Can you do a rhyne Howard x reader and she goes and supports her at unrivaled
always in my court
pairing: unrivaled!rhyne!girlfriend x girlfriend!reader (established relationship)
wc: 2.6k
summary: three years in, rhyne thinks she knows everything about you—but one unexpected game day might just prove her wrong.
lyricii yaps: the funny thing is that i was going to write this request but instead of rhyne i was going to do AT (especially with the stories of her and DB so cute)
join the 🏷️: @timunhater, @marleymarleymarleymarley
you’d been planning it for weeks. slipping past the usual crowd, ducking under the bleachers, hiding your phone to film the moment—you wanted this to be perfect.
three years together, and somehow the thought of surprising rhyne still made your stomach do flips, the kind of flips that only love and nerves could create. you weren’t exactly subtle, but you’d learned a thing or two about patience. and today, it would all pay off.
the gym was alive with energy, rival fans shouting, sneakers squeaking across polished wood, the whistle cutting through it all like a gunshot. the lights shone bright enough to make everyone’s sweat glint, but rhyne didn’t even notice.
she was on fire, moving with that effortless confidence that had everyone in awe, her eyes locked on the ball as if nothing else existed.
you stayed behind the bleachers, phone in hand, trying to calm your racing heart. every dribble, every pivot, every shot—it was hypnotizing. you’d watched her countless times on tv, on court, in practice, but nothing compared to seeing her live, untamed, unstoppable. and soon, she’d see you too.
the moment came almost out of nowhere. her gaze flicked up mid-play, scanning the crowd, her focus breaking just enough. and then her eyes locked on yours.
for a heartbeat, nothing happened. you wondered if she’d think you were a trick of the light or a figment of her imagination. and then it hit her—her eyes widened, mouth parting in disbelief. that tiny, perfect “oh” slipped out, sharp and incredulous.
you hit record.
her legs stopped mid-stride, and her teammates called her name, but she didn’t hear them. all she saw was you. you could see the entire spectrum of emotion cross her face: shock, recognition, joy, disbelief, love.
then she ran. across the court, across the squeaky wood, sneakers skidding slightly, arms reaching for you as if gravity itself had shifted in your favor.
“you—what are you—how did you—” she laughed, breathless, words tumbling over themselves. and then she just grabbed you, spun you around, lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing.
your laughter mixed with hers, echoing through the gym, a tangle of relief and adrenaline and pure, unfiltered love.
and then she kissed you. slow. deliberate. firm. like she’d been holding that exact moment in her chest for months, and now she finally could. gentle but urgent, grounding herself and reminding herself you were real.
when she finally placed you back down, it was the softest touch, her fingers lingering at your waist, brushing your hair behind your ear with a reverence that made your heart feel impossibly huge.
“you didn’t tell me,” she whispered, forehead resting against yours, still breathing hard. “you just—you came here for me?”
you smiled, shrugging like it was nothing, but her wide eyes told you otherwise. “i did. i wanted to see you—like this. just you. in your world.”
her laugh was soft and incredulous, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it. “you’re insane,” she said, eyes glinting with mischief and awe. “and i love you for it.”
the game continued around you, but for a moment, the gym fell away. every cheer, every squeak, every whistle faded until it was just the two of you—two souls entwined in chaos and light.
she held you like you were everything fragile and precious in the world, like you were delicate enough to break but powerful enough to make her spin around in disbelief and joy.
you pulled back slightly, heart still hammering, and caught her eye. “so…want to watch the rest of the game together?”
she laughed, a sound full of warmth and relief, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “i think…i think we might need a timeout first.”
and just like that, you were wrapped in her arms again, the crowd roaring behind you, but the only thing that mattered was the one person you’d come here for. the one person who made the world shrink and swell all at once.
she lets go of you only when she has to. that’s the thing—you feel it immediately, the reluctance in her arms, the way her hands linger at your waist like she’s memorizing the shape of you again before the game pulls her back.
“stay right there,” she murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “don’t move.”
as if you could.
you nod, heart still racing, and she jogs backward toward the bench, eyes never leaving you until a teammate bumps her shoulder and laughs, saying something you can’t quite hear.
rhyne shakes her head, grinning to herself, and just like that she’s back in uniformed focus—except now, every few seconds, she looks up. at you.
you take your seat closer this time, front row energy without even trying. the gym feels different now that you’re not hiding. louder. brighter. every cheer hits harder, every possession matters more, because you’re watching her.
not just rhyne howard the athlete—but rhyne, your rhyne, the one who steals the blankets at night and pretends not to hear her alarm.
the whistle blows. play resumes.
she’s electric. sharper than before, like seeing you flipped a switch inside her chest. she drives to the basket with purpose, absorbs contact like it’s nothing, sinks the shot and backpedals with that familiar calm swagger. you clap without thinking, yelling her name, and she glances over—just for a split second—but it’s enough. her lips twitch.
every movement feels intentional. the way she sets her feet. the way she communicates, pointing, calling out screens. you notice the details most people miss—the way she exhales before free throws, the way she taps her chest once after a big stop, the way she always finds the open teammate even when she could take the shot herself.
and every time the ball is dead, every pause, every timeout—she finds you again.
at one point she’s at the line, sweat glistening under the lights, hands on her hips as she waits for the ref. she looks up and locks eyes with you, and something quiet passes between you. not flashy. not loud. just three years of knowing each other distilled into one look.
she sinks both shots.
you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt until the girl next to you nudges you and says, “she’s playing different tonight.”
you laugh softly. “yeah. i know.” by halftime, rhyne jogs toward the bench, grabbing a towel—but she detours. straight to you. no hesitation.
“you good?” she asks, voice low, hands braced on the barrier between you. “i’m great,” you say honestly. “you’re unreal.” she huffs a breath, leaning closer. “don’t do that to me mid-game.”
“do what?”
“look at me like that.”
she’s smiling, but her eyes are serious, intense in that way that tells you she’s locked in—and still, somehow, completely yours. the buzzer sounds before she can say anything else, and she squeezes your hand once before jogging away again.
the second half is a blur of motion and noise. rhyne dominates without forcing it—blocks, assists, buckets that make the crowd rise to their feet. you cheer until your voice goes hoarse, filming a few moments, then putting your phone down because you want to see it. really see it.
when the final whistle blows, unrivaled wins, and the gym erupts. rhyne bends over, hands on her knees, catching her breath—and then she looks up. at you.
she doesn’t celebrate right away. she walks straight over, pulls you into her arms again, forehead resting against yours, like the game doesn’t count until you’re there to witness it.
“worth the surprise?” you whisper. she laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “worth everything.”
and in that moment, surrounded by noise and lights and movement, you realize something simple and steady: no matter the city, the league, the stage—she always finds you. and you’ll always be there, watching her become everything she already is.
the locker room doors close behind her, and the gym finally exhales. the crowd thins, the noise fades, and you’re still riding the high of watching her play when she reappears—hair damp, hoodie thrown on, smile calm in that way that means she’s already thought this through.
“you hungry?” she asks casually, like she didn’t just drop twenty and your heart along with it.
“always,” you say, slipping your hand into hers as you walk out together into the warm miami night.
she doesn’t take you to dinner. that’s the first clue. instead, she guides you to the car, opens the passenger door for you like she always does, and drives—quiet, focused, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like an anchor.
“you’re being suspicious,” you say eventually, glancing at her. she hums. “am i?”
the city blurs past the windows, neon lights and palm trees streaking together, until she pulls into a familiar lot. a rooftop garage. the kind that overlooks everything.
“rhyne,” you start. “trust me,” she says gently, already unbuckling, already coming around to your side to take your hand again.
the elevator ride up is quiet, slow, your pulse loud in your ears. when the doors open, the breeze hits first—warm, salty, carrying the distant sound of the ocean. the rooftop is empty except for one corner, where soft lights glow.
string lights. a blanket laid out. your favorite takeout bags sitting neatly beside a cooler. your favorite drink already sweating in the heat.
you stop walking. “you did not,” you breathe. she watches you carefully now, nervous in a way she rarely is on court. “you came all this way for me,” she says quietly. “i didn’t want tonight to end without doing something for you, too.”
you turn to her, eyes glassy, heart full. “how long have you been planning this?” she chuckles, rubbing the back of her neck. “longer than you think.”
you sit together on the blanket, knees touching, the city stretched out beneath you. she hands you food, opens drinks, makes sure you’re comfortable before settling in beside you, arm sliding around your shoulders like it belongs there—because it does.
for a while, you eat in comfortable silence. the kind that only comes from years together. the kind where nothing needs filling.
then she shifts. takes a breath. “there’s more,” she says. you look at her. “i knew it.”
she laughs softly, reaching into her pocket, not pulling out anything flashy—just her phone. she taps the screen and hands it to you.
it’s a video.
footage you’ve never seen. late nights. empty gyms. her sitting on the floor after practice, sweaty and exhausted, talking to the camera. talking about pressure. expectations. fear. and then—talking about you.
about how you ground her. how three years ago she didn’t know if love and this life could coexist. how you showed up anyway. quietly. consistently.
“i’ve been filming these all season,” she says, voice low. “for nights when i’m away. or when you can’t come. i wanted you to have something that proves i’m always thinking about you—even when i’m on the court.”
you don’t realize you’re crying until she wipes your cheek with her thumb. “rhyne…”
she leans in, forehead against yours. “you surprised me tonight. i just wanted to give you something that lasts longer than one game.”
you kiss her then—slow, steady, full of everything unspoken. the city glows beneath you, the night wrapped around your shoulders, and for once, there’s no rush. no buzzer. no countdown.
just her.
just you.
and the quiet certainty that some love doesn’t need an audience—it just needs showing up.
the hotel room is quiet in that post-game way, the kind of quiet that settles into your bones once the adrenaline finally lets go. rhyne kicks off her shoes by the door, stretches her arms over her head, and exhales like she’s been holding her breath all night.
you watch her from the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, feeling that familiar ache in your chest—the one that comes from loving someone whose life is always in motion.
she catches you staring. “come here,” she says softly.
you do. immediately.
she crawls onto the bed beside you, pulling you into her like it’s instinct, like this is the only place her body knows how to rest. your head fits under her chin, her arm draped over your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt.
“thank you for today,” she murmurs. “you already said that.”
“i know,” she says. “i’m saying it again.”
the room smells like her—soap, sweat, something warm and familiar. outside, miami hums, distant sirens and ocean air drifting in through the cracked window. inside, everything slows.
you fall asleep like that. tangled. breathing in sync.
sometime later, you wake to her shifting slightly, careful not to disturb you. she thinks you’re still asleep. you let her think it.
she reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls something out, holding it in her palm like it’s fragile. like it matters. she studies it for a long moment before pressing a kiss to your hair.
“soon,” she whispers. your chest tightens.
the morning comes gently. sunlight spills across the sheets, catching on her shoulder, her face relaxed in sleep. when she finally opens her eyes, she smiles immediately, like seeing you is the easiest part of her day.
“morning,” you say. “morning,” she replies, voice low, sleepy.
you stay in bed longer than you should. talking about nothing. talking about everything. at one point, she grows quiet, fingers absentmindedly lacing with yours.
“next season’s gonna be…different,” she says eventually. you glance at her. “different how?” she hesitates. just for a beat. “more travel. longer stretches away.”
you nod. you’ve already thought about this. “i was thinking,” she continues, carefully, “maybe it doesn’t always have to feel like long-distance.”
your heart stutters. “what do you mean?” she doesn’t say move in. not exactly. but she talks about keys. about having a place that feels like yours too. about you not feeling like a visitor in her life. about figuring it out—together.
it’s a tease. a promise hovering just out of reach. later, before she has to leave again, she asks you to get dressed. “trust me,” she says, smiling in that way that means she’s already decided something.
she takes you to a small tattoo studio tucked away from the noise. quiet. clean. intentional.
your breath catches. “rhyne—”
“not big,” she says quickly. “nothing loud.” she shows you the design. simple. small. something only the two of you would ever recognize. a date. a word. a reminder. “three years,” she says. “and counting.”
it’s not a ring. but it’s close enough to make your hands shake. when it’s done, she holds your hand afterward, forehead pressed to yours, eyes soft. “this is my promise,” she says. “i’m not going anywhere.”
you smile through the ache in your chest. “me neither.” and as you walk back out into the sun, fingers intertwined, you realize something quietly monumental: this isn’t just love that shows up for games. this is love that plans. that stays. that builds a life between the moments everyone else sees.
