I'm happy you're back. Can you do a fic with Cade Cunningham and wnba!reader where they dated, and it ended on bad terms, but the reader gets traded to Detroit, and they both reconnect.
back in the D.
a cade cunningham fic
summary ~ requested!
includes ~ angst to fluff // exes to lovers // wnba reader
word count ~ 3.1k
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When you got the call that you were being traded to Detroit, the first thing you did was thank your agent.
The second thing you did was hang up the phone, sit on the edge of your bed, and stare at the wall like it had personally betrayed you.
Detroit.
Of all cities.
Of all teams.
Of all places your career could have taken you next, it had to be the one place tied to the one man you had spent the last year trying not to think about.
Cade Cunningham.
Your ex.
Your very famous, very calm, very hard-to-read ex who had once known exactly how you took your coffee, what ankle you taped first before games, how quiet you got before crying, and what songs made you feel brave before a big matchup.
The same Cade who had also broken your heart.
Or maybe you had broken his.
It depended on who told the story.
Your version was simple: distance got ugly, pride got louder, schedules became excuses, and neither of you knew how to admit you were scared without turning it into anger. He was in Detroit, carrying a franchise on his back, learning how to lead under pressure. You were in another city, fighting for minutes, fighting for respect, fighting to prove you belonged in the league. At first, love survived it. Late-night calls, texts after games, FaceTimes where both of you fell asleep with the phone beside you.
Then came the missed calls.
The dry texts.
The arguments that started with “you good?” and somehow ended with both of you saying things you didn’t mean.
The last fight happened after one of your worst games.
You had shot terribly. Turned the ball over too much. Got benched in the fourth. Afterward, all you wanted was Cade’s voice, but when he finally called, he sounded distracted. Tired. Half there.
You snapped.
He snapped back.
“You always do this,” you said, pacing your apartment with tears burning in your eyes. “You make me feel like I’m asking for too much.”
Cade’s voice was low, frustrated. “I’m trying to be here for you, but I got stuff going on too.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
That hurt.
You stopped walking.
“Wow.”
He sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No, say it. You think I don’t care about what you’re dealing with?”
“I think when you’re hurt, there’s no room for anybody else to be hurt too.”
You went silent.
Because it hit too close.
And because you were too proud to admit it.
So you said something sharper.
“Well maybe I need somebody who can actually show up.”
Cade went quiet.
Then he said, “Maybe you do.”
That was the end.
Not officially, not at first. There were a few days of silence, then one stiff conversation where both of you acted like ending things was mature and mutual. It wasn’t. It was two stubborn people putting a period where there should have been a pause.
Now, a year later, you were packing for Detroit.
Your phone buzzed with congratulations. Teammates. Friends. Family. Reporters asking for statements. Fans already editing you into your new jersey.
You ignored most of it.
Then one message appeared that made your stomach drop.
Cade: Congrats on the trade. Detroit’s lucky.
You stared at it for so long your screen dimmed.
You tapped it awake.
Read it again.
Detroit’s lucky.
Not “I’m happy for you.”
Not “Can we talk?”
Not “I heard you’re coming here and I have not known peace since.”
Just Cade. Calm. Polite. Controlled.
You hated him a little for it.
You typed:
Thank you.
Then deleted it.
Typed:
Appreciate it.
Deleted that too.
Finally, you sent:
Thanks.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
Let me know if you need anything when you get here.
Your chest tightened.
You hated that too.
Because it was exactly like him. Careful. Respectful. Offering help without forcing closeness. Leaving the door open but not stepping through it.
You put your phone face down and whispered, “I’m not doing this.”
But you were.
You were absolutely doing this.
Detroit was cold when you landed.
Not just weather cold. Memory cold. The kind that got under your skin because you remembered visiting Cade during happier months, remembered him picking you up from the airport in sweats and a hoodie, remembered him waiting by baggage claim with that small smile he tried to hide.
This time, he wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t.
Your team had sent a car.
You told yourself you were relieved.
Your first week was a blur of introductions, press photos, physicals, apartment hunting, practice, and learning new plays. Basketball helped. Basketball always helped. On the court, your mind quieted. There was no Cade, no breakup, no unfinished conversation. Just defense, footwork, reads, screens, rotations, the rhythm of your body doing what it knew how to do.
Your new teammates welcomed you quickly. Detroit had a chip on its shoulder, and you fit right into that. You played hard. Talked on defense. Stayed late after practice. Made it clear you hadn’t come to be cute in a new city.
You had come to win.
For almost two weeks, you managed not to see Cade.
That was impressive, considering both of you moved in overlapping basketball circles. But Detroit was big enough if two people were determined, and you were very determined.
Then your team hosted a community event with the Pistons.
You found out the morning of.
Your teammate, Nia, tossed a warmup shirt at you after practice. “You ready for tonight?”
You caught it. “What’s tonight?”
She frowned. “The youth clinic with the Pistons.”
You stared at her.
She stared back.
“Oh,” she said slowly. “You didn’t know?”
You looked down at the shirt in your hands.
Detroit Basketball Community Night.
Of course.
Nia’s eyes widened. “Wait. Isn’t your ex on the Pistons?”
You gave her a flat look.
She winced. “My bad.”
That evening, you walked into the practice facility with your hair pulled back, team gear on, and your face arranged into something calm enough to fool strangers.
Not yourself.
Never yourself.
Kids were everywhere. Laughing, dribbling, shouting, chasing loose balls. Coaches tried to organize stations. Cameras moved around the gym. A few Pistons players were already there, talking with staff near the sideline.
You saw Cade before he saw you.
He stood near half court, tall and composed in a Pistons hoodie, basketball tucked against his hip, listening to one of the event coordinators. His face relaxed, beard trimmed, hair lined up. He looked good.
Annoyingly good.
Painfully good.
For a second, the gym shifted around you.
You were back in his kitchen at midnight, wearing one of his hoodies while he reheated food after a game. You were in his car, feet on the dash, his hand resting on your thigh. You were lying beside him, his voice low in the dark, telling you, “You don’t always gotta be tough with me.”
Then Cade looked up.
His eyes found you.
Everything stopped for half a second.
Not visibly. Not to anyone else.
But you felt it.
That old pull.
That recognition.
His face didn’t change much, but his eyes did. They softened before he could stop them.
You looked away first.
Nia leaned toward you. “Oh, this is going to be messy.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say bad messy.”
“Nia.”
She lifted both hands and walked away grinning.
You were assigned to a passing station.
So was Cade.
Because apparently the universe was unemployed and bored.
He walked over slowly, basketball in hand. Not too close. Never too close. Cade had always understood space, sometimes too well.
“Hey,” he said.
You focused on the kids lining up. “Hey.”
“You good?”
You almost laughed.
There it was.
The question that had started so many arguments.
This time, you gave him the easy answer.
“Yeah. You?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Silence.
Awkward, thick, ridiculous silence.
A little boy with glasses looked between you both and asked, “Are y’all mad at each other?”
You froze.
Cade coughed into his hand.
Nia, from across the gym, nearly folded in half laughing.
You forced a smile. “No, baby. We’re just focused.”
The little boy looked unconvinced. “My mom says that when she’s mad.”
Cade’s mouth twitched.
You pointed at the ball. “Chest pass. Let’s go.”
For the next hour, you and Cade worked side by side like professionals.
Mostly.
You demonstrated passes. He corrected footwork. You encouraged kids. He rebounded. Every now and then, your hands brushed when reaching for the same ball, and both of you moved away like the ball had shocked you.
It was embarrassing.
At one point, a teenage girl missed a pass and groaned loudly.
“I’m terrible.”
You immediately stepped toward her. “No, you’re learning.”
She looked frustrated. “Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” You softened your voice. “Terrible means you don’t care. Learning means you’re still trying. Big difference.”
The girl looked at you, then nodded slowly.
Cade was quiet beside you.
When you glanced over, he was watching you.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
You hated how familiar that sounded.
After the event, you tried to leave quickly.
Cade caught you near the hallway.
“Can we talk?”
Your first instinct was no.
Your second instinct was also no.
But your mouth said, “About what?”
He looked down the hall, then back at you. “Not here.”
That annoyed you.
Mostly because you wanted to say yes.
You crossed your arms. “Cade.”
“I’m not trying to ambush you.”
“Feels a little ambushy.”
His mouth softened. “Ambushy?”
“Don’t smile.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He looked away, but the smile stayed for half a second.
And it hurt.
Because it felt like before.
He turned serious again. “I just want to clear the air. You’re here now. We’re going to see each other. I don’t want it to be weird every time.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “You think one conversation will make it not weird?”
“No.” He paused. “But maybe less weird.”
You sighed.
That was fair.
Annoyingly fair.
“Fine,” you said. “Ten minutes.”
You ended up outside near the parking lot, standing under a light while the cold air wrapped around both of you. Cade kept his hands in his hoodie pocket. You kept your arms folded.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Cade said, “I’m sorry.”
You blinked.
That was not what you expected.
He looked at you directly. “For how things ended.”
Your arms loosened slightly.
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he continued. “That night. What I said. How I made you feel like you were asking too much.”
Your throat tightened, but you kept your face still.
“I was overwhelmed,” he said. “I had pressure on me, and I didn’t know how to say that without making it sound like yours didn’t matter. So I got defensive.”
You looked away.
He continued, voice low.
“You needed me, and I took it like an accusation.”
That one landed.
Because yes.
That was exactly it.
You swallowed. “I shouldn’t have said you didn’t show up.”
Cade’s eyes lifted.
You hated apologizing. Not because you didn’t know when you were wrong, but because wrongness always tasted like vulnerability.
But you were older now.
Not much.
Enough.
“I was hurt,” you said. “And embarrassed about my game. And I wanted you to make me feel better, but I didn’t say that. I just expected you to know. Then when you didn’t, I punished you for it.”
Cade looked at you for a long second.
The cold made his breath visible.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
You almost smiled sadly. “Yeah.”
There it was.
The truth neither of you had been mature enough to hold back then.
“I didn’t stop caring,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
You looked at him.
Cade’s face was calm, but his eyes weren’t.
“I tried,” he admitted. “But I didn’t.”
You didn’t know what to do with that.
So you said nothing.
He nodded once, like he wasn’t expecting anything from you.
“I’m not saying that to pressure you,” he added. “I just didn’t want to keep pretending I’m unaffected by you being here.”
Your heart was doing too much.
“You’re very calm for someone claiming to be affected.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ve had practice.”
“At being calm?”
“At acting like I’m not affected by you.”
Oh.
You looked down, trying to hide the way your face warmed.
Cade noticed.
Of course he did.
He always had.
After that night, things changed slowly.
Not dramatically.
There was no instant reunion. No kiss in the parking lot. No pretending the breakup hadn’t happened. You were still cautious. He was still careful. But the ice had cracked.
He texted sometimes.
Not too much.
Cade: Good game tonight. That fourth quarter steal was crazy.
You stared at the message after your first home win with Detroit.
You: You watched?
Cade: Yeah.
You: Don’t you have NBA things to do?
Cade: I multitask.
You smiled against your will.
Another time, after he had a big game, you texted him first.
You: Nice triple-double, I guess.
His reply came fast.
Cade: I guess?
You: Don’t get cocky.
Cade: Too late.
The friendship returned in pieces.
Or whatever you wanted to call it.
He sent restaurant recommendations. You ignored the expensive ones and chose the casual spots. He asked how you were adjusting to Detroit, and this time, when you said “I’m good,” he replied:
Cade: Real answer?
You stared at it for a while.
Then typed:
Tired. Excited. A little lonely. But okay.
His response came a minute later.
Cade: I get that. Let me know when lonely gets too loud.
You set your phone down and looked at the ceiling.
Because who told him he could still know how to say things that reached you?
You started seeing him more around the facility, at charity events, at games when schedules aligned. He came to one of your games and sat lowkey, hoodie up, trying not to make it a thing. It became a thing anyway.
Your teammate Nia came into the locker room afterward grinning.
“Girl.”
“No.”
“Cade was courtside.”
“He’s in Detroit. That happens.”
“He clapped when you hit that corner three like a proud boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Yet.”
You threw a towel at her.
But after the game, you saw Cade waiting near the family area.
Your steps slowed.
He smiled a little. “You hooped.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s your analysis?”
“You want the full breakdown?”
“No.”
“Then you hooped.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling.
He looked at you like he had missed that smile.
“You hungry?” he asked.
You should have said no.
You said, “Depends where.”
He took you to a small late-night diner.
Not fancy. Not cameras. Not some athlete hotspot.
A diner.
The two of you sat in a back booth with burgers, fries, and milkshakes, and for the first time since you’d been traded, Detroit felt less like punishment and more like possibility.
Cade stole one of your fries.
You looked at him. “You still do that?”
He paused. “My bad.”
“No, it’s just…” You looked down, smiling faintly. “You used to do that.”
His face softened. “Yeah.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
Just full.
You dipped a fry into your milkshake.
Cade made a face. “Still nasty.”
“You have terrible taste.”
“You’re dipping potatoes into dessert.”
“And thriving.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling.
Later, when the food was mostly gone, Cade leaned back in the booth.
“You like it here?” he asked.
“Detroit?”
“Yeah.”
You thought about it.
“I’m getting there.”
He nodded.
“I was mad at first,” you admitted.
“Because of me?”
You gave him a look. “Obviously.”
He accepted that.
“I kept thinking, of all cities, why this one?” you said. “I thought it was some kind of bad joke. Like I was finally doing better, finally not checking your stats after every game—”
He lifted an eyebrow.
You stopped.
“Don’t.”
“You checked my stats?”
“I said finally not.”
“So before that…”
“Cade.”
He smiled into his milkshake.
You groaned. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You looked at him.
The words hung there.
Because once, they had been playful.
Now, they felt dangerous.
His smile faded.
“Sorry,” he said softly.
You shook your head. “It’s okay.”
But your heart was loud.
A month passed.
Then another.
Your season got better. You found your place on the team. Detroit fans embraced your toughness, your defense, your midrange pull-up, your habit of talking trash with a smile. Cade kept showing up when he could. You kept pretending you didn’t notice how often you looked for him.
Then you got hurt.
Not badly, but scary enough.
A hard drive. Contact in the air. Awkward landing. Pain shooting through your ankle as the arena sound blurred around you.
You tried to get up.
Couldn’t.
The trainer came out, and all you could think was, not now.
Not when things were finally clicking.
Not when you were proving yourself.
Not when Detroit was starting to feel like yours.
Later, after x-rays confirmed it was a sprain and not a break, you sat in the training room with your ankle wrapped, furious tears slipping down your face.
You heard footsteps.
Then Cade appeared in the doorway.
You wiped your face quickly. “Who let you back here?”
“Your coach.”
“I’m fine.”
He stepped inside slowly. “Real answer?”
You glared at him.
Then your face crumpled.
“I’m so mad,” you whispered.
His expression softened.
“I know.”
“I just got here. I just started playing like myself again. I can’t—” Your voice broke. “I can’t sit out.”
Cade sat beside you, close but not crowding.
“You’re not done,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because I know you.”
That cracked something open.
You looked at him through tears.
Cade’s voice stayed steady. “You’re going to be angry for a couple days. Then you’re going to rehab like a maniac. Then you’re going to come back meaner.”
A broken laugh escaped you.
He smiled faintly. “Am I wrong?”
“No.”
He reached for your hand, then paused, asking silently.
You let him take it.
His palm was warm.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
“I was scared,” he admitted.
You looked at him.
“When you went down,” he said. “I was watching from the tunnel. I couldn’t get to you, and I…” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I hated that.”
Your fingers tightened around his.
“I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“No, real answer,” you said softly. “I’m okay.”
He looked at you then, and something old passed between you.
Trust.
Not fully healed.
But alive.
Your rehab became another bridge between you.
Cade checked in without hovering. Sent encouragement without pity. Brought food when you were too tired to cook. Sat with you through boring recovery exercises and let you complain as much as you needed.
One evening, after a long rehab session, you found him waiting outside the facility with your favorite smoothie.
You stared at it. “You remembered?”
His face was serious. “I remember a lot.”
That was the problem.
So did you.
You remembered his laugh in your kitchen. His hand on your back. His voice after games. The way he could calm you down without making you feel handled. The way he once loved you before both of you forgot how to be gentle with each other.
You took the smoothie.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then you said, before you could lose courage, “Come over tonight.”
Cade looked at you.
“To talk,” you added quickly.
His eyes softened. “Okay.”
That night, Cade sat on your couch in your new Detroit apartment while rain tapped against the windows. For a while, you both pretended to watch a movie.
Neither of you was watching.
Finally, you paused it.
“I don’t want to do this halfway,” you said.
Cade turned toward you.
You kept going before fear stopped you.
“I don’t know what we are. I don’t know what we’re doing. But I know I still care about you, and I know pretending I don’t is exhausting.”
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
Your stomach twisted. “Say something.”
Cade leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I don’t want to mess it up again,” he said.
Your chest softened.
“Me either.”
“I loved you,” he said, then corrected himself. “I love you. I don’t think I stopped.”
Your breath caught.
He looked at you, calm gone now. Just honest.
“But I also know loving somebody isn’t enough if you don’t know how to show up right,” he said. “And I didn’t. Not always.”
“I didn’t either.”
He nodded.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I was selfish sometimes.”
Cade’s eyes softened, but he didn’t argue just to make you feel better.
You appreciated that.
“I made my bad days bigger than everything,” you admitted. “And when you had bad days, I acted like they were in the way of mine.”
His jaw shifted.
“You were under pressure too,” you said. “I see that now.”
Cade looked down.
For a second, he didn’t speak.
Then he said, “Thank you.”
Those two words held so much.
You moved closer on the couch. “I don’t want to rush back because it feels familiar.”
“Me either.”
“But I don’t want to run away because it scares me.”
His eyes lifted.
You swallowed. “So maybe… we try. Slowly. Honestly. No pretending we’re fine when we’re not.”
Cade’s mouth curved faintly. “Real answers?”
“Real answers.”
He reached for your hand.
This time, he didn’t stop halfway.
You let him take it.
For a while, you sat there with your fingers laced, the movie paused, rain filling the quiet.
Then Cade said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you really hate getting traded here?”
You looked at him.
Then smiled softly.
“At first.”
“And now?”
You glanced around your apartment. The Detroit skyline blurred through the rainy window. Your team gear draped over a chair. Your ankle wrap on the table. Cade sitting beside you, thumb moving slowly over your hand like he was relearning the shape of it.
“Now,” you said, “I think maybe I was supposed to come back.”
His eyes softened.
“To Detroit?”
You squeezed his hand.
“To myself.”
Cade looked down at your joined hands.
Then back at you.
“And maybe,” you added quietly, “to you too.”
He smiled then.
Not big.
Not cocky.
Just relieved.
The kind of smile that made you remember why you loved him in the first place.
He leaned closer, slow enough for you to stop him.
You didn’t.
When he kissed you, it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was soft, careful, a little sad around the edges, like both of you understood this was not erasing the past.
It was choosing again.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Slow?” he whispered.
You nodded. “Slow.”
His hand squeezed yours.
“I can do slow.”
You smiled. “You better.”
He laughed softly, and the sound filled your apartment like warmth.
Outside, Detroit kept raining.
Inside, something old began again.
Not the same as before.
Better, maybe.
Wiser.
Gentler.
Two athletes who had once loved each other badly, learning how to do it with care this time.
And for the first time since the trade call, you were grateful your life had brought you back to the city you thought would hurt too much.
Because maybe Detroit was not punishment.
Maybe it was a second chance.
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