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𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 4/4)

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MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.6k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | she was born to be great—legacy inked in her blood, she was a taurasi. committing to usc was supposed to be her moment, her name, her story. but this is juju watkins' court. and kingdoms don’t like to be threatened.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fluffy softness, a lot of slow touches and yearning, injuries (srry...), mentions of panic attacks, post-game emotion, recovery/healing, HAPPY ENDINGGG!!!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | whew, one month, twenty redbulls and five times of complete rewriting and editing later, its here!!! part four!!! the finale, with the perfect mix of angst and sapphiuc yearning, featuring my favs - taurasi and watkins<3 sorry for the long wait, but we're here and i hope u enjoy it!!

NOTE: i didn’t follow the real timeline of this years womens march madness (2025) cause it didn’t quite fit the story pacing-wise BUT i hope you can let that slide bc this was all about the girls and their journey :,) thank you sm for reading all the way through, i love these two with my whole chest

The Crumbl Cookie parking lot is nearly empty, the kind of quiet that only settles in L.A. when the sun’s starting to slide behind the hills and the evening haze curls around streetlights like smoke. You’re perched on the hood of Juju’s car, one sneaker tucked under your thigh, the other swinging lazily off the bumper. Juju’s beside you, legs spread, shoulders relaxed, her phone in one hand and a warm pink sugar cookie in the other.

“You got frosting on your cheek,” she says, not looking up from her phone.

You swipe at the wrong side.

She glances up, smirks, then leans in, thumb swiping the smudge gently from your skin. Her touch is soft. Unthinking, easy, like it belongs there, like this is normal now.

And it is, that’s the strangest part.

You’re not sure when it stopped being new, this comfort you feel with her. When it stopped being strange to walk out of the gym and immediately check where she is. When it stopped being conscious, the way your shoulder always angles toward hers. The way she always reaches for your bag before you can.

Maybe it was right after the Utah game. That moment in the hallway where you broke open and she caught every falling piece of you like she was meant to.

Maybe it was the days that followed — the quiet check-ins, the small touches, the way she started really seeing you and not just what the rest of the world expected from you.

Either way, this is just what it is now.

You and Juju, tied at the hip.

“So,” she says after a beat, still scrolling, “when are you gonna admit that I was right about the confetti cookie?”

You lift an eyebrow. “Never. It’s a mediocre sugar cookie in a fun little outfit.”

She gasps, dramatic. “Take that back!”

“Not a chance.”

Juju puts her phone down, fake-offended. “You’re lucky you’re the best shooter in college hoops right now or I’d bench you myself.”

You snort. “You and what authority?”

“I got pull.”

“I am the pull.”

She laughs and it’s real, and it sinks into your ribs like sunlight.

You tear off another piece of your chocolate chip cookie — classic, unbeatable and nudge her knee with yours.

“You know Coach said the same thing today?” you say after a moment, quieter now. “About being the best shooter.”

Juju tilts her head. “Yeah? How’d it feel to hear it?”

You shrug, licking sugar off your thumb. “Weird. Good, maybe a little scary.”

“Why scary?”

You hesitate. Then glance over at her, honest now.

“Cause it means I’m not just Diana’s kid anymore.”

She watches you for a second, then leans in, shoulder bumping yours.

“You haven’t been just Diana’s kid in a long time.”

You know that. You do. But hearing it from Juju makes it settle deeper.

The truth is, everything’s changed since that night in December. That one game — Utah, was supposed to break you. It nearly did. But it also cracked something open that needed air.

And since then, you’ve been on fire.

Not in the “playing angry” kind of way. Not in the “trying to prove something” kind of way either. More like, finally letting yourself be.

Letting yourself shoot without second-guessing. Lead without pretending you know all the answers. Letting yourself feel — fear, joy, pressure and not fold under the weight of it.

January was your cleanest month yet. 22.7 points per game, 54% from three, no turnovers in the last four games. No one's talking about your last name anymore.

They’re talking about your footwork, your passing vision, your ability to find separation even in double coverage. They’re talking about you.

USC hasn’t dropped a game since that night.

You’ve beaten Stanford on the road. Beat UCLA twice. Took Oregon in overtime and you sealed it with a step-back three that made ESPN run the highlight five times in a row.

And through it all, Juju’s been right there.

The two of you have become USC’s heartbeat. Different rhythms, her power and drive, your finesse and precision but in sync. She calls you her “shooting guard/emotional support sniper.” You roll your eyes every time.

But the truth is, this works. This thing between you. On the court, off of it.

She’s the first one to wrap an arm around your shoulders after a win. The first one to notice when your hands start to shake before tip-off. The only one who never treats your silence like a warning sign, but like a weather pattern she already knows how to read.

She sees you. And for the first time in your life, you’re letting yourself be seen.

You pop the last bite of your cookie into your mouth and sigh, content.

“This was a good idea,” you say.

Juju grins. “I always have good ideas.”

You hum. “Except for the time you tried to put hot Cheetos in your mac and cheese.”

“Okay, that was innovative.”

“That was vile.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

You’re laughing again, and it feels easy. Light. The way it used to before the weight of the season got heavy.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, leaning back on your palms, head tilted toward the stars that are just starting to peek out.

“Do you think it’s gonna last?” you ask, and you don’t have to say what it means.

Juju takes a beat.

Then: “I think we’re gonna make it last.”

You turn your head, look at her. She’s already looking at you.

There’s something steady in her gaze. Something that doesn’t flinch under pressure. Something you’ve started to lean on more than you probably should, but she’s never once let you fall.

Not since that night.

You nod, exhale slowly. “Okay.”

Juju stands, stretches her arms over her head, and then offers her hand.

“Come on, superstar. We got film in the morning.”

You take it, let her pull you up.

You don’t let go right away.

It’s mid-February, and the air inside the Galen Center feels electric.

Not the kind of electricity that zaps or surprises. It’s warmer than that — dense and humming like a storm still gathering in the distance. There’s a current running under the floorboards, through the sneakers squeaking across the hardwood, through every breath in practice. Every drill, every rep, every timeout.

March is close. You can feel it in your bones.

There’s a different kind of tension now. Not panic, not the spiraling weight that nearly cracked you months ago. This is sharper, focused, purposeful. The kind of pressure you want because you know who you are now.

And you’re not just chasing some win. You’re chasing everything.

The banners. The legacy. The story they’ll write about you when it’s all said and done.

You’re chasing the right to say: “We did that.”

You finish your last rep of shell defense and slap the floor, yelling out the rotation before the scout team can even make the extra pass. You see it all now, three steps ahead. There’s no more second-guessing. No more hesitation.

Coach blows the whistle and everyone resets. Sweat drips down your back, your hands on your knees, chest heaving but you’re grinning. Because you feel it.

This team can win the whole damn thing.

They’ve been doubting you all year. Not directly, not to your face; no one’s dumb enough to say it like that. But the whispers are always there. Every headline. Every pregame panel. Every bracket prediction.

UConn’s backcourt is deeper. South Carolina’s size is unmatched. LSU’s got more firepower.

You hear it all. You register it.

But you don’t let it get in.

Because this team — your team, doesn’t need to be anyone else’s favorite.

You just need forty minutes.

And that’s all you’re going to give, every damn time.

Coach huddles everyone at center court as practice winds down. She runs through the last few logistics for the week, reminds everyone that the committee’s watching every game from here on out. That nothing’s promised. That USC hasn't been to a Final Four in over three decades.

But you believe it now. Not in the story that’s already been told but the one you’re writing.

The one you’ve bled into. The one you’ve built, brick by brick since the day you stepped on campus. Since that night in your backyard in Phoenix with your moms, telling Di that you can do it. Prove it.

You lean into the circle, sweat-damp hair pulled back, towel around your neck, and glance to your right.

Juju’s already looking at you.

She offers a fist, and you bump it. Quick, solid. No words needed.

That night, you stay in the gym later than usual.

The lights overhead hum, the court echoing under your footsteps as you run solo sets with one of the assistants. Juju stayed for the first half-hour, stretching on the sideline while you worked on spot-up threes but she didn’t press when you told her you needed a few more.

She knows you well enough now to understand this is your rhythm.

That the game lives in your lungs and your legs and your bloodstream, that it doesn’t quiet down just because the sun sets.

You’ve been sharper than ever in February, your numbers show it but what drives you lately isn’t just stats or scouting reports.

It’s her. Diana.

You don’t say it out loud. Not to Juju. Not to Coach. Not even to yourself most days. But deep down, you know.

You’re trying to prove something.

Not that you’re her. You’re long past that lie.

But that you could lead something as big, as unshakable, as the dynasty she once captained. That you could do it differently, on your terms, in your own voice and still win.

That this team you’ve helped build, piece by piece, doesn’t have to stand in anyone else’s shadow.

That legacy doesn’t have to be inherited.

It can be earned.

You take your final shot from the left wing. It sinks clean through. You hold your follow-through.

You picture the net cutting, the confetti, the final horn.

You believe it.

“Still going?”

Juju’s voice floats in from the entrance tunnel. You turn, smile.

She’s already changed into sweats, holding a Gatorade and a pack of orange slices like she’s your personal trainer. Which, let’s be honest, she kind of is.

“Wrapped up,” you say, walking over to grab your bottle.

She hands you the snacks wordlessly, and you peel them open without hesitation.

“You ever think about it?” you ask between bites, voice softer now.

She raises an eyebrow. “Think about what?”

“Winning it. The whole thing.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

You nod. “Same.”

There’s a quiet beat between you. Comfortable. Charged.

“You think we can really do it?” you ask, but it’s not insecurity that drives the question. It’s hope. Raw and real and hungry.

Juju steps closer, tilts her head.

“No,” she says.

You blink, thrown for half a second.

Then she smirks. “I know we can.”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it, full and genuine.

She bumps your shoulder with hers, eyes softening.

“And you — you're the heart of it. The reason we're here.”

You shake your head. “You’re just saying that.”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”

And you know she’s right.

Because Juju’s the one person who’s never sugarcoated anything with you. Never treated you like some shiny thing, or a name she had to tiptoe around. From the start, she’s seen the cracks. The temper. The spiral under pressure. The obsession with doing everything right.

She’s seen it all.

And she still shows up. Every time.

That’s the part that gets you. That makes something warm flicker deep in your chest. Not the belief. Not the praise. The constancy.

The fact that someone like her — strong, grounded, golden, sees all your mess and still chooses to be here.

Still believes.

You don’t say any of that. But you nod.

And you whisper, “Thanks.”

Juju shrugs like it’s nothing, but her eyes say everything.

“You’re my teammate,” she says. “We all carry this together.”

And you do.

Because this year, it’s not just about you anymore.

It’s about every late night, every double-practice, every film session that made your eyes blur. Every teammate who picked you up when you were seconds from folding. Every assistant who believed in the team before the rankings did. Every fan who started chanting your name instead of your mom’s.

It’s about USC.

And you’re not just ready. You’re hungry.

Let them doubt you. Let them ride for UConn or South Carolina or whoever else they want.

You know what’s coming.

You’re sitting on Juju’s couch, half-curled up, hoodie sleeves bunched around your wrists and your hair still damp from the shower you took in her bathroom. She’s not even sure when it started; when you started just being here all the time. Leaving your slides by her door, borrowing her socks, knowing where she keeps the mugs without asking.

It used to feel like an intrusion. Back when she didn’t know what this feeling was, back when she swore it was just tension; competitive, inconvenient, complicated. Back when she used to call you “Taurasi” with a bite in her tone just to keep space between you.

But now? Now it feels wrong when you’re not around.

You’re just... in her world. Without ever asking for permission. And Juju hasn’t pushed you out. Not once. That should’ve told her everything.

You're sitting there now, sipping some mint tea like it’s your ritual, curled into her throw blanket that you say "smells like her," and you look at peace. Comfortable. Maybe even happy. And Juju’s chest feels too tight with it. The quiet, the ease. The fact that she wants to memorize every little detail of this.

The way your pinky curls around the mug. The way you hum when you read something funny on your phone, not even realizing you’re doing it. The way you don’t bother filling silence with chatter when you’re around her; just breathing, just being and somehow that’s louder than anything.

She’s sitting on the other end of the couch, pretending to scroll through film breakdowns on her iPad but really, she’s just watching you in the reflection of the black screen.

And thinking. Thinking too much.

You’re not just her teammate. That lie’s long dead.

You’re not just a shooter she depends on, or someone she has to look out for because you might take her spot at USC. You’re you.

And Juju — God, she likes you. Like, really likes you.

Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way. But in a real way. A quiet, persistent thing that tugs at her every time you do something soft. Something sincere, something vulnerable that no one else gets to see.

She used to resent that. Used to tense up anytime she caught herself staring too long or letting her mind go places it shouldn't. Back when she was still trying to keep her world rigid and clean and sharp, like the game. Like the plan.

But now? She’s stopped fighting it.

There was something about holding you that night — your body shaking in her arms, your breathing sharp and jagged, the taste of salt in her throat from your tears and realizing you trusted her enough to break apart in front of her.

That was it.

That was the moment it stopped being something she could rationalize away. Because in that moment, she didn’t feel like your teammate or her rival.

She felt like something else. Like something closer.

And she wanted to be that person. The one you came to when things cracked. The one who held the pieces, even when you didn’t know how to ask.

She still does. Always will.

You let out a sigh, soft and tired and let your head fall against the back of the couch, your profile glowing in the dim yellow light of the floor lamp. Juju watches your throat bob as you swallow the last sip of tea and she’s hit with the urge to tuck your hair behind your ear. To touch you.

She doesn't.

But she thinks about it. She thinks about it a lot these days.

Instead, she shifts a little closer, resting her arm along the top of the couch behind you. Not touching. Just there.

You glance over, lazy-eyed, voice soft.

“You good?”

Juju nods once. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You blink slow, the way you do when you're half-asleep but trying not to miss a moment. “About what?”

She could say film. Or practice. Or the Pac-12 standings. Something easy.

But she doesn’t want easy. Not with you.

So instead, she says, “You.”

And your whole body stills.

Not in a scared way. Just... like you heard something real and you're trying to decide what to do with it.

Juju exhales, slow and careful, and for once she doesn’t try to dance around it.

“I think I’ve been thinking about you for a while now,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Longer than I wanted to admit.”

You blink again. But your voice stays steady. “Yeah?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

You shift a little, turning toward her on the couch, knees bumping hers now. Close, closer than ever.

There’s a pause. Full and warm and so quiet.

And then you ask: simple, honest and impossible not to love. “What do you think about me?”

Juju breathes in, her heart hammering so hard she’s shocked you can’t hear it.

“I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I think you love this game so much it scares you. I think... I think you try to carry everything, all the time and you don’t let anyone carry you.”

You’re watching her now with wide, unblinking eyes.

She continues, voice low and full.

“And I think I’d carry it for you, if you let me.”

Your bottom lip trembles just once before you bite it back. But you don’t say anything. You just reach forward, careful and slow, and place your hand over hers where it’s resting on her thigh.

Your skin is warm. Familiar. Unshaking. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Juju doesn’t overthink it.

She just laces your fingers with hers.

And lets herself have it. The truth. The feeling.

You.

Not as a teammate. Not as Diana’s daughter. Not as the best shooter in college basketball.

Just as you.

You, in her hoodie. In her space, in her heart.

The gym’s quieter than usual. That sweet spot after practice when the sweat’s dried and nobody’s in a rush to leave. Just the echo of someone shooting free throws at the far end, sneakers squeaking lazily, a water bottle rolling somewhere out of sight. The air still hums with leftover energy, but it’s the good kind. Loose, easy.

You’re on the floor, back pressed against the bench, legs outstretched and one knee drawn up. Juju’s right beside you — close like she always is lately. Thighs pressed together, shoulders brushing now and then, like neither of you even notice, like it’s just default. Natural.

You sip your water and watch Kiki peel the tape off her fingers with surgical focus, while Avery stretches her calves like she’s got somewhere to be, which she absolutely does not.

Kiki groans. “I swear Coach is making us run suicides just to feed some dark urge.”

“She said it’s for mental toughness, whatever the hell that means,” Avery says, her voice mockingly high-pitched, doing her best Coach impression. “‘Close games are won on legs and lungs!’”

Kiki snorts. “Close games are won when people pass the damn ball but okay.”

That gets a few laughs, even from Juju. You nudge her playfully with your elbow, and she nudges you right back, a little smirk tugging at her mouth. It’s stupid, the way your heart does a flip over nothing. But this is what it’s been lately. Quiet touches, subtle glances, inside jokes no one else catches. It’s been easy to pretend no one’s really noticed.

Until—

Kiki pauses in mid-rip, eyes narrowing like something just clicked.

“Y’all always like this now?” she says, nodding between you and Juju with a raised brow.

You blink. “Like... what?”

“Like that,” she says, motioning with her whole hand at the nonexistent space between you two. “Sittin’ on top of each other like you’re fused at the hip.”

Juju leans her head back against the bench, letting out a groan. “God.”

Avery’s already grinning, stretching abandoned. “Ooooh, we saying it out loud now?”

“Don’t start,” you mumble, trying to hide the smile tugging at your face. But it’s there, clear as day and now you’re warm all over for some reason that’s got very little to do with the gym’s busted A/C.

“No, like,” Kiki says, grinning wide, “I’m just trying to understand. Wasn’t it, like, three months ago that Juju couldn’t even look at you without making that face?”

Juju throws a piece of athletic tape at her. “What face?”

“That face you do when you’re trying not to say something rude but it’s right there.”

Avery cackles. “She’d be like, ‘Yo, pass the ball’ but in a way that said ‘I hope you trip and fall after practice.’”

You’re laughing now, trying to cover it with your hand, but failing miserably. “Okay, that’s not true.”

“Oh it’s true,” Avery says, pointing. “You were no better either. Acting like Juju stole your scholarship or something.”

You glance at Juju, who’s got her lips pressed together, obviously fighting a smile.

“Y’all beefed like it was personal,” Kiki adds. “Now? Can’t get through water breaks without you two sharing a bottle and making goo-goo eyes.”

“We do not make goo-goo eyes,” you say, scandalized.

Kiki gives you a look. “Babe.”

Juju chokes on her water. “Did you just call her ‘babe’?” sorry... sir (love island brain rot, ifykyk)

Kiki shrugs. “Figured I’d say it before you did.”

The whole group breaks into laughter again, the kind that makes your stomach ache, that kind that feels like it could live forever if no one acknowledged how good it is.

But under the jokes, under the teasing, something lingers. A beat of awareness. You can feel it on your skin, in the space between you and Juju, suddenly not so invisible, like a bubble just popped.

You shift slightly, just enough to put an inch of space between your thighs. Not because you want to. Just instinct. A reaction to being seen.

Juju notices. Of course she does. Her knee finds yours again, casually. Intentionally. Like she’s saying, Nah. Don’t do that. We’re good.

And just like that, you breathe again.

“Wait, wait,” Avery cuts in, still smiling but with that sharpness in her eyes that always means she’s poking deeper than she lets on. “So what did change? Like, seriously. You went from ‘I might kill you in your sleep’ to ‘I’ll die if you don’t sit next to me on the bus.’”

You glance at Juju. She glances back.

And then she shrugs.

“We figured some shit out,” she says simply.

And no one pushes it. No one pries.

There’s a silence that settles over the group then — not awkward, not uncomfortable. Just... understanding.

Kiki leans back onto her elbows. “Well whatever it is, keep it up. You been playing outta your minds since the new year.”

“Facts,” Avery adds. “The way you two read each other on the court? Like some telepathic freak shit.”

You grin. “Appreciate it.”

“You should,” Kiki says, smirking. “I don’t compliment often. Not without strings attached.”

“What strings?”

“Buy me Crumbl later.”

Juju groans. “You just made fun of us. Now you want cookies?”

“That’s the price of love, Ju.”

You roll your eyes but you’re still smiling. That whole big, quiet kind of smile you didn’t used to have so often. Not before this. Not before her.

You let your head fall lightly against Juju’s shoulder. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just lets it happen.

And in the corner of your vision, you can see Kiki and Avery sharing a look but it’s not mocking. It’s not even teasing, really.

It’s warm. Affectionate. Like they see something soft here, something real.

You let it sit for a while, not saying anything.

And for the first time since this whole thing began since Utah, since your panic, since you started unraveling and Juju caught every thread, you realize something:

This isn’t just your little bubble anymore.

You’re being seen. You’re being known.

And somehow, that doesn’t terrify you like it used to. It just feels... right.

By March, the country knew your name.

They said it like a prophecy. Diana Taurasi's daughter, sharp-eyed sniper with the fastest release in college basketball. The girl who'd clawed her way out of the shadows, who could drill threes off the dribble, off a curl, off balance, off nothing at all. Who had started the season unraveling, brittle and breaking under the weight of expectation only to rise from it.

And they said Juju's name, too. Not like prophecy. Like fact, like foundation. USC's heartbeat. The court general. If you were the spark, JuJu was the oxygen that kept it burning, always in step with you, always knowing exactly where you'd be.

It hadn't always been like that. But since Utah, since the blood and the panic and the towel clenched in your hands like a lifeline, something had shifted between you. Not just in how you moved together on the floor, though that was part of it. You ran the court like you shared a brain now. She'd drive and kick without looking, because she knew you'd be there. You'd call off a screen because she'd already set the angle. Telepathic, like Kiki and the broadcasters kept calling it. Magic.

The media loved it.

They clipped every moment: the shared glances, the low fives, the way Juju tugged your jersey back into place when it got twisted up. They tweeted it with heart eyes and fire emojis, called you the best backcourt in women's college hoops. USC, undefeated in 2025, marched through the bracket with poise and grit, and always, always, with you and Juju leading the charge.

By the time you reached the Elite Eight, the noise was deafening.

UCLA again. A Pac-12 showdown on the national stage. You knew the stakes. Winner goes to the Final Four. And UCLA came out swinging, physical and mouthy and playing like they had something to prove, like they always did.

You felt it from tip-off.

Number 14, one of their wings, started in on you early. Cheap bumps, elbow nudges, grabbing your jersey when the refs weren’t looking. You didn’t react at first. Just did what you always did: moved, cut, got open. Juju found you three times in the first quarter for clean shots. Swish. Swish. Swish.

The crowd roared.

But 14 didn’t back off. In the third quarter, she caught you on a screen, shoulder clipping your nose hard enough to snap your head back.

You stumbled, hands up, blinking tears, and then there was shouting.

Juju.

She was in 14’s face before the whistle even blew. Chest out, jaw clenched, yelling. "You think that’s basketball? That’s what you wanna do?"

The ref stepped in but not before JuJu shoved 14 back, just enough to get called. Tech.

The bench stood. The crowd booed. You stood there dazed, blood in your mouth and heartbeat in your ears, watching Juju get pulled away by Coach. Watching 14 smirk.

But Juju never took her eyes off you.

You stayed in. Played through it. Didn’t say a word until the buzzer sounded and you won by six.

After the game, the press room lights were harsh. Cameras flashing. Questions flying.

They came for Juju first.

"Juju, that technical in the third, was that frustration or... something else?"

She didn’t blink. Just leaned forward, calm. "I protect my teammates. That’s who I am."

The reporters murmured, scribbled. Then another.

"There was no clear provocation on the replay. Can you explain why you escalated it to that level?"

You rolled your eyes, a low "jesus christ" leaving your lips before leaning into the mic.

"She escalated nothing." Your voice sliced through the noise.

Juju turned to you, startled.

"There was context," you sighed, steady. "I took an elbow to the face. Same player had been grabbing and hitting all night. Juju reacted because she saw what the refs didn’t. I was bleeding. You can check the tape. She was protecting me, that’s not a flaw. That’s leadership."

The room went still for a second too long. Then a few reporters nodded, typed.

Juju looked at you with something unspoken in her eyes. Not surprise. Not gratitude. Something warmer. Like trust, wrapped in awe.

You didn’t flinch under the lights. Not this time. After, back in the tunnel, Juju caught your arm. Pulled you just out of view of the cameras. Her hand was warm against your elbow.

"You didn’t have to do that," she said softly.

You looked at her. "Yeah, I did."

She searched your face like she was trying to memorize it.

"I meant what I said," you added. "You're not reckless. You're just real."

Her mouth curved up, barely. "You saying I'm your hero now?"

You smirked. "Maybe, just a little bit."

And then, quieter, after a beat:

"You were mine first."

The words hung there, fragile and glowing, somewhere between a confession and a promise.

Juju didn’t speak. She just stepped closer. Close enough to bump shoulders. Close enough for her knuckles to brush yours.

"Final Four, huh?" she said after a pause.

"Final Four."

"Guess we’ve got more to prove."

You nodded. And in the silence, in the closeness, in the echoes of cameras still flashing somewhere down the hall, there was peace.

The building hums like it’s alive.

Over nineteen thousand people packed into Rocket Mortgage FieldHouse, and it feels like every single one of them is watching you breathe. Final Four. USC vs. South Carolina. The matchup everybody’s been talking about for weeks. Powerhouse against powerhouse. Dawn Staley on the other sideline. Cameras following every twitch of your face, every flick of your wrist, every stumble.

You tell yourself you’re ready. But tonight, it’s not clicking.

The game is ugly; gritty in a way that makes your chest burn. Not the good burn. It’s missed reads, loose rebounds, forced shots, bad rotations. South Carolina plays like a brick wall with fast hands. And you — you're forcing threes too early in the shot clock. You're second-guessing your curls off the screen, you’re watching your passes instead of snapping them.

Still, you stay in it. Mostly because Juju’s in it.

She’s loud on defense, aggressive on the boards, calling switches like she’s been doing this since birth. Her voice cuts through the chaos: “ICE IT! I GOT HIGH!” Every time you trip on your own feet, she’s there, low five, tug at your jersey, a look that steadies you.

It’s only the third quarter when it happens.

A scramble for a loose ball — one of those pinball sequences that makes everything feel like slow motion. You and JuJu both dive. She gets to it first, palms it clean and the moment she starts to rise, a South Carolina forward crashes into her from the blind side. It’s not dirty. Just hard.

You see the whole thing unfold from a few feet away.

Juju’s legs tangle awkwardly beneath her. Her head snaps back. The ball skitters away but you don’t even look to see who recovers it because Juju doesn’t get up.

Not right away.

Your body moves before you even think. You’re sliding across the court on your knees, grabbing her wrist, calling her name. “Ju—hey, hey, Ju, you good?”

She blinks hard, face twisted. One hand gripping her knee. Her mouth’s open but no sounds coming out and that’s how you know it’s bad. Juju doesn’t do silence, not on the court.

The trainers are running toward you, but your body blocks her like instinct. You press a hand to her shoulder, trying not to shake. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay, yeah? You’re good.”

But she’s not good, you can see it all over her.

Her face is pale. Her jaw’s clenched like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. She tries to sit up and winces so sharply it makes you flinch.

The ref’s whistled the play dead. Coach is calling your name from the sideline but you don’t look.

The trainers get there. You don’t move until one of them gently pulls you aside. Juju tries to wave them off, of course she does but even that looks like it takes all the energy she has.

You’re standing now, hovering, your hands twitching at your sides, heart thudding like a drumline in your chest.

She looks up at you when they start examining her knee. “I’m fine,” she lies, and you almost believe her, because you want to.

“Ju…” Your voice breaks without permission.

And that’s what undoes her.

Because her face softens in a way that has nothing to do with pain. “Don’t,” she whispers.

But it’s too late. You feel it in your throat, hot and scraping, that crushing weight behind your ribs. You turn slightly, trying not to show it, pressing your forearm to your face like it might stop everything from leaking out.

She gets helped up. Can’t put weight on the leg. Walks off with the trainers, arms around their shoulders, jaw clenched to hell. You’re still standing there at midcourt like your feet are cemented to the floor. The arena’s loud again, but it’s like someone stuffed cotton in your ears.

They sub you out two minutes later.

You don’t fight it.

You sit on the bench and press the towel against your face like it might hold you together. Coach comes by. So does your manager. Diana’s yelling something from the tunnel. None of it registers. You’re stuck on the image of Juju walking off. The wince. The way she didn’t even pretend to smile at you like she always does.

You feel hollow.

South Carolina keeps scoring. You stop looking at the scoreboard. Doesn’t matter. The last buzzer sounds and they’re storming the court, arms in the air, screaming into the rafters. You stay in your seat. Someone tries to pull you up for the handshake line but you shake your head and stand on your own.

It’s a blur after that.

People moving around you. Cameras shoved in your direction. Your name called a dozen times. Diana’s there, trying to get to you through the press wave but you don't hear her the way you normally would. It's like your brain is underwater. You're not listening. You’re looking for Juju.

You push past security. Your manager grabs your wrist. “You gotta do media.”

“No,” you say, already walking. “I can’t, not now.”

“You’re required for the podium—”

“Then fine me.”

You don’t stop. Don’t even glance at the cameras filming you now. You just want to find her. You need to find her. The panic’s rising again and it’s not like last time, not sharp and loud but slow, creeping, like you’re sinking inch by inch in a lake with no bottom.

You turn a corner in the tunnel, and there she is.

Except this time, she’s not just sore. Not limping with ice and a joke on her lips. She’s lying flat on the trainer’s table, both hands pressed hard against her face like she’s trying to hold it all in — everything. The pain, the fear, the devastation.

The room’s cold, too cold. You swear you feel it in your teeth.

The moment you see her like that, something inside you ruptures.

The world dulls. Your feet are moving, but the hallway stretches longer than it should. The sounds blur, trainers murmuring in low, clinical voices, someone scribbling notes, a bag of ice crinkling loudly in the silence and it doesn’t feel real.

You knew. Somewhere deep, you already knew. But you didn’t want to believe it.

Not her. Not Juju.

You stop just inside the door. She doesn’t see you at first. Or maybe she does but she doesn’t move. Her forearms cover her eyes. Her chest rises, then stutters. Like she’s trying not to cry, trying to keep it together like she always does.

But she’s shaking. And when a sharp breath cracks from her like glass, it slices through you.

You step forward — quiet, slow. “Ju.”

She drops her arms fast like you caught her naked. Her eyes are red, but she’s trying to wipe them with the sleeves of her hoodie, trying to sit up like it’s no big deal.

“I’m fine,” she says, voice scratchy and wrecked. “It’s not... It’s just a sprain. Or hyperextended. I don’t know. They don’t know yet.”

You don’t believe her.

Not just because of the limp you saw. Or how fast she went down on the court. But because JuJu doesn’t lie, except when she’s scared.

And she’s scared.

You shake your head slowly. “Don’t do that.”

She flinches like the words hit too close to bone. Like she knows exactly what you mean. “I can’t—” Her throat closes. She pushes the words out anyway. “I can’t hear it yet. I just... I need a second before I hear it out loud.”

You nod, because you remember. You remember exactly how it feels to know before you know. That waiting room space where everything hurts but you still cling to some broken piece of hope like it’ll save you from the truth.

You step closer. She’s still trying to keep it together, barely. Her jaw’s locked. One hand grips the edge of the table like she might fall off. The trainers start to say something, maybe about swelling or scans or timeline but you shoot them a look and they step back, giving you the space.

You sit beside her on the edge of the table, your thigh against hers. Her knee is already wrapped, elevated. Her sock’s still half-pulled off, her shoe lying on the floor like evidence of the war she just lost.

When you don’t say anything, she finally whispers, “It tore. They didn’t say it yet but I know. I felt it go.”

And just like that, her voice breaks completely.

You can see it happening to her, the panic rising fast, brutal, like a wave swallowing her whole. Her breathing turns shallow. She grabs the edge of the table again, her other hand trembling. “I—I can’t breathe, dude. I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”

“Ju,” you say softly, cupping her face, forcing her to look at you. “Hey. I got you, okay? Just look at me.”

Her eyes find yours and lock. Wide and glassy and raw.

“Breathe with me,” you whisper. “Just like this. In. Out.”

You do it with her. Hold her gaze. Anchor her.

And slowly, god, painfully slow — she starts to follow. Her shoulders shake. She curls toward you like her whole body is folding it but she’s breathing.

You wrap your arms around her, both of them, tight. You pull her head to your shoulder and she doesn’t resist. She just crashes into you.

You hold her while she falls apart.

She cries like she hasn’t cried in years. Quiet but uncontrollable. Her fingers clench in the fabric of your hoodie like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go and all you can do is rock her gently, your own eyes stinging, your chest aching in the same spot it did that night in Utah when everything cracked inside you.

You whisper everything you she had said to you back then.

“It’s not your fault.”

“You didn’t let anyone down.”

“You’re not broken.”

“We’re gonna get through this.”

You don’t say she’ll be back soon. You don’t lie. Because she’d see through it. Juju’s never been the type to need lies. She just needs you.

So you stay.

Long after the trainers leave, long after the hallway quiets, you stay.

And when her breathing finally steadies, when her hands finally unclench, you feel her exhale into your neck and whisper something so small you almost miss it: “I don’t want to do this without you.”

Your chest caves in but not from pain. From how deeply you understand.

You tighten your arms around her. “You’re not going to.”

You stay there on that table with her until the lights flicker low and the noise dies outside the room. When she finally lifts her head, eyes still red but calm now, you see it.

The same thing she saw in you two months ago.

Not the player, not the tough girl with a highlight reel. Just you.

And now it’s your turn to see her.

Not the starter, not the anchor, not the legend-in-the-making.

Just Juju.

And somehow, even in this, especially in this, you’ve never loved her more.

It starts slow.

Not in the dramatic kind of way that feels like fate crashing down on you but in the quiet, steady way that feels like healing.

It’s weeks of alarms going off early and you making Juju smoothies she’ll fake-complain about. It’s her leg in that massive brace and your hand always there to steady her when she moves, even when she says she doesn’t need help.

You take her to PT every morning, even on the days when she wakes up grumpy and doesn’t want to talk. Especially on those days.

And she never says it, not out loud, but you can feel it in the way her hand lingers longer on yours now. In the way her eyes stay soft when you sit across from her during iced coffee runs after rehab. In the way she lets herself lean into you when her painkillers make her sleepy.

You don’t leave her side, not once.

You stayed when the team flew home, you stayed through her surgery, you stayed during the nights when she couldn’t sleep because the dull ache in her knee turned sharp with every shift in her sheets.

“You’ll come back stronger,” you whispered to her once, forehead pressed to her temple, while she blinked away frustrated tears after her first full bend. “Next season, you’ll make all of them regret ever thinking you’d stay down.”

She didn’t answer you right away. Just grabbed your hand and held it like a lifeline.

And now, it’s mid-June.

The sun in L.A. is hot but soft. Late afternoon light spills gold across Juju’s backyard. You’re both sitting in the shade, under the striped umbrella she made her brother wrestle out of storage.

Her brace is off now, replaced by the black wrap she hates but tolerates. She’s sitting back in the chair with her leg stretched out across yours, iced tea sweating in the cupholder beside her.

You’re leaned sideways, head resting on her shoulder, fingers tracing lazy lines across the scar on her knee like it’s part of her story now. Like you’re learning it by touch.

Because you are. The last few months haven’t been easy, but you made a home in the in-between.

You stopped being USC’s firecracker shooting guard. She stopped being the anchor. Somewhere along the way, it became just you. And her. And this.

The light shifts again, and she nudges you gently. You look up.

Juju’s eyes are already on you. Her lips curve into the kind of smile that feels like it’s just for you now.

“Hey,” she says quietly like anything louder might break the moment.

“Hey,” you echo, equally soft.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of summer — wind brushing through lemon trees, a neighbor’s distant music playing through cracked windows, the slow creak of wood beneath your feet.

Then:

“I used to hate you,” she says suddenly, almost laughing but not really.

You smirk. “I know.”

“I really did. You were cocky as hell, thought you knew everything, shot like you had something to prove every single second.”

You tilt your chin toward her. “Didn’t I?”

She pauses. Her voice drops just enough to feel like something new. “You didn’t have to.”

The silence this time stretches longer. There’s something behind her eyes, something you’ve seen growing there for months but never dared to name.

Until now.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” you say. Your voice doesn’t even shake. “I’m here next season. And after that, wherever you are.”

Her breath catches, just a little.

And then she nods. Almost like she’s been waiting for you to say it. Almost like she believed it already, but needed to hear it out loud to let it settle.

You shift, sitting up a little straighter. Her leg stays draped over yours, but your hands find hers again.

She looks at you like you hung the moon. Like she’s seeing you for the first time all over again and when she leans in, slow and careful and heart-forward, you meet her there.

The kiss is gentle. Not rushed, not burning. It’s the kind of kiss that says: I see you. I know you. I’m not going anywhere.

You stay there like that, lips pressed against hers, until the warmth on your skin fades from sun to something deeper. Something more permanent.

When you pull back, her forehead rests against yours, and she lets out a shaky laugh. “Took us long enough.”

You smile. “We were so dumb.”

“Speak for yourself,” she mutters but she’s grinning now, full and easy.

And you don’t say it out loud, but this? This means more than a trophy ever could.

Because you didn’t win the natty, but you found each other.

And after everything, after Utah, after the blood and the pressure and the fight to survive—you know now:

That’s the win that matters.

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