HAB!JARED X WAG!READER HEADCANONS
Y’all met at Duke—two standout athletes, both gaining internet success. The chemistry was instant, but it wasn’t rushed.
He respected your discipline before anything else. You weren’t caught up in campus popularity , and that made him lean in harder.
He lets you lead. He doesn’t feel threatened by your success—he stands beside you proudly.
He showed up for you in the smallest ways—study snacks during finals, warm-ups before games, quiet pep talks when you felt like quitting
“I’m an honors student, I should just keep going with school, I could be a successful teacher!”
“Y/N please don’t piss me off…”
Your relationship wasn’t performative. Even though y’all were “entertainment” to everyone watching, it was always deeper than content.
Y’all didn’t perform for the world. Your intimacy shows in care, which is why one day you all decided to keep you alls relationship off the internet. No more vlogs, no more story times. You all let everyone assume what they wanted.
After tough games, y’all try to decompress together. Showers, candles, stretching each other out on the floor while music plays low. Sometimes no words—just breath, hands, intimacy.
Draft night night came and you were in the crowd acting like you weren’t about to cry before his name even got called. Your makeup was amazing before you all sat down. But the proud look on his families face as long with his made you weak, your eyes stayed glossy and you teared up constantly during the entire ceremony.
Jared kept looking at you between interview questions, mouthing “You good?” and all you could do was nod and squeeze his hand under the table. You’d seen how hard he worked, how many nights he sat icing his knees while editing watching film. You knew he had doubts, and as tonight was the biggest reassurance you could ever give him.
When “For the 16th pick the Philadelphia 76ers select…Jared McCain…” echoed through the Barclays Center, you stood before he did. Screamed like you got drafted yourself. Jumped on him, damn near straddled him in that suit, tears everywhere.
You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his, and whispered, “We made it, baby, we did it!”
Because it wasn’t just his moment—it was both of yours, and you already knew your time was coming just as big.
He brings your Duke jersey to his games and keeps it with his things. You didn’t even know until the cameras caught him waving it around after he dropped his first 30.
After your last collegiate triple-double, he flew out same night just to surprise you. When you came out the locker room , he didn’t say much—just hugged you tight and whispered, “You’re still not beating me.”
You hoop together in his off-time, but it’s never about who’s better. It’s about sharpening each others skills.
He knows your game like his own. “Watch that spin—she’s baitin’ your left,” he’ll tell your teammates during your practice.
When y’all train, it’s quiet—focused. And then later that night, he’ll joke, “You lucky I love you, ‘cause I would’ve blocked that weak ass step-through.” And you’ll smirk, “Shoulda coulda woulda, do it next time.”
He knows how to ground you. When the media’s loud or the pressure’s up, he brings you back down. “Don’t let them get you out of character,” he always says “They want you to act like that” And it always works.
You write notes in his duffle. He keeps them in his locker like scripture.
This man showed up in a custom tapestry hoodie with different pictures of you your face printed on it. Your college number and #1 was embroidered on it, it was tiny but it was cute.
He was pacing in his Asics like he was about to get drafted again
When they said, “With the #1 pick, the New York Liberty select…” and your name dropped, he jumped before you did. Grabbed you, spun you around, crying in a way that made the whole room stop.
Y’all hugged forever. Cameras catching him whispering, “I told you. Number one, how could you doubt it?.” And your tears didn’t stop ‘til you hit the stage, looking back and seeing him holding his composure like he’d never been prouder.
Afterward, y’all took photos like a prom couple—you wore his draft day hat and you wore his both of y’all cheesin’ like first day of school.
From that night on, Jared always snuck seafoam somewhere in his game day fits: a beanie, a lace trim, socks, even a matching mani once.
You? Toooo annoying. Wore a throwback Allen Iverson tee under your warmup just to “accidentally” flash it when you pulled off your top. Philly earrings, Sixers hat at postgames.
Nobody hears the end of it. Constant story reposts of each other’s stats. “Filled stat sheet, my baby helped me hit my parlay 🥹”
Every holiday, every break, y’all host a charity skills clinic for city kids between Brooklyn and Philly, always making it about community. But then still arguing over who’s “the new face” of their respective franchise.
In y’all’s private moments, it’s still quiet prayer, forehead kisses, and him warming your shooting hand in his lap before games. All that noise, all that extra was fun, but nothing compared to when it was just yall.
You knew something was wrong before it even happened, you blamed it on nerves but you knew something bad was happening that day.
You flew to Philly the same day he got injured. Didn’t even wait for clearance or a break in your schedule. Your agent tried to talk you out of it, and you just hit them with a flat, “He would’ve done it for me.”
The first time you walked into his hospital room, he tried to hit you with a smile. “Don’t you have a game today?” he joked with his knee propped and wrapped. You kissed his forehead and whispered, “I could care less about the wnba right now”
Recovery was slow. The kind that eats at a man who lives to move. Jared was an athlete on top of probably having some form of undiagnosed of ADHD. His stagnancy killed him from the inside out.
You stayed on him— overnight shipping meal preps, mental health check-ins, making him put his phone down when he started spiraling into stats and trade rumors.
One night, he broke down. “I feel better— why do I have to be out for the whole season?” He sobbed “What if I’m not the same after this and they trade me?” And you just held him. Quiet, firm. “Then we adjust. You are worth more than your abilities Jared, you need to heal inside and out first”
When you went back to New York he started facetiming you from the recovery gym—him on the bike, you lifting after practice. Y’all turned rehab into ritual, and made it something much more intimate. Something in you healed watching him heal.
He was still rehabbing when the Liberty went on their run. Minimal travel, but was glued to every game—jersey on, seafoam towel in hand, pacing like a coach in his living room.
After every round, he facetimed you crying like you weren’t the one playing. “They not touching you, babe. That lynx whistle is sick, I would have crashed out too”
When y’all made it to the Finals, he begged the training staff to let him fly out for the last game. The Sixers’ media team told him, “You can fly to the Finals if you give us at least one vlog and a tiktok post.”
So this man packed his ring light, a mic, and his best media-friendly tunnel outfit. His vlog started with: “POV: Your girl’s about to win a chip and you’re just here to be loud and emotional.”
He inserts a clip of him heckling a heckler.
In the vlog, he filmed himself shopping in New York “Need a seafoam ‘fit, unfortunately that appears to be a niche color?” He tried on three outfits before choosing one with subtle Liberty colors. “New York do better, why are yall not supporting the only good basketball team yall have?”
He filmed a lil’ “Day in My Life as a Supportive Boyfriend at the WNBA Finals” TikTok: coffee run, holding your duffle bag, screaming from courtside, taking videos of you on the low while mouthing various compliments. The comments were unhinged. “The way he’s acting like he too isn’t a professional basketball player”
They had him mic’d up courtside, and the moment you hit a jumper, he stood up so fast his chair nearly flipped. “My lady a bucket!”He was yelling stats mid-possession like he was on commentary: “That’s her tenth, TEN. You see the left hand finish? That’s not even her dominant hand, she does this.”
During a timeout, the camera panned to him and he threw up a heart with his hands—but when you glanced over and did the same, he dramatically clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Oh my god, we just flirted on national TV. I can’t go back to my seat, I gotta propose or something.”
The Liberty staff had to pull him back into his seat 'cause he was standing on the sideline giving you coaching tips through gritted teeth like he was part of the staff.
Jared stepped a little too close when y’all broke from the bench, hands on his hips like he was just observing. He stood there quiet, eyes locked in like he was studying film, then when y’all brought it in for the huddle clap, he subtly slid his arm in too. Didn’t look at anybody. Didn’t smirk. Just stood there like it was his timeout too.
The clip hit Twitter before the quarter ended, the official 76ers account posting it saying:“Bro thinks he’s part of the team” and a quote tweet from the Libs said: “If we win, he’s taking home a ring too 🤷♀️”
You saw him in the locker room after the final buzzer—mascara streaked from crying, champagne in your braids, and he was already crying again.
He met you at center court, kissed your forehead, and whispered sweet nothings to you. You pulled him into the biggest hug, both of you shaking from the weight of it all.
They saved the announcement for post-game, while y’all were still riding the high of the championship confetti. The arena still buzzing, streamers falling, and suddenly the arena voice cuts through:
“And to top it all off… this season’s Rookie of the Year…”
Jared turned to you before they even said your name. He already knew.
When they said it—your name, echoing through the mic—you froze. Trophy in one arm, now another being walked toward you. Your teammates screaming, pushing you forward.
Jared’s voice cracked as he yelled, “That’s my fucking girlfriend!” He yelled excitedly forgetting he was mic’d up.
You didn’t even hold the ROY award at first. Just pointed at it, tears in your lashes, chest rising. “To think I was gonna give up playing and just be a teacher?,” you said in the postgame interview. And Jared behind you? Clapping, lips pressed together to hold in how proud he really was.
Back in the locker room, the team popped bottle after bottle, but Jared found you tucked in a corner drying off. He kissed your temple and whispered, “Rookie of the Year, Champion, and still my beautiful girlfriend. I’m so lucky”
The photos? Idiotic, both of y’all were beyond drunk.. Him in your goggles with the trophy, you holding his waist from the side, holding up your jersey.
Later, when y’all got back to the hotel? You made him hold both trophies while you changed into your victory outfit. He took pictures like a proud AAU dad, cheesin’ hard. “You want ‘em in the crib or your mama’s house?” he asked. You grinned. “Keep ‘em close. I’m not done collecting.”
After the win, he posted: “She won the ‘chip. I won in general.” Every picture had you in the background or on his shirt. Slide 3 was just him crying in the hallway,slide 5 was a zoom in of your name embroidered on his sleeve, slide 10 was you with your championship ring with a heavy engagement ring stacked on top of it.
And the internet couldn’t wait to hate when he showed up the next week in a full Liberty warmup at a Sixers press conference. “I’m just a supportive man in his WAG era,” he said with a grin. “What can I say?”
