCH???”
you laugh, head tipping back.
paige sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
“you didn’t believe you’d be here,” she says quietly.
you shake your head.
“but you are.”
you look at her—black against white, steady against your pulse.
“yeah,” you whisper.
because tonight wasn’t just about hearing your name called.
it was about walking into the league already knowing who stands beside you.
and this time, when the lights flashed and the world watched, you didn’t shrink.
you stepped forward.
together.
after the draft the night doesn’t end. it stretches into an after party lit too warm and too bright, music loud enough to blur edges, uconn blue scattered through the room like you never left campus. someone ordered champagne. someone else is already halfway through telling the same story for the third time. heels are abandoned under tables. jackets draped over chairs.
you’re a little tipsy, not reckless, just light. kk is holding court in the middle of the dance floor, narrating your draft walk like she was the one who got called. azzi keeps pulling you into photos. nika is recording everything with zero intention of deleting it later.
paige’s hand hasn’t left your waist in twenty minutes. “you good?” she murmurs against your ear. “i’m floating,” you admit.
your phone is in your hand before you really think about it. someone yells, “story it!” and you laugh, flipping the camera around. you film kk screaming. you film geno pretending not to dance. you film the champagne tower someone probably shouldn’t have attempted.
and then—you flip the camera toward you and paige. she’s smiling, a little softer than usual, black suit jacket off now, sleeves rolled up. you lean into her automatically. she presses a quick kiss to your temple.
it’s sweet, it's unguarded, it's public. “to the league,” you say into the camera. “to us,” she adds quietly. you don’t notice the rings at first thin gold bands matching.
ones you’ve worn for months as promise rings, something private and symbolic between you, not flashy, not announced but the camera catches it, her hand on your waist, your hand laced through hers. rings clear in the light you post it. no second thought three minutes later your phone detonates.
notifications stacking so fast the screen lags comments mentions group chats.
“ARE THOSE RINGS?”
“WAIT.”
“WEDDING???”
kk bursts into laughter from across the room. “YOU JUST—YOU DID NOT—” you blink at your phone paige looks down at it then at you then back at the screen.
“…oh.”
there’s a half second where you both consider deleting it you don’t instead she shrugs, amused. “guess it’s official,” she says.
the internet spirals immediately. fan accounts zooming into screenshots. sports blogs picking it up. headlines forming before midnight but inside that room, no one is shocked. uconn isn’t shocked they’ve known they’ve watched it grow from rivalry to rehab to rings.
azzi raises her glass. “about time.” geno just shakes his head once, faint smile tucked under his composure. later that night, back at the hotel, makeup slightly smudged, dress draped carefully over a chair again, you sit cross-legged on the bed scrolling through reactions.
“we didn’t mean to hard launch with rings,” you mumble paige lies back against the pillows, hands behind her head. “i mean. we did have rings on.”
you laugh softly. “you regret it?” she asks.
you look at her at the girl who stood on an orange carpet and said she was your person without flinching. “no.”
a few weeks later you’re sitting in a podcast studio, headphones over your ears, mic adjusted just right. it’s one of those sports culture shows that blends basketball and life, the host smiling warmly as cameras roll.
“so,” he begins, “draft night was huge. but the internet really lost it over the instagram story.”
you laugh. “yeah.”
“are you engaged?”
“no,” you say, smiling. “they’re promise rings. we’ve had them for a while.”
“so the relationship was never new.”
“no,” you shake your head. “just newly visible.” he nods. “you two met in high school, rivalry, then college teammates. how did it actually shift?”
you lean back slightly, thinking. “honestly? freshman year. after a note she wrote me. we were competitive, stubborn. but somewhere in that we started choosing each other instead of competing with each other.”
“did the injury year affect the relationship?”
“it strengthened it,” you answer without hesitation. “you learn a lot about someone when you can’t offer them your best version physically. she stayed.”
another question. “is it hard being two high-profile athletes in the same relationship?” you glance off-camera where paige is sitting quietly, listening. “it’s only hard if you make it competitive,” you say. “we don’t. we’ve already done the rivalry part.”
the host smiles. “final question. where do you see this going?” you don’t rush the answer. “forward,” you say softly. “we’ve built everything step by step. we’re not in a hurry. we’re just intentional.”
when you step out of the studio, paige is waiting by the door, hands in her hoodie pocket like she was outside gampel that night years ago. “promise rings?” she teases lightly. you bump her shoulder. “you said ‘to us’ on my story.”
“and?”
you grin. “guess we’re consistent.” she reaches for your hand automatically no hiding now no half-answers. the draft was the beginning of your professional life the story post was the beginning of letting the world see what you already knew.
and walking down the street afterward, fingers laced, rings catching sunlight instead of camera flash, it doesn’t feel like a scandal, it feels like something steady, something built slowly, something that never needed an announcement—until it did.
a year before draft night, before orange carpets and flashbulbs and headlines zooming into your hands, there was a different kind of light, softer than arena lights, steadier than camera flashes, late-summer sun filtering through tall trees just outside storrs, the air warm but not heavy, cicadas humming somewhere distant like they understood this was important, like they were keeping time for something sacred.
you didn’t tell the world—you told the people who mattered.
the ceremony was small on purpose, tucked behind a private estate owned by a uconn alum, white chairs lined in two quiet rows, wildflowers woven loosely into the arch instead of extravagant arrangements, nothing dramatic, nothing staged, just intention laid carefully across grass that had seen plenty of celebrations before but none that felt like this.
upstairs, in a quiet room with gauzy curtains moving in the breeze, you stood at the window while your mom fixed the clasp of your earrings, her hands steadier than your breathing. your dress wasn’t loud, not layered with lace or sparkle, just ivory silk cut clean and sculpted, open back dipping low, fabric catching the light like it had been waiting for it. you studied your reflection longer than you expected to, not searching for perfection, just trying to memorize the girl who was about to step forward.
“you sure?” your dad asked gently from the doorway, not doubting, just checking, like he had before every big game. you smiled at him, softer than you felt. “yeah.”
downstairs, paige was pacing. kk told you later she looked like she was about to tip off in overtime, hands flexing at her sides, jaw set, pretending she wasn’t emotional. azzi hovered nearby holding a folded tissue she absolutely didn’t need yet, nika filming everything in quiet commentary mode, whispering, “historic footage, by the way,” into her phone like this was a documentary instead of a wedding.
geno arrived early, of course he did, standing near the front row with his hands folded, expression composed but eyes softer than usual, the kind of softness he saved for senior nights and final hugs. childhood friends from minnesota filled one side, uconn teammates filled the other, but no one separated into categories. no “basketball” side. no “family” side. it was all one circle, blurred together by years of shared airports, hardwood, and hospital rooms.
when the music started, it wasn’t dramatic, just piano, simple chords floating through the warm air, steady and unhurried. you stepped outside, heart pounding in your throat, and she turned.
paige wore white, tailored perfectly, hair pulled back, shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact, except the second she saw you something inside her loosened. her jaw tightened and her shoulders dropped at the same time, like gravity shifted and she let it.
you walked slowly, not because you were nervous, but because you wanted to feel every second, the grass beneath your heels, the warmth of the sun on your shoulders, the way the world narrowed to the space between you. when you reached her, you didn’t take her hand immediately. you just looked at her.
ten years condensed into one quiet glance. freshman rivalry, the note, the acl, the bench, the comeback, yet even senior night and the championships and every version of yourselves standing between you, layered and undeniable.
“hi,” she whispered, voice rougher than usual.
“hi.”
the officiant spoke about partnership, about building something before you label it, about choosing someone every day even when the season changes, but you barely heard the formal words. your attention stayed on the way paige’s thumb brushed lightly against the inside of your wrist, grounding you in something real.
when it was time for vows, she didn’t pull out paper. she just breathed in and spoke. “i’ve been choosing you since freshman year,” she said quietly, voice steady but thick around the edges. “even when i didn’t know how to say it, even when i was stubborn, even when we were rivals. i choose you when it’s loud and when it’s quiet, when you’re at your best and when you’re rebuilding, when you’re scoring thirty and when you’re relearning how to walk. i choose you for all of it.”
your throat tightened, tears blurring the edges of her face. you swallowed and let your own words come without rehearsal. “i didn’t think love would look like this,” you admitted softly. “i thought it would be dramatic or obvious, something loud and cinematic. but it was patience. it was rehab mornings. it was sitting on the bench and still feeling like we were playing together. you didn’t flinch when things got hard, you didn’t step back when i was scared. so i won’t either.”
kk was crying openly by then, not even pretending otherwise. azzi wiped her cheeks and laughed at herself. geno looked down at his shoes for a second longer than necessary, clearing his throat once.
the rings were simple gold bands, no diamonds, no spectacle, just something solid and warm. when you slid hers onto her finger your hands didn’t shake. when she slid yours on, she leaned forward before the officiant even finished speaking, pressing her forehead to yours like she needed to anchor herself.
the kiss wasn’t rushed, not desperate, not a performance. it was certain, steady, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for applause but received it anyway, soft clapping rising into warm cheers, someone whistling, someone laughing through tears.
later, under strings of fairy lights, the reception felt like a reunion more than a formal event. teammates crowded the dance floor, nika giving a speech that balanced chaos and sincerity, azzi talking about watching the shift from rivalry to something deeper, kk ending her toast with a dramatic, “finally,” that made everyone laugh. geno stood slowly when it was his turn.
“i’ve coached a lot of talent,” he said evenly, eyes moving between you. “but what matters isn’t talent. it’s character. and these two have more than enough of both.”
you danced barefoot before the night ended, black suit jacket discarded, ivory silk brushing against hardwood, laughter spilling into the warm air. no cameras except the ones your friends held. no headlines. no speculation.
just vows exchanged under open sky, hands laced together as you stepped into the dark, rings catching moonlight instead of flash it didn’t feel like an announcement, it felt like a foundation.
so a year later, when the world zoomed in on your fingers during an instagram story, when fans paused and replayed and headlines formed, you didn’t feel exposed.
because the promise had already been made, quietly, intentionally, in a circle of people who already knew, long before the draft, long before the orange carpet, long before anyone else was watching.
love the family au fr. maybe if you wanted to do something like when shes pregnant with dax or like having him and shortly thereafter. or jelly, how did they react to now having two kids with a crazy schedule
im so glad youre enjoying this au as much as i am creating it!!!! i wanted to like form a good timeline so... dax/jelly have about a three year age difference!!
nothing about their family was accidental, these two absolutely had spreadsheets, long dramatic conversations at like 1 a.m. about logistics, timing, careers, feelings, life plans because lesbians do not simply stumble into pregnancy 😭
everything was planned down to an almost ridiculous degree.
dax especially because early career paige + baby planning is already such a mental image. she’s young but very serious about it, the way she is about everything that matters to her. still building her career, still figuring out the league, still adjusting to the reality of being a pro athlete, but also very firmly like “no, i want this. i want a family. i don’t want to wait until everything is perfect because everything is never perfect.”
you already know she was unbearable during the planning phase.
not emotionally but logistically.
she’s researching everything. doctors, timelines, training adjustments, sleep science, nutrition, travel implications. she absolutely treats pregnancy prep like an extension of game prep.
she’s both incredibly excited and deeply neurotic about doing everything “right.”
and then dax is born and it’s just… instant identity shift.
because nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared paige for how hard she’d fall into being a mom. everyone expects her to love it, sure, but the intensity of it, the way dax just completely rewires her brain chemistry is just a different level. she’s obsessed. like painfully obsessed.
this tiny human has her fully wrapped around his little baby finger within minutes. she’s the most annoying, lovestruck, hovering new parent imaginable. constantly staring at him like he’s some kind of miracle (which, to be fair, he is)
the wildest part is how naturally she slides into it.
yes, the sleep deprivation is brutal. yes, balancing training and a newborn is absolute chaos. yes, there are moments where both of you are running on fumes and vibes but paige never treats dax like something that complicates her life.
he’s just her favorite thing.
she’s the type of mom who’s showing teammates pictures every five seconds, who rushes home after everything, who talks about him nonstop. dax becomes this grounding force in her life not a distraction, but a center of gravity.
fast forward a bit, dax is around 2 1/2 when the baby conversations start again and this is where it gets really funny because now you’re not nervous new parents anymore.
now you’re tired veterans 😭
you already know what babies are like. you already know what sleep loss feels like. you already know how insane life gets.
so the second pregnancy planning is way less romantic and way more logistics because careers, timing, dax’s age, support systems, everything is considered. this isn’t impulsive.
dax being old enough to vaguely understand is the cutest part. he doesn’t fully grasp pregnancy, obviously, but he understands baby. understands sibling, understands that something big is happening.
paige absolutely milks this.
she’s constantly like “you’re going to be a big brother, buddy,” with this ridiculous soft voice she only uses with him. dax, meanwhile, is just vibing, occasionally patting your stomach like “baby in there :)” with zero comprehension of scale or consequences.
then angelica (everyone called her jelly literally the first day she was born, nobody ever calls her angelica anymore 😭) is born when dax is 3 and the household energy permanently changes because going from one kid to two is not a small adjustment.
suddenly everything feels busier, more chaotic.
there’s a toddler with endless energy and opinions, a newborn with absolutely no regard for sleep cycles or adult sanity. there’s paige’s career, which at this point is even more demanding. more travel, more pressure, more everything. someone always needs something. the house is never quiet. schedules overlap. sleep becomes this rare, mythical luxury.
but the thing that really defines that era isn’t stress, it’s how aggressively paige leans into being a two-kid mom.
like she’s tired, sure but she’s also stupidly happy.
she’s carrying jelly around constantly while dax clings to her leg. she’s mastered the art of multitasking affection, somehow making both kids feel like they have all of her at once. she’s deeply sentimental about the fact that dax is no longer the baby even while completely melting over jelly.
there’s definitely that adjustment period though because toddlers are not known for emotional regulation.
there are absolutely moments of jealousy, clinginess, random meltdowns that make no logical sense. dax suddenly needing extra reassurance, extra attention, extra everything.
and paige handles it in the most paige way possible, dramatic but deeply loving.
she’s very intentional about not letting him feel replaced. very big on “you’re my first baby,” very big on carving out dax-and-mom time even when life is insane. she’s the type to sit on the floor playing with him while jelly naps, completely ignoring the world.
and jelly just slots into the family like she was always there.
tiny, loud, immediately adored.
the crazy schedule never really slows down. if anything, it intensifies but their house just becomes this warm, chaotic, love-filled space where exhaustion and happiness coexist constantly.
like yeah, they’re tired.
always tired but also deeply, ridiculously in love with the life they built.
ev blurb night is my faveeeee 💖💖can i req a blurb of shy reader meeting lukas besties (AR, rui, etc)? i love uuuuuuuu 🫶🏻🫶🏻
ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | nothing but fluff!
ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | tysm for requesting this, baby!!! i love you too, and hope you enjoy some sweet moments between shy reader and luka <3 🤗🤗🫶🏼🫶🏼
You’d known this moment was coming.
Honestly, you’d been dreading it ever since Luka mentioned, in that totally casual, completely oblivious way he does, that the guys were “coming over to hang out before the next road trip.” Which was Luka-code for: Hey babe, my NBA coworkers slash semi-brotherhood plus-or-minus chaos agents are going to invade our home, eat our snacks, and loudly debate whatever nonsense they feel like at any given moment. I hope you love loud noises.
And normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve smiled, told him to have fun, and escaped to the bedroom with a book until the ruckus died down.
But “the guys” this time weren’t just the random rotation of teammates wandering through. These were the ones Luka cared about - the ones he talked about at 2 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep, the ones he learned to trust, argue with, tease, and trained with until all hours.
Austin. Rui. Jake. A few others popping in and out.
You’d heard their names a million times from Luka. You’d heard the stories. You’d seen them on TV, in interviews, in clips rewatched endlessly on your couch when Luka picked apart his game like he was solving a murder case. You’d formed mental pictures, attached little personality bullet points - Austin is loud, Rui is calm, Jake is sarcastic and convinced yourself that this neat categorization meant you’d be totally fine meeting them.
Except neat mental categories have never been a reliable substitute for actual human interaction. Not when you’re shy, not when your mind loves preparing for every worst-case scenario, not when the thought of trying to make conversation with people who already have a deep bond with your boyfriend makes your stomach tighten in knots.
You spent the entire morning pacing the living room while Luka, annoyingly laid-back and somehow oblivious to your anxiety spiral despite knowing you better than most people ever have, lounged on the couch flipping channels.
“Do we have enough drinks?” you asked, biting your lip, glancing toward the kitchen cabinets.
“We have plenty,” Luka mumbled, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Snacks?”
“Baby, we could feed a village.”
“What if they don’t like-”
He didn’t even let you finish, just reached out, caught your wrist, and tugged you down onto his lap with that impossible combination of effortless strength and total softness you’ve now grown accustomed to. His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb stroking lightly.
“They’re going to love you. Please stop worrying.”
Easy for him to say. The man could walk into a room with zero prep and charm half the population without trying. You, on the other hand...
“Well, I’m worrying,” you whispered because you always tell him the truth even when it feels embarrassing.
He pressed a kiss to your cheek, lingering. “I know,” he murmured. “But I promise. You just have to be yourself.”
If only being yourself didn’t feel like the most vulnerable option.
You tried to be normal - really, you did. You made coffee, cleaned up the living room for the tenth time, arranged snacks on the counter like some sort of human Pinterest board, and you tried not to watch the clock tick toward the arrival window Luka had casually tossed out: “Sometime around one.”
The knock came at 12:47.
Your soul left your body.
Luka hopped up instantly, apparently thrilled, and yelled “Door’s open!” like you didn’t just have a whole heart attack on the spot.
And then the door swung wide, and in walked reality.
Austin Reaves, hair messy from what looked like a beanie he’d just shoved in his pocket, wearing that permanent expression of amused disbelief. Rui Hachimura, tall and calm with that gentle smile you’d seen a thousand times during postgame interviews. Jake LaRavia behind them, carrying a giant bag of chips and shouting something unintelligible toward Luka in their mutual language of inside jokes.
And you, standing in the middle of the living room like a deer caught in a stadium-sized spotlight.
Luka must’ve noticed the instant freeze because he reached behind him and grabbed your hand. He tugged you closer until you were practically glued to his side. He didn’t say anything at first, just anchored you there. The closeness alone loosened your lungs enough to breathe.
“Boys,” he said with unnecessary dramatic flair, “this is my girlfriend. Be nice.”
Austin grinned. That mischievous I-will-in-fact-cause-trouble grin. “Nice? I’m always nice.”
Jake rolled his eyes because even you knew that was a lie.
Rui offered you a warm, sincere nod, and that small gesture was the first thing that made you feel like maybe - maybe - you could survive this.
“Hi,” you greeted, voice soft, barely above a whisper. Luka gave your hand a proud little squeeze.
Austin shot a look at Luka like he was already cooking up something to give him grief about. “Man, you didn’t tell us she was shy.”
“She’s not shy,” Luka corrected instantly, turning to glare at him while your cheeks burned. “She’s just careful who she talks to unlike you.”
Jake laughed, that easy kind of laugh that softened the edges of the room. “Don’t take it personally. He talks too much for all of us.”
Austin scoffed. “Wow.”
And somehow, just like that, the energy shifted. It wasn’t overwhelming anymore. It was stupid and chaotic in a way that was weirdly comforting. Luka pulled you a little forward, and suddenly you were part of the circle instead of hovering at the edge of it.
“You want something to drink?” you asked, your voice slightly steadier now, your instinct to host was kicking in.
“We brought beer,” Austin announced proudly, lifting a six-pack.
“And chips,” Max added.
“And overpriced croissants from some fancy bakery Rui insisted on stopping at,” Austin concluded, which earned him a pointed look from Rui.
“I wanted something normal for once,” Rui said, deadpan. Then he looked at you. “I hope you like croissants.”
“I do,” you said and judging by the quick flicker of relief in his eyes, you realized maybe he was also a little nervous.
That tiny thread of mutual awkwardness made your shoulders relax.
The afternoon unfolded slowly, at its own chaotic pace. Luka pulled you onto the couch beside him, practically folded you under his arm, and stayed close enough that you couldn’t drift too far from safety but he didn’t hover, didn’t smother, just made sure you had an anchor in the storm of loud laughter and heated sports debates.
Jake and Austin immediately got into some ridiculous argument about who’d win in a 1v1 - something they apparently argued about every time they were in the same room, judging by Rui’s resigned sighs.
“Bro, I’m literally faster than you,” Jake insisted.
“You’re not.”
“I am!”
Rui leaned toward you, not unkindly. “This is every day, imagine this at 5AM lifts.”
You smiled, small but genuine. “I couldn’t imagine.”
The sound of your voice made Luka peek down at you, that warm, slightly softened look taking over his features. The one he only ever gave you. He rubbed his thumb over your forearm, a silent gesture saying, See? I told you. You’re fine.
Eventually the guys settled into the rhythm of hanging out - every few minutes, one of them dragging Luka into some joke, some story, some gripe about practice or travel or the last game and even though you weren’t talkative, you didn’t feel out of place. They didn’t treat you like an outsider or like someone to impress. They were just themselves.
These weren’t intimidating guys. They were normal, good. Luka chose his circle well.
It hit you, gradually, that you didn’t need to fill the room with words to belong in it. Your presence was enough.
And Luka kept you grounded. His hand brushed your thigh, his knee bumped against yours, his arm curled behind you, fingertips idly tracing circles along your shoulder blade as he listened to his friends talk.
At one point, Austin collapsed onto the couch directly opposite you, leaning forward with dramatic flair.
“So. Girlfriend.”
You blinked. “Yes?”
He pointed at Luka with exaggerated horror. “Explain to me, very slowly - how you put up with this man on a daily basis.”
Luka threw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”
Austin caught it, smirking. “No, but really. He snores, eats like a teenager. He always steals the aux. He-”
“He doesn’t steal the aux,” you protested before you could stop yourself.
Austin’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. She’s defending him! This is worse than I thought.”
Everyone laughed, including you.
Luka pulled you in closer. “Stop trying to scare her.”
Austin held up his hands. “I’m just testing her loyalty.”
“She’s loyal,” Luka said simply and you felt him look down at you again, that soft, deep warmth flickering through his eyes. “Very loyal.”
Your cheeks heated, but you didn’t look away. Not this time.
By the time the sun started dipping into early evening, the atmosphere in the apartment was… warm and comfortable in a way that surprised you.
The guys started to gather their things - beer cans, chip crumbs, Rui’s now-empty croissant box while Luka walked them to the door.
Rui was the first to turn to you.
“It was nice to finally meet you,” he said, offering you a small but sincere smile.
You returned it. “It was nice meeting you too.”
Jake followed, giving you a light fist-bump like you were already part of the group.
Austin lingered a moment longer, looking you up and down with the air of someone making a formal verdict. Then he nodded.
“She’s cool,” he declared to Luka. “Keep her.”
Luka grinned as he shoved Austin toward the hallway. “I planned to.”
“Bye, girlfriend,” Austin added with a playful salute before disappearing down the hall.
When the door finally shut, the apartment fell into an almost startling silence.
You exhaled. A long, shaky exhale you didn’t realize you'd been holding until now.
Luka turned around, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile tugging at his lips. “See?” he said.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
“You were great.”
“I barely talked.”
“That’s fine,” he said, stepping forward, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “You don’t need to talk a lot. You just need to be you.”
Your throat tightened a little not from anxiety this time, but from something warmer.
He kissed your forehead, lingering. “And they liked you,” he murmured against your skin.
“Yeah?” you whispered.
He nodded. “A lot.”
His hands slipped around your waist, pulling you in. You let yourself melt into him, burying your face in his chest as his arms wrapped tight.
Maybe you had worried too much. Maybe you’d underestimated yourself. Maybe you’d underestimated how safe you felt around him.
Or maybe, today really proved that you didn’t need to perform, impress, or be anything other than exactly who you already were.
With Luka, and with the people who genuinely cared about him, you fit.
↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
More calm/shy reader with luka please! Like their first meet or something like that 😉
The bookstore was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt sacred, like an unspoken rule everyone just followed without thinking. The rain outside drummed gently against the windows, and the soft glow of overhead lights cast a warm, golden hue over the rows of shelves. It smelled like paper and ink, the kind of comforting scent that made you feel safe.
You liked it here. It was one of the few places that didn’t make you feel like you had to shrink yourself, like you didn’t have to force conversation or pretend to be someone louder, someone bolder. Here, silence wasn’t awkward—it was welcomed.
You had come in for just one book, but, as always, you got distracted, fingers tracing the spines of novels, stopping every now and then to flip through pages. You tucked yourself into one of the quieter corners of the store, away from the handful of other customers milling about.
And then—
A shadow passed over you.
You glanced up, startled to see someone standing a little further down the aisle, near the sports section.
Tall. Really tall.
That was the first thing your brain registered.
The second thing was that he was staring at you.
Your stomach flipped, your heart jumping in that anxious way it always did when unexpected attention was on you. You quickly looked away, pretending to be completely absorbed in the book in your hands, but you could still feel his presence, like a gravitational pull.
A few seconds passed before you heard a small shuffle of movement, the sound of footsteps hesitating—then coming closer.
You peeked up again.
Oh.
You knew him.
Not personally. But everyone knew him.
Luka Dončić.
Your brain took a second to catch up, the realization making your breath hitch. It wasn’t just that he was famous—it was that he was here, in this tiny bookstore, dressed casually in a hoodie and joggers, his hair slightly damp like he’d been caught in the rain outside. He looked normal, like just another person wandering the shelves, but it was impossible to ignore the way he felt bigger than the space around him, like the store itself was too small to contain him.
You tried not to overthink it, tried to convince yourself that maybe he wasn’t actually looking at you, that you were just imagining things—
Until he stepped closer.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice was soft, deep, a little rough around the edges.
You blinked, gripping the book a little tighter. “Hi.”
Your voice barely came out. You winced at yourself. Get a grip.
Luka’s lips twitched, like he was holding back a smile. “Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I just—” He gestured toward the book in your hands. “That’s a good one.”
You glanced down, realizing you were holding a novel you’d already read before. Your fingers traced over the familiar cover, and something about that small movement made you feel a little steadier.
“Oh. Yeah, it is,” you murmured, voice a little more even this time.
Luka nodded, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “You read a lot?”
You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because small talk had never been your strong suit.
“Yeah,” you said finally, feeling a little awkward. “I, um. I like it here.”
Luka smiled at that, and it was genuine, warm in a way that made your chest feel weirdly light.
“Yeah? First time I’ve been here,” he admitted, glancing around the store. “It’s nice.”
You nodded. The words were right there, sitting on the tip of your tongue, but you still hesitated before speaking.
“Didn’t really expect you to be a bookstore person,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them.
Luka chuckled, like you’d said something funny. “Why not?”
You shrugged, feeling your face heat. “Just… most people don’t think athletes are, you know. Into reading.”
Luka tilted his head slightly, considering that. Then he gave a small smirk. “So, you’re saying I don’t look smart?”
Your eyes widened, heat creeping up your neck. “No! I mean, I didn’t mean—”
He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m kidding. Relax.”
You exhaled, pressing your lips together. God, you were so bad at this. Whatever this was.
Luka, however, didn’t seem put off by your shyness. If anything, he seemed amused by it. Like he was enjoying this little interaction, even though you were still struggling to string together words without tripping over them.
A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment. Luka reached for a book on the shelf near you, flipping it open casually.
Then—
“You shy?” he asked, voice low, like it was just for you.
Your stomach flipped again. That was blunt.
You swallowed. “...Sometimes.”
Luka nodded like he already knew that, like he could tell just from the way you spoke, the way you held yourself.
But there was no teasing in his expression. No impatience, no judgment.
Just curiosity. And something softer.
“You don’t talk much,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
You looked down at the book in your hands again, running your fingers over the edges of the pages.
“No.”
Luka was quiet for a second, then—
“That’s okay,” he murmured.
Your chest felt weirdly tight at that.
Because a lot of people didn’t think it was okay. A lot of people mistook quiet for disinterest, or awkwardness for something that needed fixing. But Luka had said it so simply, so naturally, like it wasn’t even a big deal.
Like he didn’t mind.
You glanced up at him, studying him for a second. He met your gaze, his blue eyes warm, unhurried. And maybe that was what made you speak again.
“What kind of books do you like?”
Luka’s lips twitched again, like he was surprised you had asked. He looked down at the book in his hands, flipping through it absently.
“Honestly? Don’t read as much as I want to,” he admitted. “But… self help, mostly. Biographies. Some sci-fi. I try.”
You nodded, feeling a little more at ease.
“You?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.
“Fiction,” you said. “Mostly literary stuff. But sometimes fantasy.”
Luka smirked. “You look like a that kinda girl.”
Your brows lifted. “What does that even mean?”
He shrugged, looking amused. “Just a guess.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips before you could stop it.
And Luka saw it.
His gaze lingered, something almost pleased flickering behind his expression.
Then, casually—too casually—he said, “So, you ever recommend books to strangers?”
You blinked. “Um. Not usually.”
Luka grinned, tilting his head toward you. “Wanna start now?”
Your heart skipped.
You looked at him, then down at the shelves, scanning the spines until you landed on one of your favorites. You reached for it slowly, fingers grazing the cover before you hesitated, glancing back at him.
Luka was still watching you, still waiting.
You exhaled, summoning whatever small courage you had, and handed him the book.
And Luka Dončić—NBA superstar, larger-than-life presence, someone who should’ve been too big for this tiny bookstore—took it from you with a small, quiet “Thanks.”
Like it meant something. And that was the beginning.
Could I ask for Luka trying to flirt pre relationship
ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | medic!reader, kind of cringe flirting?? idk but this is my fav dynamic ever
You’ve learned very quickly that the Lakers training facility has a rhythm.
There’s the steady hum of sneakers squeaking on polished hardwood. The thud of the ball against the floor. The burst of laughter from a cluster of players hyping each other up after a ridiculous shot. The clipped instructions from the coaching staff, predictable cadence of drills: run, shoot, reset, repeat.
And, like clockwork, there’s Luka Dončić - who is allegedly the franchise cornerstone - limping into the medical room somewhere between forty-seven and sixty-four minutes into practice.
Every day, without fail.
At first, you thought it was coincidence. A new environment, a brand-new roster, lingering tightness from an intense offseason - sure. Maybe he just needed you to monitor him closely.
But now? Now you know better.
Because today, like every other day this week, you hear his voice echoing down the hall before you even see him.
“Ahhhh… Ow… owwww… my-my knee… maybe my ankle too… probably both - oh, this is bad. Reallyyyy bad.”
You exhale a laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you finish organizing one of the cabinets. You don’t turn around immediately because if you do, you’ll have to make eye contact with him and Luka Dončić does not handle eye contact normally, at least not with you.
He stumbles into the doorway, holding his side, limping dramatically, face contorted in exaggerated pain.
“Help,” he gasps. “Medic! I’m injured.”
You turn, arms crossed, and lift a brow. “Hi, Luka.”
He brightens immediately. “Hi.”
The limp disappears.
You blink.
His posture straightens. His eyes soften, entire demeanor flips from half-dead to annoyingly charming.
You sigh. “What is it this time?”
He pauses, looks down at his own body, then up at you.
“Uh… my shoulder.”
“Your... shoulder?”
“Yes. It hurts.”
“Which one?”
He hesitates. “The left one.”
You tilt your head at him.
He switches sides. “The right one.”
You fight the smile threatening to form on your lips. “Sit.”
He sits instantly - obedient, eager, taking his seat on the examination table in a way that tells you he’s way too comfortable doing this routine.
You reach for his chart.
“Well,” you say, flipping through it. “Let’s go through the list. Yesterday was your ankle, the day before was your lower back, and the day before that was-”
“My feelings,” he adds.
You snort. “Pretty sure that’s not something I treat.”
He gives a hopeful little shrug. “You could try?”
You shake your head but your cheeks warm against your will.
This man is ridiculous.
But he’s ridiculous in a way that’s carefully calibrated. Too intentional to be random. He doesn’t flirt like a normal player - no sleazy lines, no weird invasive comments. Instead, he’s earnest, boyish, borderline stupid in how transparent he is.
And it’d be easier to ignore if he weren’t who he is - internationally beloved superstar, face of the franchise, the guy who can drop forty points without breaking a sweat and still somehow melt into a puddle when you look at him too long.
You step in front of him. “Show me where it hurts.”
He lifts his arm dramatically, flinching. “Here - ah!”
You place your fingers gently on his shoulder, palpating the muscle. He goes still, stops breathing altogether. The air between you tightens in a way that’s always electric and alarming and way too warm for a medical room full of antiseptic wipes and sports tape.
His skin is warm under your hand.
You press a little deeper. “Hurts here?”
He inhales sharply.
“Yes,” he says, voice way too soft.
“And here?”
“Definitely. Very bad.”
“And here?”
Silence.
You glance up. His eyes are on your face, studying you with a slow, focused intensity that makes the back of your neck heat.
He swallows. “Uh... yeah. Still hurts.”
You withdraw your hand suddenly. Not because you’re uncomfortable, but because you’re too comfortable and that’s dangerous.
“Alright,” you say. “Let me check your range of motion. Lift your arm.”
He lifts it with exaggerated struggle, making a big show of it - grimacing, groaning.
“My god,” you mutter. “You’re pathetic.”
His face lights up like you complimented him.
“You think I’m pathetic?” he asks, delighted.
“Yes.”
“I like that you notice things about me,” he says, dead serious.
You laugh, once, betraying yourself.
“What?” he protests. “It’s true. You pay attention to me.”
“I pay attention because you keep pretending to be hurt.”
“I’m very hurt, actually.”
You narrow your eyes. “Really?”
“Yes, emotionally.”
You drop your arms. “Get out.”
He beams. “Okay.”
But he doesn’t move.
After another ten minutes because you are a professional and you will do your job even if he’s a menace, you finish checking him. He’s perfectly fine, absolutely uninjured and currently watching you like you’re solving every mystery in the universe.
“You’re cleared,” you say firmly. “Go back to practice.”
He nods, swinging his feet like a giant child. “In a minute.”
“No. Now.”
He points at your chart. “I need… treatment.”
“What treatment?”
He thinks. “Tape.”
“You don’t need tape.”
“I need emotional support tape.” He clarifies, as if it’d help his case.
You stare at him. “That is not a thing.”
“It could be a thing.”
You rub your forehead, fighting the laugh bubbling up. You hate that he’s funny, hate that he knows he’s funny, hate that he uses it against you.
“Okay,” you say, “I’m setting boundaries. You can’t just pretend to be injured because you’re bored.”
He tilts his head. “I’m not bored.”
You cross your arms. “What are you then?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.
“Hungry,” he says finally.
You glare.
He shrugs. “Hungry for lunch.”
You keep glaring.
“And also maybe for-” He cuts himself off. “Nope, never mind.”
Your pulse stutters, betraying you.
“What?” you press. “For what?”
He stands abruptly, towering over you, nervousness flickering in the way he runs a hand through his hair.
“For... practice,” he says. Too quickly.
You laugh softly. Pretty sure it betrays him more than you. “Right.”
He throws his hands up defensively. “What? It’s true.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He inches toward the door. “But maybe also for-uh, like… interactions.”
“Interactions?”
“With you,” he says bluntly.
Your breath hitches. “Luka.”
He stops in the doorway, turns, gives you a soft, crooked smile that’s surprisingly vulnerable.
“You’re my favorite part of this building,” he says quietly.
And before you can respond, before you can question what that means or how serious he is, he heads back toward the court, jog suddenly perfect, limp completely gone.
You stare after him for a good thirty seconds, heart beating way too fast.
That’s not the last time he pulls it. In fact, it becomes a pattern - daily, predictable, infuriatingly charming.
Monday, he walks in holding his hand like it’s broken.
“I jammed my finger,” he declares.
You examine it. “No, you didn’t.”
“It’s sprained.”
“It’s fine.”
“Look, it bends weird.”
“It bends normally. You’re fine.”
“I think I need band-aids.”
“You do not.”
“I need seventy seven band-aids.”
You narrow your eyes, one eyebrow raises. “Why... seventy sevenz/?”
“Because it is my number.”
You throw a band-aid at his forehead.
He beams.
Tuesday, he comes in dragging his foot.
“I twisted my ankle.”
“How?”
“Walking.”
“When?”
“Thirty seconds ago.”
“Where?”
“Right outside that door.”
“So, right before you came in here.”
He nods solemnly. “Yes. Fate brought me to this room.”
You exhale. “You’re insufferable.”
He grins. “But you smiled.”
Wednesday, he goes for theatrics.
He dramatically holds his chest, gasping. “My heart.”
You stare, unimpressed. “No.”
“It hurts.”
“No.”
“Right here.” He taps the left side of his chest. “Like a tight squeeze.”
“That’s called cardio.”
He pauses. “Are you… sure?”
“Yes, Luka, I’m sure.”
He purses his lips, thinking. “Can you check anyway?”
You walk up, press firmly against the muscle where he pointed.
He inhales sharply, eyes widening.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You roll your eyes, stepping away. “Stop flirting with me.”
He smiles softly. “I’m not good at it.”
You blink. “…you’re trying to flirt with me?”
His eyes dart to the floor, then back up, sheepish and endearingly awkward. “I think so?”
Your heartbeat stumbles.
He mutters, “I like when you look at me. And talk to me. And touch me. And-” he stops himself, face flushing.
You stare at him, stunned silent.
He immediately panics. “Or I don’t! I don’t know what I’m sayin, ignore me - uh - I’m going back to practice-bye!”
He flees.
You’re left standing with your hand still tingling from where you touched him.
Thursday is quiet, too quiet.
Practice runs long. You’re busy with two actual injuries - one rolled ankle, one strained wrist. You handle paperwork, check supplies, prep kits for the road, track recovery plans for the week.
And your door stays empty.
No overgrown child dramatics. No crooked grin. No terrible excuses. No Luka.
It shouldn’t matter, it really shouldn’t.
But somehow, your day feels… emptier without him.
You try not to think about yesterday’s awkward blurting. Or the way he seemed embarrassed after, or the way you haven’t been able to stop replaying his words.
I like when you… touch me.
God.
You’re a professional. You keep it together. You finish your work, pack your things, turn off the lights. You check the hall one more time because maybe he’ll do his stupid dramatic entrance at the last second.
He doesn’t.
You head toward the exit.
And then-
“Hey!”
You turn. Luka jogs toward you - no injury, no limp, no theatrics. Just him. Flushed from practice, hair messy, breathing heavy, a little nervous.
You raise a brow. “No injuries today?”
He stops in front of you, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… no. I’m fine.”
“Shocking.”
He laughs, a little shyly. “Yeah… I think I needed to be.”
You tilt your head. “Why’s that?”
His eyes meet yours - soft, bright, sincere.
“Because if I pretend to be hurt forever,” he says quietly, “you’ll never know when I actually want to see you.”
Your breath catches.
He shifts, suddenly vulnerable. “So… this is me. Not injured. No excuses. Just… me. Talking to you because I want to.”
The world slows an your chest warms.
You step closer - barely a foot, but it’s enough, and his breath hitches.
“You don’t need an excuse,” you whisper.
His shoulders relax in relief. “Good, ’cause I was running out of fake injuries.”
You smile, soft but real. “I kinda figured.”
He laughs, nervous and genuine. “Yeah… you always see through me.”
You shrug gently. “Occupational hazard.”
He studies you a long moment, eyes drifting across your face like he’s memorizing every detail.
“Can I…” he starts, then swallows. “Can I walk you out?”
You nod.
He exhales, smiling softly - shy, hopeful, boyish in a way you’ve never seen in him before.
As you walk side by side down the hallway, his fingers brush yours - tentative, like a question he’s too scared to ask out loud.
You don’t pull away, and he doesn’t either.
And for the first time all week, he doesn’t need to fake a single injury.
↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
i was wondering if you would be willing to write a bit about husband!luka, maybe like an hc or whatever makes you happy :) no worries if not!!
hi hon, i missed doing hc's so here they are! i hope you enjoy<3
husband!luka dončić headcanons
he never stops wearing his wedding ring | luka is the kind of guy who never takes his wedding ring off, not even during games. the refs have to remind him to remove it before tip-off, and he always makes a big show of kissing it before handing it to the trainer. off the court, he’ll twist it around his finger absentmindedly, especially when he's deep in thought. if he ever does have to take it off (like for treatment or taping), he hands it directly to you, because he trusts no one else with it.
he brags about being married constantly | luka’s the type to slip “my wife” into conversations as much as possible, especially when he’s in interviews. even if the question has nothing to do with you, he’ll find a way to bring it up—“yeah, i’ve been working on my mid-range a lot… my wife actually told me i need to shoot more, so i listened.” he does it so often that fans make compilations of all the times he’s randomly mentioned you.
he’s a homebody when he’s with you | for all the chaos on the court, luka is the biggest homebody when it comes to married life. he’d rather be at home, curled up on the couch with you, than out at some fancy event. his ideal night is ordering way too much food, watching movies, and falling asleep with his head in your lap. if there’s a night off, the guys will invite him out, and his response is always the same—“nah, i’m with my wife.”
he keeps every little thing you give him | luka is sentimental to a ridiculous degree. movie ticket stubs, handwritten notes, receipts from dinners—you name it, he keeps it. he has a whole box of little keepsakes from your relationship, and whenever he’s having a rough day, he’ll go through it to remind himself of good memories. even if it’s something small, like a doodle on a napkin, he treats it like a priceless artifact.
he loves doing domestic things with you | luka genuinely enjoys the little things about married life—grocery shopping, cooking dinner, folding laundry. he doesn’t care what the task is as long as he’s doing it with you. he’ll follow you around the house while you do chores, talking about his day and helping where he can, even if it’s just holding things for you. he insists on being involved in everything, even if he’s horrible at it (like cooking, where he mostly just stirs things and taste-tests).
he’s protective in small, subtle ways | luka isn’t the over-the-top jealous type, but he’s fiercely protective in the little ways. he always walks on the side closest to the street, instinctively places a hand on your back in crowded places, and pulls you closer if someone’s getting too close. if you’re out and someone is making you uncomfortable, he won’t start a scene, but he’ll position himself between you and them and give them a look that makes it clear to back off.
he still flirts with you like you just started dating | just because you’re married doesn’t mean luka stops flirting. if anything, he gets worse. he’ll wink at you from across the room, send you texts like, you look too good today, how am i supposed to focus on practice? and pretend to “introduce himself” to you at events just to be annoying. he loves the idea that even after all this time, he can still make you blush.
he has to say ‘i love you’ at least ten times a day | luka cannot go a day without saying ‘i love you’ a ridiculous amount of times. it’s not just a habit—it’s something he genuinely feels the need to say. before he leaves for practice, before bed, in the middle of the day just because. even if he’s in a rush, he’ll stop whatever he’s doing to make sure you hear it at least once more. if you’re apart, he’ll text it randomly, sometimes in different languages, just to keep it interesting.
he’s obsessed with taking pictures of you | luka has an entire camera roll filled with random pictures of you. some are blurry candids, some are cute selfies, and some are just downright chaotic (like you mid-bite into a burger or half-asleep on the couch). he never deletes any of them. if he sees you looking particularly good, he’ll literally stop everything to take a picture—“wait, stay right there. damn, you look so good.” and if you try to take his phone to see the pictures, he’ll hold it away from you like a kid.
he hates being away from you, even for a few days | luka travels constantly, but he never gets used to being away from you. the first night in a hotel room alone, he’ll be texting and calling non-stop, even if it’s late. sometimes, he’ll fall asleep on facetime with you, phone propped up on his pillow. if he has a stretch of road games, he always plans little surprises for when he gets back—flowers, a small gift, or just clearing his entire schedule so you can have a full day together.
he’s the biggest softie when you’re sick or hurt | if you so much as sniffle, luka is in full caretaker mode. he’ll wrap you up in blankets, make you tea (even if he burns it), and refuse to let you lift a finger. if you try to protest, he’ll just say, “nah, my wife needs to rest,” and do everything himself. when you’re feeling better, he’ll act like he single-handedly nursed you back to health—“see? you just needed luka’s special care.”
he still gets nervous sometimes because he loves you so much | despite being confident on the court, luka sometimes gets nervous just looking at you. he’ll catch himself staring and think, wow, i really married her. even after years together, he still has moments where he’s overwhelmed by how much he loves you. sometimes, he’ll randomly pull you into a hug and hold you for a long time, just soaking it in. if you ask him what’s wrong, he’ll just shake his head and smile—“nothing, i just love you.”
he plans anniversaries and special dates months in advance | luka takes anniversaries very seriously. even if he acts chill about it, he’s secretly been planning something for months. he wants every milestone to be memorable, whether it’s an extravagant trip or just a really meaningful, intimate night at home. he keeps a list of places you’ve mentioned wanting to go, things you’ve said you like, and surprises you’ve hinted at—just so he can make sure every special occasion is perfect.
he loves when people call you ‘mrs. dončić’ | nothing boosts luka’s ego more than hearing someone call you ‘mrs. dončić.’ whether it’s at an event, a restaurant, or even just joking around with friends, he grins every single time. if you ever introduce yourself with your married name, he’ll lean over and whisper, “damn, that sounds so good.” he genuinely loves the fact that you share his last name, and he’ll use any excuse to hear it out loud.
I was wondering if you could do mom!paige but with her kids being teenagers.
MOM OF THE YEAR AU
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 teenage!dax & pre-teen!jelly, mostly fluff, arguments (not between paige/reader), hockey mention LOL, nothing else!? send in more thoughts!!
there’s something deeply unfair about how fast kids grow up. like one day you’re cutting grapes into microscopic pieces and panicking over whether someone remembered the diaper bag and the next you’re sitting in a freezing ice rink at eight in the morning wondering how your life somehow became this.
the rink smells like cold air and rubber and that faint metallic scent that all ice arenas have. everything echoes. skates scraping, whistles blowing, parents yelling encouragement that sounds way more aggressive than supportive.
you’re bundled in layers, coffee clutched like a survival tool. next to you, paige looks wildly out of place.
not because she doesn’t belong - she absolutely does. there is something inherently funny about paige bueckers, professional basketball star, sitting tensely in the bleachers of a youth hockey rink like this is game seven of the finals.
she’s wearing a giant coat, arms crossed, eyes locked on the ice with the intensity of someone analyzing defensive rotations.
except this is not basketball. and hockey doesnt make any sense to her.
“why are they all just chasing the puck like that?” paige mutters.
you hide your smile behind your coffee. “they’re 13.”
“but there’s no spacing.”
“paige.”
“they’re clumping.”
“it’s hockey.”
she exhales dramatically, shaking her head. “this sport makes no sense.”
you’ve had this exact conversation about five hundred times because jelly, your sweet, stubborn, endlessly energetic jelly, is currently obsessed with hockey.
not casually interested, not mildly enthusiastic. fully, completely, body-and-soul obsessed.
posters on the walls. stick constantly in hand. youtube highlight reels playing at all hours, the kind of fixation that has completely hijacked your family’s schedule, sleep cycle, and general sanity.
basketball is still there, still something she’s freakishly good at without even trying but hockey is her entire personality right now.
on the ice, jelly skates past in a blur of motion, jersey slightly too big, helmet bobbing, moving with that natural athleticism that feels almost eerie to watch. she’s tall for her age, limbs long and powerful, strides smooth.
she looks like she belongs out there which paige absolutely refuses to acknowledge without commentary.
“she’d be unstoppable if she just committed to basketball like dax,” paige says.
you sigh softly, already knowing where this is going. “she’s 13.”
“exactly. prime development window.”
“paige.”
“i’m just saying.”
she’s not being pushy, not really. not in a harsh way.
but there’s always that undercurrent with her, that deeply ingrained competitor brain, the one that sees potential like a flashing sign and immediately starts mapping out trajectories.
it’s impossible for her to turn it off.
on the ice, jelly steals the puck cleanly, weaving through defenders with an ease that makes several parents audibly gasp.
paige straightens immediately.
“okay, that was nice.”
you grin. “mhmm.”
“still,” she adds stubbornly, “imagine that footwork on a court.”
you laugh quietly because this is just paige.
16 year old dax, meanwhile, is sitting two rows down with his legs sprawled out like he owns the place, looking absurdly large and completely unbothered by the cold, the noise, or paige’s ongoing hockey grievances.
16 years old and already ridiculous.
he’s grown into this towering, broad-shouldered version of himself, nearly 6’3” now, that same familiar bueckers fluidity in the way he moves even when he’s just walking. everything about him screams basketball kid.
because he is. oh, he absolutely is.
dax lives and breathes basketball in a way that feels almost comical. early mornings at the gym, late nights watching film, energy that never seems to run out. he’s terrifyingly good and everyone knows it. coaches, scouts, random parents who whisper in bleachers like they’re discussing a future lottery pick.
he’s on the d1 route already, that much is obvious. mcdonald’s all american, media buzz, mixtapes, commentators constantly bringing up his last name like it’s a fun trivia fact instead of the most predictable storyline in sports history.
dax handles it almost suspiciously well.
he’s aware of who his mom is, aware of the attention, aware that people are always going to compare him to paige but he’s never bitter about it. never defensive.
if anything, he finds it funny.
there’s this very specific energy he has with her - part son, part best friend, part teammate.
they talk ball constantly.
not in an intense, film-room way. more like casual kitchen conversations, march madness brackets, driveway one-on-ones, paige leaning against the counter while dax raids the fridge.
he loves picking on her about being “old,” which paige pretends to be deeply offended by.
“you’re washed,” he’ll say, flopping dramatically onto the couch.
“i would still lock you up,” she’ll reply instantly.
“mom, be serious.”
“ducky, i am always serious.”
he still hates that nickname.
on the ice, jelly takes a shot.
goal.
the rink erupts, you and paige jump to your feet at the exact same time, cheering instinctively. dax doesn’t even stand.
he just shakes his head, grinning. “she’s ridiculous.”
paige beams, pride completely overpowering any lingering basketball agenda. “that’s my kid.”
“our kid,” you correct automatically.
“our kid,” she amends, still glowing.
for a moment, everything is easy, simple.
then jelly skates past the glass, eyes immediately scanning the stands.
she spots you, huge smile.
spots paige, another smile, but different somehow, tinged with something more complicated these days. that pre-teen cocktail of independence and attachment and inexplicable mood swings.
spots dax and immediately sticks her tongue out at him through the glass.
dax bursts out laughing.
“she’s so annoying,” he says, fondness dripping from every word.
this dynamic is your entire life now because having kids in wildly different stages is like living in two completely separate universes at the same time.
dax is all deep voices and late-night snacks and car keys and an alarming amount of protein consumption. half-grown man, half-kid, oscillating between maturity and absolute idiocy depending on the day.
jelly is still loud, still unapologetically emotional but sharper now. more opinionated, more likely to argue like she’s presenting a legal case.
which is… not ideal, considering who her mother is.
jelly and paige are the same person. same stubborn streak, competitive spark, inability to back down once they believe they’re right.
it is a constant problem.
you watch jelly rejoin her team, heart swelling in that familiar way that parenting somehow never stops producing.
“remember when she couldn’t even walk without face-planting?” you murmur.
paige snorts softly. “she used to run into walls.”
“full speed.”
“zero survival instincts.”
you both laugh, the memory warm and vivid.
“now look at her,” you say.
paige’s expression softens, something quieter slipping through the usual humor and commentary. “yeah.”
there’s always something a little emotional about watching your kids do things they love but with paige, it’s layered because she understands sports in a way few people ever will. understands the grind, the obsession, the strange, consuming relationship between identity and performance.
she sees more than just a kid having fun. she sees pathways, risks, possibilities.
sometimes that’s beautiful. sometimes it’s complicated.
the game continues, jelly darting across the ice like she was born there.
paige tries to follow along, but her basketball brain still visibly struggles with the logic of hockey. there are constant whispered questions.
“why did play stop?”
“icing.”
“what is icing?”
you don’t even attempt to answer. you’ve learned better.
two periods later, jelly’s team wins.
she skates off flushed and glowing, excitement radiating from her like heat.
postgame jelly is a force of nature.
she barrels into you first, nearly knocking your coffee out of your hand, still buzzing with adrenaline.
“did you SEE that last play?!”
“we saw,” you laugh, hugging her tightly.
she turns immediately to paige, eyes bright. “mom, that ref was so bad.”
paige lights up instantly. “RIGHT?!”
you close your eyes. because oh no, here we go.
“he totally missed that trip!”
“it was a blatant trip!”
“BLATANT!”
they launch into a full breakdown of officiating failures like two analysts on a sports network, completely aligned in righteous indignation.
dax watches, deeply amused.
“this is insane,” he says.
“you’re insane,” jelly shoots back.
“you play a sport where people fight on ice.”
“it’s strategy.”
“it’s violence.”
“jealous much?”
“of what?”
“my athletic superiority.”
dax laughs so hard he almost drops his phone.
paige just watches them with that soft, endlessly fond expression she gets, pride and amusement tangled together.
this is her favorite thing, honestly.
the chaos. the noise. the kids. even when she pretends otherwise.
later, crammed into the car, the energy somehow increases instead of fading.
jelly talks nonstop about plays, teammates, drama, things that make sense only to 13-year-olds and deeply invested parents. paige listens like every word is sacred.
this is your life now and somewhere between jelly’s retelling of a completely routine play and dax’s sarcastic responses, you catch paige looking at both of them in the rearview mirror.
soft smile - that look again, the one that says i can’t believe this is my family.
there’s something deeply, painfully tender about it because no matter how big they get, no matter how chaotic or dramatic or exhausting this phase of life can be… they’re still your kids.
and paige is still just completely, hopelessly in love with them.
the gym is loud in that very specific high school way. sneakers squeaking like they’re fighting for their lives, a student section that’s way too committed for a tuesday night, parents half-watching while pretending they totally understand every play unfolding in front of them. there’s the faint smell of pizza and the echo of whistles.
paige is already too invested.
you know it before the game even really starts because she’s leaning forward in the bleachers like she’s about to sub herself in. elbows on knees. eyes locked, jaw tight, fully dialed in.
it’s dax’s game, varsity, big rivalry, the whole dramatic package. he’s out there during warmups, absurdly tall and lanky, moving with that effortless confidence that still occasionally startles you. 16 years old and somehow towering over nearly everyone on the court.
paige watches him like this is the finals.
“look at him,” she mutters, not even trying to hide the pride. “he’s so smooth.”
you smile. “he’s literally just dribbling.”
“yeah, but look at it.”
you don’t argue, because honestly she’s not wrong. dax moves like basketball is written into his bones, like something inherited rather than learned. every step loose and natural, every shot easy.
the game tips off.
for the first few minutes, paige is relatively normal. enthusiastic, sure, but contained. clapping, nodding, whispering commentary to you like a slightly overqualified spectator.
“they’re not spacing correctly.”
“that was a travel.”
“why is he hedging like that?”
you mostly just nod, used to this.
then a foul happens.
it’s fast, dax drives hard to the rim, slicing through defenders with that long, gliding stride of his. one of the opposing players steps in late, clearly out of position and absolutely clobbers him mid-air.
the sound alone makes your stomach drop.
dax hits the floor hard. the gym collectively inhales and the whistle never comes.
there’s a split second of stunned silence.
then...
“oh, COME ON!”
paige is on her feet.
not halfway standing or politely outraged. fully upright, voice cutting across the entire gym with terrifying clarity.
“are you KIDDING me right now?!”
you close your eyes briefly.
the ref jogs past like nothing happened, play continuing, dax already scrambling back up with that teenage resilience that says i’m fine even when he absolutely isn’t.
paige is vibrating beside you.
“that was a foul,” she says, like she’s informing the universe of an objective fact.
“paige...”
“that was a FOUL.”
“i know.”
“he literally body-checked him!”
a few nearby parents glance over.
you sink slightly into your seat. “please don’t-”
too late, paige cups her hands around her mouth, projecting effortlessly.
“REF! HELLO?! DO YOU NEED GLASSES OR-”
you grab her sleeve. “paige.”
she shakes you off, eyes blazing. “that was INSANE!”
on the court, the game continues, teenagers blissfully unaware they’re about to be verbally annihilated by an extremely famous, competitive basketball player who happens to also be dax’s mother.
another play, another aggressive bump.
no call.
paige loses it completely.
“OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE TO BE JOKING!”
the student section goes quiet for half a second, collectively trying to locate the source of the very professional-level yelling.
“that kid is hacking him!” paige shouts, pointing dramatically. “that is NOT defense, that is ASSAULT!”
you are already in damage control mode. “okay, relax-”
“RELAX? did you SEE that?!”
she’s yelling like she’s courtside at a playoff game instead of sitting in a packed high school gym surrounded by mildly confused suburban parents.
then dax gets fouled again.
this time, there’s definitely contact. definitely no whistle.
paige absolutely snaps.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”
heads turn.
the ref finally looks up which is exactly the validation paige did not need.
she steps forward toward the railing, fully locked in.
“that’s THREE missed calls!” she yells. “THREE! what game are you WATCHING?!”
the ref blows the whistle, the entire gym stills.
he turns slowly, scanning the bleachers until his eyes land directly on paige.
there’s a pause, you can almost see the moment of recognition flicker across his face then professional irritation takes over.
“ma’am,” he calls out, already weary. “you need to sit down.”
paige actually laughs, disbelieving.
“sit down?” she repeats. “call the FOULS!”
you tug at her arm. “okay, okay, enough-”
“he’s getting mauled out there, just because he’s taller than the other kids, doesn’t mean he has to get ASSAULTED!”
the ref walks toward the sideline, expression tightening. “ma’am, this is your warning.”
“warning for WHAT? having EYES?!”
you feel your soul leave your body.
because paige is now in full competitive mode, which is arguably more terrifying than anything else. arms crossed, chin lifted, absolutely refusing to back down from a man with a whistle and a very fragile sense of authority.
“that was a terrible no-call,” she continues, voice echoing. “like genuinely awful.”
the ref stares at her.
paige stares back.
the tension is absurd.
you stand up quickly, inserting yourself into this disaster. “okay, hey, let’s all just-”
but paige is not done, she leans slightly over the railing.
“you’re letting these kids play football out here!”
collective gasps from the gym.
somewhere on the court, dax has realized what’s happening.
and instead of horror, he is absolutely delighted.
you see him trying (and failing) to hide a massive grin, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter as his teammates stare at him like dude, is that your mom??
the ref’s patience evaporates.
technical foul.
the whistle pierces the air.
“THAT’S A TECH?!” paige yells, genuinely offended. “FOR WHAT?!”
“ma’am,” the ref says flatly, “you’re done.”
the gym explodes into whispers.
you immediately switch into frantic lawyer mode. “okay, hold on, paige was being a little excessive-”
“excessive?!” paige repeats. “he’s been getting hacked all game!”
the ref gestures toward the exit. “you need to leave.”
paige plants her feet like this is a standoff.
“this is unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head. “you’re ejecting me because you missed calls?”
“paige,” you hiss under your breath. “please.”
but she’s already arguing like she’s mid-postgame press conference.
“that was CLEAR contact!”
the ref is unmoved. “you can continue this conversation outside.”
“oh, we’re definitely continuing this conversation!”
the entire game is still paused.
teenagers frozen mid-court, coaches pretending not to enjoy this, parents openly staring now and dax, absolutely losing it.
he’s bent slightly at the waist, laughing, hands on his knees, completely unbothered by the fact that his mother is being ejected from his varsity basketball game.
you can practically read his thoughts from across the gym: this is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.
you grab paige’s arm with both hands. “okay, okay, we’re leaving, everyone relax-”
“no, because explain to me HOW that wasn’t a foul-”
“paige.”
“he literally shoved him!”
“PAIGE.”
the ref is now actively herding her toward the stairs.
she’s still yelling still arguing, still completely incapable of disengaging.
“you’re rewarding bad defense!”
you are walking beside them like an exhausted mediator. “okay, nobody is rewarding anything, let’s just breathe-”
“this is why kids flop!” paige continues.
the ref pinches the bridge of his nose.
the gym is dead silent except for paige’s voice carrying with alarming authority.
somewhere behind you, you hear unmistakable laughter.
dax again.
you glance back, he’s wiping his eyes. actually wiping tears of laughter from his face.
the little traitor.
paige finally allows herself to be guided toward the exit, still muttering heated commentary under her breath.
“unreal, absolutely unreal.”
you gently shove her through the doors before she can start round two.
the hallway is blissfully quiet.
paige exhales sharply, pacing like a caged animal. “did you SEE that no-call?!”
you stare at her, then you start laughing.
because now that you’re removed from the social horror of it all… it’s kind of hilarious.
paige blinks at you. “what?”
“you just got ejected from a high school basketball game, babe.”
“because the officiating was terrible!”
“you were cussing at 16-year-olds.”
“they were fouling my kid!”
you laugh harder, and despite herself, paige’s mouth twitches.
“okay,” she admits, slightly sheepish. “maybe i got a little carried away.”
“a little?”
“okay, a lot.”
you grin. “dax thinks it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened.”
paige groans, dragging a hand down her face. “he’s never going to let me live this down.”
“absolutely not.”
there’s a beat. then paige starts laughing too, the tension finally dissolving.
“i cannot believe they threw me out.”
“i can.”
“rude.”
but she’s smiling now, the fire gone, replaced by that familiar mix of embarrassment and amusement.
through the gym doors, the muffled sounds of the game resume.
life goes on.
and somewhere inside, dax is probably still telling his teammates,
yeah, that’s my mom.
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I would love love love to see a blurb about riding jokic cause IK FOR A FACT his size kink goes crazy as hell
𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 NSFW! riding, unprotected sex, man handling, slight banter, smut without plot
your thighs shook slightly as you bore down on nikola’s cock, the feeling overwhelming and satisfying at the same time. his huge hands were planted on your hips as he groaned into your ear, his head fell back against the headboard.
“you feel amazing,” he whispered as you continued to ease down on his impressive length. you were shaking already, and you were only halfway there—you felt so full already, your eyebrows threading together as you tried to sum up the courage to continue.
nikola’s eyes never left your face, his expression brighter than this usual bored, almost exhausted look. he looked as rejuvenated as ever, watching his girl take his cock so good.
“you’re doing so good, baby,” he shuddered out, noticing your halt. he resisted the urge to grab your hips and fuck into you, the thought making a shiver go down his spine.
he knew it wasn’t hard to take him, he knew he was carrying a huge package—he tried very hard to empathize, but even the mere thought of you writhing and squirming underneath him as you tried to take him, made his cock grow harder.
his hands covered your hips almost completely as he squeezed them, the sensation making your face go warm. “i’m trying my… best,” you got our breathlessly, taking the gesture as impatience.
nikola let out a huff, his lips curving into a cheeky smile. “i didn’t say anything,”
“nikola—“
you were cut off by a sudden moan rippling through your body as his hands gripped your hips and pushed you down until he was balls deep—you swore you felt him all the way in your throat. before you could even move your hips on your own, nikola began thrusting upward, effectively fucking into you with hard, deep strokes even while you were on top.
“taking your sweet time,” he groaned out as he squeezed his eyes shut. “you know i don’t like to wait.”
your brain scrambled for a response—any response, but instead the only thing that came out out was a pathetic moan. every thrust earned a squeak from the mattress below the two of you, the sound meshing with your own moans and whimpers.
nikola groaned with each deep thrust, his hips moving with their own accord. his hand found both of wrists as he grabbed them, pinning you to his body as he thrusted into you, trying to get as deep as possible.
he gripped your wrists even tighter before as his thrusts increased speed, your back arching as he quickly found the right momentum. the contrast between your bodies was so evident in that moment—your smaller frame and his muscular, thicker build. even his hands nearly covered both your wrists as he held you closer to him, his hips meeting your ass with each thrust.
“i’m gonna cum so deep inside you,” he rumbled in your ear as he let out a quiet moan. “you want that, baby? want me to cum inside you?”
all you could do was nod frantically as he gave you a lazy smirk before leaning in to give you a sloppy kiss before he released your wrists—only to wrap his arms around your whole body before he began fucking up into you rapidly as you cried out into his neck.
the familiar knot in your stomach kept testing tighter and tighter before finally, right as nikola found your g-spot, it snapped. you felt so dizzy in his arms as he tried to find his release—you could smell his cologne and could feel his sweat against yours and in any other situation it might’ve been overwhelming—but right now it felt like pure heaven.
one, two, three more thrusts and nikola let out a loud grunt, and you felt his seed gush into you as he tightened his arms around you. then after a moment he loosened it, as you perked up your head to give him a sweet kiss on the lips.
even though (technically) you had been on top, it was obvious nikola had the control.
