Too clingy
You weren’t supposed to hear it.
You were supposed to still be at media. Doing post-practice interviews. Smiling through the exhaustion and pretending that being Juju’s teammate didn’t twist something sharp in your stomach every time she brushed past you like you were nothing.
But the interview got cut short. And you came back early.
And now you were standing just outside the locker room door, listening to her voice.
Hers—and someone else's.
"She’s clingy," Juju was saying, casual, amused. "I told her I’m not looking for anything serious, but she still thinks we’re... I don’t know. A thing."
Kayla laughed. That same mocking, sharp little laugh you hated.
"Didn’t she spend the night last week?"
Juju snorted. "Yeah. That was just—whatever. You know how it is."
You stopped breathing.
You stood there, frozen, heart crawling up your throat and pounding against the back of your teeth. It was like your entire ribcage collapsed. Like someone reached into your chest and just started ripping.
She was talking about you.
You were the one who made her tea that night when she was sore. You were the one who brought her your favorite hoodie because she said hers smelled like sweat. You were the one who kissed her hair when she fell asleep on your chest.
And now she was laughing about it.
Like it meant nothing.
Like you meant nothing.
You didn’t wait to hear the rest. You turned around, vision blurry, steps fast and heavy, your bag slamming against your side as you stormed out of the building without saying a word.
Juju didn’t follow.
She didn’t text.
Didn’t call.
Didn’t care.
---
Four Days Later
You didn’t show up to the team dinner
You skipped film review. Told Coach you had a migraine.
You didn’t look at Juju once in practice. Not when she stole the ball. Not when she scored. Not when she tried to stand next to you during drills.
You were done.
She noticed. You could feel it in the way her voice faltered when she called your name during warmups.
The way she started chewing her nails again on the bench, the same way she did when she was nervous.
The way she didn’t know how to be loud anymore unless it was for show.
You sat three seats away from her in the locker room.
When she reached for your wrist before you left, you didn’t even look at her.
“Wait—Y/N—can we—”
You pulled your arm away like it burned “No.”
“But I—”
“No,” you said again, this time sharp, final. “Don’t talk to me.”
Her face crumpled. Just slightly. Like she wasn’t used to you having boundaries. Like she thought she could lie to you and you’d still stay.
You didn’t give her a chance to say another word. You turned, walked out, and let the door slam shut behind you.The first apology came through text.
> can we talk pls? i didn’t mean it like that.
You stared at your screen in bed, the blue light catching the tear tracks still drying on your cheeks.
Didn’t mean it like that?
There’s only so many ways “she’s clingy, it’s not serious” can be interpreted
You turned off your phone.
---
At practice, the tension was suffocating.
Coach was confused. So were your teammates. But no one said anything out loud.
Except Nia.
“hey,” she murmured under her breath during stretches, “what happened?”
You didn’t answer.
Across the gym, Juju was watching you like you were about to disappear. She was quieter than usual. Less cocky. Like someone took the soul out of her and left the shell.
Good.
Let her feel it.
---
The second apology came in person.
You were walking back from class when she caught up with you outside the dorms, breathless, hoodie pulled over her head like she could hide from what she’d done.
"Y/N—wait—"
You didn’t.
“Please,” she tried again, stepping in front of you. Her eyes were wide, frantic. “I didn’t mean to say that. I was just—I was trying to push Kayla off, it was dumb, it wasn’t even—”
“Shut up.”
Her mouth snapped closed.
You could see the hope die in her eyes, right there on the pavement.
“You lied to me,” you said, voice razor-thin, “and then you humiliated me. Behind my back.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
She took a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No,” you whispered, blinking hard, “you just didn’t care if you did.”
That hit.
Her face crumpled again—like she didn’t know how to handle you not forgiving her instantly. Like you weren’t allowed to be angry, truly angry. Like your pain was something she thought she could fix with a soft voice and sad eyes.
You stepped around her and kept walking.
She didn’t follow
---
That Night
She sent another message.
> i fucked up.
You didn’t reply.
She sent another.
> i miss you.
You muted her number.
-
A Week Later, Word had gotten around.
You didn’t tell anyone the full story. But teammates started to notice—how Juju played differently when you weren’t around. How she kept checking her phone during film. How she stopped showing off during scrimmages. How her spark was dim.
The team needed her to lead. But she couldn’t, because the person she used to lead with was gone.
You were the engine. She was the fire.
Now the engine had frozen.
And the fire was burning itself out.It happened fast.
You were scrimmaging, same court, same ache in your chest every time you felt her stare from across it. You’d spent the last ten days pretending Juju Watkins didn’t exist. And she was feeling it.
You hadn’t responded to her texts. You hadn’t cracked once. Not even when she limped behind you after meetings, muttering soft, broken “Y/N, please” under her breath.
You didn’t care.
Or at least… you acted like you didn’t.
Until your foot hit the paint wrong—slick with someone’s sweat—and your ankle turned the opposite way.
Pain tore through your leg like fire.
You collapsed with a scream before you even hit the floor.
Gasps. Sneakers screeched. A whistle blew. Coach shouted.
And Juju—Juju moved before anyone else.
“Y/N—!”
She was the first to you. Dropping to her knees so fast she slipped. Hands trembling, reaching toward you and then stopping mid-air like she didn’t know if she was allowed.
You were curled in on yourself, breathing fast, eyes glassy.
“Don’t touch me,” you gritted out, voice shaking.
“I—fuck, are you okay? Are you okay?” Her voice cracked. “Someone call the trainer!”
“Juju,” Coach said sharply, “back up, let them through—”
“I’m not leaving her—!”
But she had to.
The trainers took her spot. Nia helped you sit up. Kayla handed you a towel. You avoided Juju’s eyes like they were the sun.
Juju sat on the edge of the court, frozen, fists clenched in her lap, staring at you like you were a ghost.
She hadn’t cried when you ignored her.
She hadn’t cried when you told her you never wanted to hear from her again.
But now?
Now she looked like she was about to.
---
You were in your dorm, foot elevated, ankle throbbing. Iced and wrapped.
Alone.
Until there was a knock.
Not just a knock—an urgent, rapid-fire tapping like the person on the other side couldn’t stand the silence.
You didn’t answer.
The door opened anyway.
And there she was.
Juju Watkins. Hoodie on. Hair a mess. Red eyes. Guilt all over her face.
You stared at her like she was nothing.
She stared at you like you were everything.
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately, breath hitching. “I’m so, so sorry—”
“You don’t get to do this,” you snapped.
Her shoulders tensed. “I had to see you. You were on the ground, and I—fuck, I thought—”
“You thought what?” Your voice rose. “That I’d finally let you back in because I got hurt?”
“No, I just—God, I messed up, I know I did, I said those things to Kayla because I was scared and stupid and I didn’t want her to know how much I loved you—”
“Loved me?”
Silence.
Juju blinked, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
And you—still throbbing, still aching inside and out—just stared.
“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Not after the way you humiliated me.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“But you did it anyway.”
She stepped forward, slowly. Desperately.
“I never stopped loving you,” she said, voice cracked and low. “I just didn’t know how to let people see it. And now I’m scared I ruined the only thing that actually mattered.”
You turned your face away, jaw tight, eyes glassy.
She took another step.
“Please,” she begged, hands trembling, “don’t shut me out forever.”
You didn’t answer.
But you didn’t tell her to leave, either.
And that was the first time in ten days that her heart had even the smallest reason to hope.
You let her stay the night, but the space between you felt colder than the icy pack on your ankle. She curled up on the floor, tucked beneath your spare blanket, careful not to breathe too loud, as if she knew she didn’t deserve anything more.
Morning came and went without a word. You ignored her attempts at conversation, refusing to soften. Your silence was your armor, and you weren’t ready to lower your guard. She respected that, though it only made her ache harder.
Days passed, and Juju didn’t send texts. She didn’t try to corner you or demand forgiveness. Instead, she showed up. Quietly. At practice. In the locker room. On the sidelines. She was always there — not pressuring you, but present.
She carried your water bottle without a word. She passed you the ball first in drills, and she never assumed your forgiveness was earned.
You saw it all, but you stayed stubborn. “Actions,” you said coldly one afternoon, “they mean nothing if they don’t come from something real. I don’t want promises or excuses.”
Juju met your gaze, steady and solemn. “Then tell me what means something.”
You hesitated, knowing this was the moment she could either break or build what was left.
“Show me where you keep me when no one’s looking,” you said quietly.
Her eyes widened, but she nodded.
---
Later that night, Juju led you away from the noise of campus and into her dorm room.
It was unassuming — small, messy in that way only a basketball player’s room can be — but you noticed the subtle traces of you everywhere: a worn-out hoodie you’d forgotten there, a stack of photos with you tucked behind a basketball magazine.
Then she brought out a small box from her desk drawer.
She opened it slowly, reverently, like it was the most precious thing she’d ever held.
Inside, carefully preserved: a ticket stub from your first game together, a scrunched-up napkin with a silly note you’d written to her at 2 AM, a faded photo strip from the night you first kissed, a tiny heart-shaped charm you’d once found and given her.
She looked at you, voice raw. “I was scared. Scared to admit I loved you because loving you made me vulnerable, and I didn’t want to lose you.”
You swallowed hard.
“But I kept these,” she said, “because even when I said those cruel things, you were still my home. And this? It’s where I keep you — where I hold the truth I couldn’t say.”
The silence stretched, fragile and heavy.
You reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the box.
“Why didn’t you say it before?”
“Because saying it makes it real,” she whispered. “And I didn’t think I was worthy of that reality until now.”
You swallowed, heart tight.
“I don’t forgive you yet,” you said softly, “but I still love you.”
She reached for your hand, holding it like it was everything she’d lost.
And when you leaned in, your foreheads touching, the world outside disappeared — the pain, the betrayal, the anger — replaced by something quieter, more honest, and healing.
The next morning, Juju woke with the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. Last night had been… something she never expected — a first step toward healing with you. But there was still so much left unsaid. Not just between the two of you, but with the whole team.
She knew she’d hurt more than just you. The whispers, the sideways glances — teammates sensed the tension, the fracture in what was supposed to be an unbreakable bond.
So before practice, she found herself standing outside the locker room, heart pounding, palms sweaty. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
All eyes turned toward her.
Her voice shook at first, but grew steady as she spoke.
“I want to say something,” she started, glancing around at the team. “I messed up. Not just with you, but with all of them. I let my fear and pride get in the way of being honest — with you, with them, and with myself.”
She met your eyes across the room. You didn’t smile. You didn’t look away. Just watched.
“I want to apologize for the lies, for the silence, and for the way it affected our team,” Juju said. “You didn’t deserve that. None of them did. I’ve been selfish, and I’m sorry.”
Her teammates listened — some nodding, others with thoughtful looks — and then Nia spoke up.
“We all make mistakes, Juju. It takes courage to admit it.”
Juju’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I’m going to do better. For you, for all of us. Because we’re a team — on and off the court.”
After practice, she found you again.
“Thanks for letting me say that,” she said, breathless.
You shrugged, eyes still guarded but softer.
“Keep doing the work,” you told her.
She smiled — small, real, hopeful.
Because this was just the beginning.
°•○●●○•°
This is lowkey cringe ebht bear w me yall
