Nah We Cousins
Phoenix Mercury x Rookie!Reader x Rookie!OC (Aaliyah Gardener)
MASTERLIST | MORE
Genre: Tension, chaos, dominance, found family aftermath
Warnings: Fistfight, blood, strong language
Vibe: You fought and won. And everyone knows it.
Word Count~ 1k
How It Started
Big-name scouts lined the sideline, clipboards out, heads down, pretending not to watch every move we made. A few reps from the Mercury were there. One from the Wings. Even some overseas coaches who didn’t speak much English but understood talent.
Everyone was calm. Then there’s us.
Me and Aaliyah. Matching energy. Matching egos. The only two names anyone was really there to see.
We didn’t speak. But everybody felt it.
They paired us on opposite teams. Dumb move. We’d been getting into it all week—eye-rolls, little bumps, passive-aggressive comments in group drills.
The assistant coach tried to be slick with it. “Let’s see some full-court man defense. Keep it clean.”
The ball tipped. Five minutes later, it was on.
She fouled me on a rebound—elbow in the back, no call. I pushed off hard, got the layup, and stared her down all the way back down court.
“You always been soft,” I muttered, jogging beside her.
She laughed. “You always been loud.”
She hit me with a screen so hard my soul damn near left my body. I bounced back up and shoved her in the chest. She shoved back.
And that’s when it happened. No words. No buildup. Just fists. Right there, in front of half the damn WNBA scouting department, we faded.
I swung first—caught her jaw. She hit back. Grabbed my jersey. We slammed into the bench. I slipped, kicked her shin. She locked my arm, flipped me over onto the floor.
The gym lost it.
Coaches yelling. Players frozen. One scout dropped his iPad. A camera guy ducked behind a cooler. We were rolling on the floor, swinging like grown men in a back alley.
“You wanna play with me?” I yelled, trying to pin her.
“I BEEN playing with you,” she snapped, flipping me and driving a knee into my thigh.
It took four people to break us up. Two of them had clipboards. We were dragged to opposite corners like boxers between rounds. Breathing hard. Lip busted. Sweat dripping. I spit into the trash. Aaliyah wiped her eye.
And then, at the same time, we both said: “I’m good.”
We stood up. Walked toward each other again. Coach looked ready to faint. But instead of swinging, we dapped up. Firm. Quick. No apologies.
“GG,” I said.
“Always,” she nodded.
Then we sat side by side on the bleachers, legs stretched out, shoulder to shoulder like we didn’t just throw hands in front of every top-tier basketball rep in North America.
“You hungry?” she asked, scrolling through her phone.
I nodded. “You still like that spot with the fried shrimp and the cornbread?”
She grinned. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
The gym was silent.
One of the Wings reps whispered, “They fought like pit bulls…and now they wanna get lunch?”
The Mercury scout just said, “We need that. Fights and all.”
And from that day forward our reputations were set.
Untouchable. Too skilled to ignore. Too wild to separate.
Because yeah—maybe we fade. Maybe we fight in front of scouts, teammates, and cameras. But we always ride together. Always recover.
Because that’s what cousins do. And nobody wants smoke with both of us.
————
How It’s Going
Everybody always asks how two girls who fight this much still claim best friends.
Easy.
We’re cousins. Not by blood, but by bond. The type of bond that forms when you’ve been hooping together since middle school and both happen to be certified demons on the court. I’m Y/N—6’0, top pick, “let’s go” in human form. Aaliyah’s 6’2, strategic, smooth with it. I bark. She bites. And if you see us in a game? Mind your business.
We got drafted a week apart—me to Phoenix, her to Dallas. And ever since, everybody’s been waiting for us to either drop a mixtape…or kill each other.
Spoiler: we don’t kill each other. We fight, sure. On sight. But it’s love. Fade and forgive. That’s the code. And today? Today was one of those days.
It was supposed to be a calm joint press session. Phoenix x Dallas. Just the teams, coaches, a few PR people, and the camera crew. Some neutral outdoor space in the back of the hotel, sun out, mics set up, everybody half-asleep sipping smoothies and talking “brand identity.”
And then Aaliyah looked at me. Didn’t say a word. Just cocked her head and raised one eyebrow.
Oh.
So that’s what we on. I stood up slow, cracked my knuckles, and dropped my phone on the bench.
BG muttered, “Oh nah.”
Lexi blinked. “Wait are they—”
Too late. We rushed each other on the concrete. No announcements. No warmup. Just violence.
She swung first—classic jab to the chest. I ducked, wrapped her waist, and took her down like we was at WrestleMania. She flipped me. I elbowed her. She punched me in the thigh. I bit her wrist. We were rolling, slamming, talking shit under our breath like two uncles at a cookout who been holding this in for years.
“She kicked her in the shin,” someone gasped.
“Is that blood?” someone else whispered.
The cameras were still rolling. Coach tried to say something, but even he knew better. BG just backed up with her hands in the air.
“I told y’all,” she said, sipping her water. “That’s between them.”
Aaliyah slammed me into a recycling bin. I pulled her by her ponytail and shoved her into a folding chair. We broke the mic stand. She got a scratch on her face. I had gravel in my elbow. Grown men on both staffs didn’t know what to do.
Then—silence. Both of us breathing heavy, sitting on opposite curbs like we just finished a boxing match.
She spat into the grass. “You good?”
I wiped my lip. “Yeah. GG.”
We stood up, brushed the dirt off, and dapped up. Tight grip. Head nod. Done. Then I sat down next to her like we ain’t just fight in front of two franchises and a live camera crew.
“So anyway—you seen that movie? The one with the kids running away? And they gotta hitchhike or whatever?”
Aaliyah blinked, already pulling out her phone. “You talkin’ about the one with the lil white boy and the bus driver?”
“Yes! That one. You gotta see it.”
Coach looked like he was gonna cry. “Do you two even care how that looked?!”
I blinked. “Like what?”
Aaliyah shrugged. “It’s family business.”
One of the PR girls whispered, “…are we still doing the interviews?”
BG answered for her. “Hell no. Y’all need to reset the chairs.” Meanwhile, me and Aaliyah were already halfway into a bag of chips, arguing over which episode to start on Netflix.
Because that’s just what we do. We throw hands. Shake hands. Watch TV. Don’t mess with us though. Because if we ever fight you?
We Tag Teaming.
———
Next. And totally Not Cause I forgot Where this was going.
By the time we stepped on the court, everybody knew what was about to happen.
Phoenix versus Dallas. Me in the Mercury jersey, Aaliyah across from me in that blue and green Wings fit, bouncing the ball like she wasn’t already planning to violate me for fun. The crowd was loud, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t just a game. It was a long overdue 1v1 that just so happened to be wrapped inside a televised WNBA matchup.
She looked across the court and smiled—not sweet, not nice. That “you ready to get your ass beat?” smile she always gives me when she’s about to start something.
I smiled back, bounced on my toes, and cracked my neck. I wasn’t just ready. I’d been waiting.
From the opening tip, we locked in on each other like no one else existed. Plays were called, offenses were run, coaches shouted from the sidelines, and we both ignored every bit of it. I didn’t even hear Coach. All I saw was her—6’2, smooth footwork, locked in on me like a sniper. And me? I was in that zone. Wild. Explosive. Let’s go.
She got the first bucket, snatching a lazy pass out of the air and going coast to coast with a behind-the-back finish off the glass. The crowd roared. I clapped once and nodded, like, “Okay. Cute.”
Next possession, I called iso. Didn’t even pass half court before pointing at her.
“Come here.”
She grinned and jogged up, waving everyone else away. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
I dropped her off with a stepback crossover so nasty she hit the stutter, then drained a three in her face. The gym exploded.
That’s how it went—back and forth, blow for blow. Elbows, body contact, snatching rebounds straight out each other’s hands. Every time I scored, she answered. Every time she clowned me with a move, I clowned back harder. We weren’t even talking to teammates. They knew to clear out and let it happen. This wasn’t team basketball anymore. This was personal.
On the bench, BG just shook her head and leaned back like she was watching a street fight. “Nah. This ain’t even about the game anymore. This family business.”
Meanwhile, the fans were out of their minds. Clips started going viral mid-game. Commentators couldn’t keep up. One of them said, “We’re witnessing the most intense 1v1 matchup inside a team game I’ve ever seen.”
The other one laughed. “This isn’t a rivalry. This is a ritual.”
We were guarding each other full-court like it was a damn championship. There were scratches. There were bruises. She fouled me twice—I didn’t care. I pushed her mid-jumper—she smiled.
Fourth quarter hit and the score was tied, but we were too deep into our battle to care.
She came down the court with the ball, and I clapped twice, crouched into position. “Do something with it.”
She drove right, spun left, bumped me in the chest and rose for a jumper. I jumped with her, full hand in her face—and she still hit it.
Next play, I called for the rock. Clock winding down. I hit her with a hesitation that got her leaning, exploded left, and pulled up from deep—splash. We both stood at half court afterward, breathing hard, staring each other down.
We were drenched in sweat. Bruised. Smirking.
She stepped forward first. “You still slow.”
I wiped my mouth. “You still trash.”
We dapped up. Both teams were rattled. Coaches looked confused. PR teams were already whispering about trade opportunities. Fans were chanting “WE WANT BOTH” like it was a hostage negotiation.
BG just stood near the scorer’s table shaking her head. “No way they play like that against each other and still wanna ride home together.”
After the game, we walked off the court together. Didn’t even shower first. Just grabbed a couple orange slices, sat in the tunnel, and pulled out our phones.
“You seen that movie yet?” I asked, kicking my legs out.
“Hell yeah. Shit was sad.” We both laughed.
Because for all the madness, the slams, the smack talk, and the bruises, at the end of the day, we weren’t rivals. We weren’t enemies. We weren’t even just teammates in spirit. We were cousins.
And that meant no matter what the scoreboard said, no matter who got the last bucket, it was always love. Right after the fade.
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