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empaws · 3 days ago

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STOP IT ☹️☹️☹️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 thank u i love you too

any cc fic plz

i got you babe

love and war.

caitlin clark x reader | 1.6k words you and caitlin both played for the hawkeyes in college, a time filled with a flurry with eye rolls, catty fights, and post-game fucking in the locker room. after a messy falling out of the (semi) romantic aspect of your relationship, you two found yourself at odds, constantly getting under the other’s skin for the latter half of your senior years. fast forward to post draft that spring, with caitlin being sent to the fever and you the lynx, you now find yourself having your first ever game against indiana- which also means seeing caitlin for the first time since the post-draft lingering stares and quick comments. notes: Yes i wrote this in one shot and it's completely unedited enjoy the writing honeymoon phase

it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s all going to be fine. this is basketball, for christ’s sake. the team is practicing just as the very first small wave of people start trickling in before the lynx face off against the fever for the first time this season. you can’t help the way the back of your neck gets tacky as you do a shooting drill with kayla and courtney, though the rigor of the workout has nothing to do with it. this is fucking stupid. courtney raises a brow as she catches kayla’s pass, but stops short of passing the ball to you. “are you, like, good? as in, gonna be good in an hour?” you blink a couple times, looking at your teammate, before shaking your head in bewilderment. “what- yes, i’m fine. you can pass the ball now,” you reply a little dryly.

it’s going to be fine.

and yet, you didn’t feel nearly this sweaty two weeks ago when you saw kate martin, also a former hawkeye, for the first time since the draft.

this is fucking stupid.

halftime. you’re half convinced everyone was required to do a line pre-game, because scores are high, but tensions are even higher yet. there’s been several close calls with players from both teams nearly being ejected from aggressive physical contact.

while cheryl reeve, your coach, rattles on instructions for the next quarter, the brightness of the overhead lights makes you zone out, the glare blocking out her face until you catch her saying your name, her voice stern and unwavering. “y/n. i want you glued to clark. she’s the problem child here,” cheryl looks you dead in the eye, completely serious, before looking back to the rest of the team. “defense, back her up. she’s not going to be able to block clark entirely by herself. we need to get rid of her.” everyone nods, with you following up a half-second after.

you swallow as cheryl makes a few last remarks, looking over to the crowd of red on the other end of the court. you can make out caitlin’s dark ponytail from the collection of heads, and know she’s probably being drilled on an opposing strategy. you’ve played enough basketball with the woman to know she’s a hard player to guard, and given your… dynamic, the problem’s only going to be worse. a whistle tweets before you can dwell on the situation any longer, and you find your legs forcing yourself up without thinking, your mind suddenly entirely locked in. she’s the problem child here. your expression becomes stony as the jumbotron starts back up, zooming in on players as women walk out onto the court and the crowd’s cheers start back up again.

that’s when the first interaction of the night happens- you’re bumped from behind, not terribly hard, but enough to make you stumble forward a half step. “watch it,” a familiar, smooth voice mutters, one that you know immediately without even looking, but you turn your head just enough to see caitlin walk past you, getting into position a few feet away from you.

how the hell did you manage to forget to switch sides? is this sixth grade basketball? your jaw clenches hard and you hope that your face isn’t so obviously burning as you stalk to the other side of the court, getting into position yourself and taking a couple deep breaths.

calm down. you know she’s going to try and get under your skin. she was probably told to. it’s fine. ignore it.

ignore it.

the first three minutes of the quarter are, surprisingly, fairly uninteresting. you do what your coach told you to, sticking right to caitlin the whole time, and by some grace of god, you even manage to block a pass to her. you manage to catch cheryl’s gaze during a foul is being called and she gives you an affirmative nod, both a praise and a reminder to keep up your efforts.

“still need the coach to remind you what to do, huh?”

you jolt, head whipping around to see caitlin a foot behind you. oh yeah, you’re guarding her. she’s got this half smug, half bored look on her face, the tiniest of smirks playing on her lips as she looks down at you. baby hairs stick to her slightly sweaty forehead, her cheeks just a little flushed from playing.

fuck, she’s still hot as hell.

“what the fuck are you talking about?” you bristle back, quiet enough to not cause a second scene while everyone is distracted by the foul and the refs are deciding whether it should count as a technical.

caitlin’s eyes narrow a little in the way that you know means she thinks you’re just a little stupid, which only irks you even more.

“well, reeve told you to guard me, yeah? it’s just funny,” she huffs out a dry laugh, looking down at the floor.

your face twists, your own eyes narrowing. “funny? what the hell makes that funny?”

“nothing, nothing. you just haven’t changed since iowa, that’s all. always needing coach to tell you what to do. god, i hated that,” she does her dry laugh-huff thing again, and you force yourself to take a deep breath, remembering what you told yourself before the game started.

“good to know you haven’t changed, either,” you mutter after a moment, your jaw setting.

“yeah? and what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you still play like shit when im guarding. i guess listening to the coach ends up working out in the end,” you quip. it’s a lame response, really, but you weren’t just going to let her get her piece out then saunter away. you turn your head back away from her as the refs make their decision, walking over to line up with your other teammates as you prep for indiana’s free throws.

she shakes her head, the barely-there smirk turning a little fuller as she follows suit, watching dewanna bonner take her shot.

everyone falls back into standard position afterward, with alliyah boston carrying the ball up the court before throwing it in your (cailtin’s) direction at the last second. you dart, sticking your leg out to jump off from as your arm outstretches, index finger grazing the bottom of the ball before your face makes contact with the floor a half second later.

caitlin’s longer arm manages to scoop up the ball for you, and she takes advantage of your fall to dribble past you and make a three with no one else to stop her. you just lay on the floor for a second before jessica shepard tugs you up by your arm, offering you a concerned look before you shake your head and give her a look that signals that you’re good. but the basket is already made, and you watch caitlin turn, her gaze meeting yours immediately as she gives you a cheeky grin and lets her tongue slip out to wet her bottom lip. are you kidding?

that cheeky fucker, taking full advantage of her unguarded position. not that you would’ve necessarily done anything differently if you were her, but it still stings. she jogs up near you, her hand just barely grazing your bicep as she sidles past. “don’t look so upset, babe. you knew this was gonna happen,” she muses under her breath. “don’t be nasty to me now.” you can hear the smirk in her voice.

you turn, glare fixed on your face, half towards the refs for not calling what should’ve been a foul towards caitlin, half towards caitlin herself for not knowing when to quit. “back the fuck up, clark,” you hiss, pushing at her shoulder, causing her to stumble a half step back.

a tweet.

your lips part and eyes widen as you look up, seeing the jumbotron suddenly focused entirely on you- on your foul, all from a meager shove. you can see your coach’s arms whip up at the ceiling accusingly behind caitlin as she starts arguing with the refs. you’re nearly blind with rage, your gaze refocusing on the woman in front of you. “you bitch-”

you start lunging for her, only to have hands on you holding you back within a matter of moments, the commotion of your teammates yelling mixed with the fever’s own rising tones setting your nerves ablaze. seeing caitlin standing there, a hand coming up to brush her wispy hairs back into her ponytail as she stares at you, amused, is just the cherry on top.

you spit out a few choice words, enough to escalate the situation to the point where you’re essentially being dragged off the court in the opposite direction. you’re hot and sweaty, fired up and unwilling to back down as you struggle against your teammates. as a last ditch effort, you strain, trying to turn back to see caitlin, catching a glimpse of her familiar red jersey before making eye contact with her.

she’s surrounded by teammates and commentators that badger her with questions and cameras, but her eyes are still fixed on you, her lips curled into a smirk. then, in what feels like slow motion, her hand comes up in a loose fist with her thumb and pinky finger sticking out, shaking it briefly in a ‘call me’ motion before turning around and facing her crowd.

fuck her.

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