𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
in which you and kate didn't mean to soft launch
The morning before game day feels exactly like every other morning in the second year of your WNBA career — slow, sleepy, quiet. Kate’s already up before you, slipping on her hoodie and pulling her hair into a lazy bun as she pads around the kitchen, humming some vaguely familiar country song. You watch her from your spot on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket you never remember unfolding, cradling a mug of coffee she definitely brought you without asking. That’s just how it is. That’s how it’s always been.
Since Iowa. Since sneaking hand-holding on buses and late-night FaceTimes during long road stretches. Since the tears when her name was called on draft night and the breathless laughter when yours followed a few picks later. Since the Valkyries took you both — different teams at first, then finally, together again. Five years now. Two as pros. One married. But no one knows that part. Not really.
The league knows you're close. Your teammates definitely know. Close can be everything and nothing all at once. Best friends. Roommates. Ride-or-dies. Married? That one’s been just yours.
Until today, maybe.
You’re walking into Chase Center like you always do. Grey sweats, Jordans, one AirPod in, badge swinging from the lanyard they gave you your rookie season. Kate’s already gone in ahead — she always stops for every staffer she knows, and she knows all of them. You hung back, scrolling on your phone, texting your brother something dumb about his fantasy football team. Normal. Easy.
You don’t even realize someone’s filming her until you round the corner and hear her voice first — bright, full of that familiar midwestern cheer, just a little too excited for a morning shoot.
“Man…,” she’s saying, face animated. “A little dramatic right now, you know.” Her eyes are wide, her dimples deep.
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Chelley’s my favorite,” she says, head tilting, right hand clotting the strap of her backpack.
“Who do you want next off the island?”
She laughs, not wanting to name any names, left hand sliding out of her pocket to cover her face.
“I think there’s a specific person who has caused a little bit of drama in the villa and she might need to go. No names.” And when she laughs, there it is — silver. Not flashy, not big, not center-staged, but unmistakable. Her wedding band.
“Understood.”
“See you guys!” She walks away, jogging up the steps, waving goodbye to the woman like they’re old friends.
You take a breath. Step forward. The same girl turns toward you, phone already lifted. “Hey! You mind if I ask you something quick?”
You shrug. Smile, keep it casual. “Shoot.”
“Do you watch Love Island?”
You laughed, short and dry. “Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?”
“I get pulled in every time. It’s, like, a toxic little ritual now.”
You moved your hand to mimic a spinning wheel—an endless cycle—and for just a second, your left hand slipped out of your pocket. The camera caught it. The light it. The dainty silver band, delicate against your skin, practically glowed under the overhead light near the door.
It was barely a second. But it didn’t need to be more than that.
Your team wins the game, able to lock the other team on defense, making their lives harder.
That night, you drove home in silence together. Her hand on your thigh. Your fingers loosely wrapped around hers. The night sky bled over the Bay Bridge as the stars glistening the skyline, and you rolled the windows down just enough to smell the salt in the air. It felt like the calm before the storm.
You lived in a quiet apartment near the marina. Two bedrooms, open kitchen, soft white walls lined with framed jerseys and photo booth strips from a million years ago. Home.
You were in the kitchen reheating pasta when Kate wandered into the living room, phone in hand. “Babe?”
“Mhm?”
She sat on the couch, brows furrowed. “Did you check TikTok yet?”
You frowned, spooning pesto around the bowl. “No, why?”
“Uh…” She turned the phone toward you. “We’re kind of blowing up.”
You set the spoon down and walked over, wiping your hands on a dish towel. The WNBA’s official TikTok account had posted a video captioned,
“Two bombshells have entered the Arena. Kate Martin & Y/N Y/LN give us all the Love Island USA tea!”
The clip was barely a minute long, clips switching between you and Kate. Her laughing. You denying it. But what the fans noticed wasn’t your answers.
It was the rings.
The comments were already in chaos.
Kate blinked at you, mouth half-open like she was trying to laugh but hadn’t quite committed. “So…”
You leaned over the couch arm and kissed her temple. “So.”
“You think they’ll let us stay mysterious after this?”
You reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “They’ll try. But I think the ring did the talking.”
She looked at you. Really looked. The way she did when you said I do in front of three people on a foggy hike during a vacation, both of you crying like idiots. The way she did after the draft, waiting for your name to be called, heart thundering.
“I don’t mind,” she said finally. “I kind of… like that they know.”
You smiled. “Me too.”
Your phones buzzed again and again that night. Mentions. Edits. Old clips from college resurfacing. Conspiracy-theory TikToks unearthing that one photo of you holding hands in the background of a locker room celebration your senior year.
You let it all happen.
For the first time in five years, you didn’t rush to shut the door behind you.
You sat on the couch together, legs tangled, bowls of pasta growing cold. Kate pulled you close, tucked her face against your shoulder, and sighed softly into your hoodie.
“Wife,” she murmured. “Guess the secret’s out.”
You kissed her hair. “About time.”
