Red Looks Good on You
Pairing: Georgia Amoore x Singer!reader (feat. Paige Bueckers & Azzi Fudd)
Fandom: WNBA-Washington Mystics
Summary: A jersey swap that turns into something more….
🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @let-zizi-yap , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav
If someone had told me back when I was stress-crying over finals at UConn that I’d one day be court-side at a WNBA game in a Paige Bueckers jersey, next to Azzi Fudd and her dad—while catching actual butterflies over a maybe-crush on Georgia freaking Amoore—I probably would’ve said they were delusional.
And yet, there I was. Right in the middle of it.
“Rock, paper, scissors…shoot!”
“Ugh!” I groaned, throwing down scissors for the third time in a row. Paige smirked, smug as ever.
“That’s three Ls in a row, Y/N. My jersey it is,” she grinned, tossing me her navy Dallas Wings jersey like she was handing me a win when really, I’d just walked straight into her trap.
“You’re so manipulative,” I muttered, tugging the jersey over my oversized tee.
“You’re the one who kept picking scissors. Rookie mistake.”
Azzi cackled from the doorway of the hotel room, already scrolling through her camera roll. “I got that last round on video. You look like a loser, bestie.”
“You’re my friend. You’re supposed to lie to me.”
She just snorted. “Yeah, but Paige is my girlfriend, so loyalty has levels.”
I rolled my eyes but grinned anyway.
Game day.
We arrived early, just as warmups started. The arena was buzzing—music blasting, kids bouncing in the aisles, players locked in their rhythms on the court. Azzi’s dad, Tim, handed me a bottle of water as we settled into our court-side seats.
“She still wearing your jersey?” he asked Azzi, nodding to me.
“She lost a bet,” Azzi said without looking up from her phone. “Paige is annoying.”
“She’s right there,” I whispered, nodding toward Paige and Arike who were warming up directly in front of us.
“Oh, I know,” Azzi said, casually flipping her phone toward me. She had Paige’s contact pulled up and was typing a text that read: She looks better in your jersey than you do, just saying 😇
“You’re chaos,” I whispered.
“I contain multitudes,” Azzi replied, smirking.
Then we heard someone behind us say, “Oh look, Georgia’s coming this way.”
My heart did a full gymnastics routine in my chest.
I looked up—and there she was.
Georgia Amoore.
Hair slicked into a messy but neat bun, crop top clinging to her like it was made for her alone, and her jersey in hand.
Literally in her hand.
My name caught in my throat.
Azzi noticed my silence and glanced up too.
“Y/N,” she said, elbowing me lightly. “Try not to melt.”
“I’m not melting,” I whispered.
“You’re steaming, sweetheart.”
Georgia reached us with a casual smile and a soft “Hey.”
Her eyes flicked to me, lingering for a second longer than what was considered friendly, then shifted to Azzi.
“Hey,” Azzi said, sitting up straighter. “Warmups going okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Georgia nodded, looking at the jersey in her hands like she suddenly wasn’t sure what to do with it. “I was just, uh—gonna give this to someone. But looks like I got beat to it.”
She gestured toward me in Paige’s jersey.
“Ohhh,” Azzi teased lightly, eyes dancing between us. “We had a rock-paper-scissors match. Paige won.”
Georgia chuckled. “Tough loss.”
Then, with a little shrug, she turned and handed the red Mystics jersey—her own jersey—to Azzi.
“I guess you’ll wear it better anyway,” she said with a playful smirk.
Azzi blinked. “I mean…if you insist.”
And just like that, she slid it on over her crop top, much to Paige’s immediate disapproval. From directly in front of us, Paige stared with an open-mouthed glare.
“Really?” Paige mouthed, mid-free throw warmup.
Azzi shrugged exaggeratedly. “What? Y/N has yours!”
“She’s baiting her so bad,” I whispered to Tim, who just laughed.
Halftime.
“Text from Paige,” Azzi announced, snickering as she flashed her phone. “She said, and I quote, ‘Take. It. Off. Now.’”
“What’d you say back?”
“I sent her a selfie,” Azzi grinned, scrolling to show me a picture she’d just snapped. In it, she was dramatically pouting while wearing Georgia’s red number 8. “Caption: Not until you say please.”
“You are sick.”
“Not as sick as you, apparently,” she said, turning toward me. “You’ve been lowkey staring at Georgia this whole game.”
“No, I haven’t!”
“Y/N. You literally asked me how to say ‘what’s up’ in Australian slang before the game.”
“…Okay, yeah, I did.”
She leaned toward me during a break in the music, voice dropping slightly.
“So…does it smell like her?”
I blinked. “What?”
“The jersey,” she laughed. “You asked earlier.”
“I said that as a joke!” I covered my face. “Ugh, that’s so weird to say out loud.”
“I think it smells like cherry chapstick and intimidation,” Azzi said matter-of-factly, inhaling a little.
I gave her a horrified look.
“Wanna smell it?”
“No! Azzi!”
She burst out laughing and then got a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“You wanna wear it for the second half?”
“Wait, are we swapping jerseys?” I asked.
She grinned. “Let’s make Paige mad.”
We had one minute before the second half started.
I yanked Paige’s jersey off and handed it over, exchanging it for Georgia’s red Mystics one.
It was still warm from Azzi’s body, a little oversized, and smelled vaguely like citrus and sport detergent.
“Okay, I get it,” I admitted.
Azzi smirked. “Right?”
She sent one last picture to Paige—me now in Georgia’s jersey, her in Paige’s—and captioned it: Plot twist 💅
After the game, the crowd was electric, buzzing out of the arena like bees.
Paige gave us both the stink eye before disappearing into the tunnel, and Azzi just blew her a kiss and skipped off to meet her dad.
I hung back, still clutching a Sharpie I never used because I chickened out getting Georgia’s autograph earlier.
Then I heard it: “Hey, red looks really good on you.”
I turned.
Georgia.
Again.
Close now. Up close enough that I could see the freckles on her cheeks and the light flush behind her ears.
“Really?” I asked, smiling.
She nodded. “Yeah. Plus, I’ve never seen anyone wear the number 8 so well besides myself.”
I laughed, heart skipping.
“I was actually about to give this back to you,” I said, gently tugging at the hem.
She reached out, stopping me with a soft hand to my wrist.
“Keep it,” she said. “You wear it better anyway.”
I looked at her, surprised.
“You sure?”
“Positive,” she smiled. “Just…wear it somewhere cool.”
About two weeks later I had a show in Boston
I stepped onto the stage, mic in hand, lights low. My band behind me started playing something slow, sultry, unreleased.
The crowd hushed as the beat dropped.
I wore Georgia’s jersey as a dress—belted at the waist, paired with red boots. The number 8 was bold on my back, almost daring.
“This one’s unreleased,” I said into the mic. “I wrote it about a certain someone I maybe…kinda have a crush on.”
The crowd screamed.
Later That Night at a cozy diner in Boston.
We sat across from each other in a booth, milkshakes in hand, fries between us. Georgia wore a hoodie over her head, and I was still wearing her jersey.
“People are gonna start connecting dots,” I said, sipping my shake.
“Let ‘em,” she said, shrugging.
I smiled softly.
Then she pulled out her phone, snapped a blurry picture of our hands locked together, and posted it on her Instagram story.
Caption: On a date. Kinda nervous ❤️@y/n.officially
It took about five seconds before I reposted it with my own caption:
“Me too 😳❤️”
And just like that, the internet went insane.
But me?
I was calm for once.
Because red really did look good on me—especially when it came from someone who made me feel seen.
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-Thank You For Reading!💚💙
-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗
