We were just kids - LaMelo Ball x reader part 1/?
Summary: Life has a funny way of bringing people apart only to bring them back together at just the right moment (or is it the worst?)
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You were just kids when you first met; you were fourteen and he was fifteen.
He was a friend of a friend, but you thought he was really funny—he always had that little smirk on his face, as if everything around him were part of some kind of collective joke that only he understood.
Your friendship quickly took off—the two wild kids from Chino Hills. The first time you set foot at the Ball house, the court lines were half-faded, the basket was leaning dangerously, and the concrete was marked by a huge crack.
But for the local kids, it was sacred ground; the three brothers were talented, and everyone knew it. Melo was already there, practicing. The ball was like an extension of his arm, always in motion. Right, left, step forward, and shoot. Of course it went in. He gave you a sidelong glance before tossing you the ball, without warning.
“Show me what you've got.”
You catch the ball with both hands, a big smile on your face. You spin the ball between your hands before shoving him playfully while dribbling, trying to shake off his persistent presence. You both laugh, cheeks flushed, as you push and shove each other teasingly.
“Well, having trouble keeping up, champ?” you tease him with a wink. Then you step back to take a shot and easily score as he stands there dumbfounded.
It was the beginning of something—or so you thought.
The start of long afternoons until the air turned cool and the sun disappeared. The kind of friendship that goes unnamed, that grows without you even realizing it. Shoving matches as if you were one of his brothers. Then innocent brushes between shooting drills.
You were growing up, and something had changed.
Three years had passed.
You noticed it now; with fresh eyes, you no longer saw him as a child but rather as someone who gave you butterflies in your stomach.
He had grown over the summer; his voice had deepened, his shoulders had broadened. It hit you like a train. His jokes were still lame, but now they made you blush. You had changed too; no one could miss the beautiful young woman you had become, but you were destined for a different path than LaMelo’s—you chose to prioritize your studies over sports. This is your senior year before heading off to college, so you’re making the most of it.
That afternoon, you hadn’t planned anything; it had all happened a bit too fast. The two of you were sitting on the sidelines, sharing a Gatorade. Side by side under the sun, which was slowly setting.
The young man nudges you on the shoulder. “Are you coming to tryouts tomorrow?”
“Of course,” you reply, “Why wouldn’t I come?”
He looks up at you, fiddling with his shoelace. “Dad says I need to focus—no distractions.”
You raise an eyebrow playfully. “So now I'm just a distraction?” You turn away and rest your head on his shoulder.
He wraps his arm around your shoulders and lets out a sigh. "I didn't mean it that way, you know. It's just that you make me forget things. You make me forget everything, actually."
The air around you has become charged with electricity, it’s grown heavier, and you suddenly become aware of how close you are. You hadn’t planned on leaning toward him like that. He hadn’t planned it either. It just happened, naturally—a teenage kiss, full of curiosity and impatience. Your heart was pounding as you realized what you were doing. But before you could even pull away…
“LaMelo!” his father’s voice booms across the court with authority.
“What do you think you're doing, you idiot?” LaVar hurries over to catch up with you. “You don't have time for this—trials are tomorrow, and I'm not going to let you ruin your chance like this!”
He grabs his son by the arm before you even have a chance to speak. Not cruelly, just like a verdict that brooks no argument. The hand of fate, you tell yourself.
Melo tries to turn toward you, looking back, as if panicked. He would have wanted to say something, but at that precise moment his father was holding him so tightly that nothing could change the course the situation was taking. LaVar pushes his son inside with a disappointed look before slamming the door without a backward glance. You had no idea that maybe you should have kissed him much sooner because you weren’t about to see him again.
It’s not for lack of waiting.
A week, then two, which turned into months.
You waited, never straying too far from your phone. You kept checking it, hoping to see a notification, just a quick message, a sign of life.
But nothing came, and you accepted it. Life went on, but you stayed behind, waiting for something that would never come. So you decided to move on and put it behind you.
Six years later.
“Victor, for God's sake, could you stop leaving your underwear lying around?” you yell at him as you put your clothes in the washing machine.
Your life was nothing like you’d imagined.
You were studying at the University of San Antonio in Texas—nothing like California. Since nothing was keeping you there anymore, you’d decided to take matters into your own hands and continue your studies.
But that was before you met the young basketball prodigy in a French café. He was looking for a roommate for his upcoming years with the Spurs, and since you were new in town, the offer of a place to stay seemed tempting. You gladly agreed. It wasn’t uncommon for the player to bring teammates back to the penthouse.
Since your social life was practically nonexistent due to the grueling pace of classes, you were grateful to be able to hang out with people your own age. Victor is an angel, and above all, he relieves you of the financial burden of living in the heart of San Antonio. At first, you wanted to chip in, but he flatly refused, explaining that his salary could cover the living expenses of a soccer team for their entire lives.
Now his offer covered anything you wanted to do—running errands, “take whatever you want, I’ll pay,” going out, shopping—basically anything. You’d sometimes joke that you were living the life of a WAG without having to suck dick. The Spurs guys often came over to hang out on the penthouse terrace, sometimes just to play basketball or grab a bite to eat. You’d become a bit of the team’s mascot, being the youngest in the group.
It’s 9 a.m. now, you’re already late for class, Victor left his laundry lying around, and now your stuff is all mixed up. You rush through the apartment, glancing at the weekly schedule posted on the fridge.
Wemby catches you as you notice that a few games have been added to your roommate’s already packed schedule. “I got you tickets for Thursday’s game—we’re playing the Hornets. It’d be cool if you came!” he adds with a little smile. “Plus, you know Stephon would be happy to see you…”
You turn around slowly, hands on your hips, smiling. One eyebrow raised.
“That's why he's my favorite—he always checks in on me, he's so kind,” you add as he places a hand over his heart as if you'd hurt him.
“How dare you speak to me that way, I who am your devoted savior and protector…,” you listen with one ear, laughing at his impassioned rant while grabbing a bagel from the fridge.
You grab your keys, and as you open the door, you turn around and throw back at him:
“I’ll make the effort to come—what would he do without me?” you chuckle with a wink. The door closes on a laughing Victor, thumbs up.
Thursday night
The AT&T Center buzzes with anticipation, filled with chatter, laughter, and light. You follow Victor closely, his tall figure blocking your view of everything else as you emerge from the tunnel. Badge around your neck, your sweater half-zipped in the back.
Stephon spots you first.
He’s stretching and warming up by the sidelines, but the moment he sees you, he drops everything—the towel, the water bottle (his dignity?). He trots over to you with a huge smile.
“Well, look who decided to show up and crawl out of her cave.”
You roll your eyes with a smile you can’t help but let slip. “Please. I’m the reason this team has any personality.”
He lets out a little laugh before pulling you into his arms, lifting you off the ground for a moment.
“You’re still just as tiny.”
“And you’re still just as ugly,” you say, tapping his chest.
Victor walks up behind you in his game uniform and grumbles at Stephon,
“Stop encouraging her—she’s already unbearable enough on a daily basis; don’t make her any grumpier.” “Worst case, we should get joint custody of this kid,”
Stephon meets him halfway, leaning in and putting his hand over his mouth as if to conspire with him, “You take her during the week, I’ll take her on the weekends.”
You shake your head at their antics. “Come on, mommy and daddy, go warm up,” you tell them before giving Stephon a slap on the shoulder. He looks down at you and lowers his voice, “Are you sitting courtside?”
“Apparently, daddy insisted on putting me there,” you sigh.
You hear Victor in the distance: “Stop calling me daddy, it’s gross!”
Stephon continues: “Good. I need someone to cheer me on when the coach benches me.”
“Yeah, sure, and while you’re at it, do you want a magic kiss?”
“If you insist that much, I’ll take it,” he adds, ignoring your blatant sarcasm. He blows you a kiss.
You’re still talking when you feel Stephon’s eyes fix on something behind your shoulder, causing him to raise an eyebrow. He’s not focused on you at all anymore. Before you can even turn around, he places his hands on your shoulders to stop you.
“Yo, don’t turn around, but someone’s trying to burn a hole through your back with their eyes.”
You freeze instantly. You narrow your eyes.
“Who?”
“Number 1, turquoise.”
“What are we playing here? A guessing game?” you add skeptically. “I don't know them—describe him a little better, Jesus.”
“Tall guy, mixed, a little skinny, curly hair, and tattoos all over.”
“Good thing you’re not part of the forensic team, or we’d have a problem with suspects,” you say, casually walking past Stephon, pretending to tease him.
That’s when you see him. You’d recognize his stance anywhere—hands on his hips.
“Holy shit! Shit, shit!” you mutter under your breath.
“Do you know him or something?”
