letsnowtalk

[letsnowtalk]

she’s soooo prettyyyyy

[letsnowtalk]

can you do a sarah strong fic😣😣🥹🥹

More Than Teammates

Sarah strong x fem!reader

A/N : didnt know what to write with her but i tried😭😭. I tried ☹️ had to run it back with SC😜

SEND NE REQUESTTSSSS. WITH ACTUAL PLOT GIVE ME SOMETHINGGGG

You’d always been “just best friends.”

That was the script everyone read from.

From the first day you arrived at UConn as a highly touted recruit, people saw you and Sarah Strong and thought: future teammates, future stars, future duo. But never more than that. Never that.

Not that you were hiding. Not exactly. The team knew. Close friends knew. But you weren’t loud about it — no PDA in public, no Instagram soft launches. Just knowing glances in the locker room. Lingering touches at practice. Whispered “I love you’s” in the shadows of Gampel Pavilion when no one else was around.

But Sarah? Sarah made it hard to stay lowkey.

She had that kind of presence — tall, graceful, unapologetically hers. She stood out. And whenever her eyes found yours, they softened in a way that reporters were starting to notice.

“She looks at her like she hung the moon,” one tweet read after the Elite Eight.

The media had their theories.

But tonight? Tonight would burn the question marks away.

~~~~~~~

Finals.

UConn vs. South Carolina

National Championship Game

The energy inside Rocket Mortgage FieldHouse was suffocating. Every inch of the arena was packed with fans in navy and white or garnet and black. The noise bounced off the walls, thunderous, relentless.

You stood near center court, bouncing lightly on your toes, staring across at South Carolina’s starting five. Titans. Just like you.

Sarah brushed her fingers against yours. Just a flick. Just for a second. You didn’t even turn to look at her. Didn’t need to.

You already knew.

This was your night. Your game. Your legacy.

The jump ball went up. And everything faded but the game.

~~~~~

Sweet 16

You’d dropped 24 points with five steals.

Sarah had a double-double: 19 points, 11 rebounds.

Elite Eight

You hit the game-tying three. Sarah hit the game-winner.

When she ran back on defense, she winked at you.

Final Four

A war of attrition.

Sarah played all forty minutes.

You played thirty-eight with a sprained ankle and still put up 18.

In the locker room, while cameras weren’t watching, Sarah sat beside you, pulled off your sock, and iced your foot herself.

“You good?” she whispered.

“For you?” you whispered back. “Always.”

~~~~~~~

Back to the Championship Game

Second half.

Four minutes left.

South Carolina was tough. Big bodies. Fast breaks. Interior dominance. But you and Sarah were in sync — like always. Every cut, every read, every rotation… you didn’t even need words.

With under a minute left, the ball found you at the top of the key. Sarah set the screen — solid, wide, perfect. You drove. The defender stayed with you, so you kicked it back to Sarah at the wing.

Catch.

Release.

Three.

Swish.

The arena exploded.

~~~~~~

Final Score.

Uconn - 92 South Carolina - 67

It was a blur.

Buzzer.

Confetti.

The rush of bodies.

Screams and sobs and cameras and sweat.

You didn’t even remember dropping your water bottle.

All you remembered was Sarah — running toward you.

She didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t care who was watching.

Her arms wrapped around your waist, and before you could blink — you were off the ground, lifted high, spun in the air like you weighed nothing. You laughed. You gasped.

And then she kissed you.

Right there.

Center court.

Mouth to mouth, full of emotion, desperate and warm and real.

She held you like she’d been waiting years to do it in front of everyone.

Gasps rippled through the arena. Then —

Cheers.

Shouts.

Camera shutters firing like fireworks.

Somewhere in the noise, you heard a scream:

“Y’ALL!!! FINALLY!!!”

You glanced over Sarah’s shoulder to see Azzi sprinting toward you in a denim jacket and Jordans, Paige hot on her heels.

Paige tackled Sarah in a hug, nearly knocking her over.

Azzi grabbed you, eyes wide.

“Was that real? You just — you kissed! In front of God and everybody!”

You laughed. “About time, huh?”

Azzi squealed. “I’ve known since sophomore year!”

Sarah grinned. “You only figured it out then?”

Paige, ever the cool one, clapped you both on the back and said, “Took y’all long enough. People had Reddit threads.”

You flushed. But Sarah just tucked you under her arm.

She’d never looked so proud.

~~~~~~~~~

The Trophy Presentation

The arena dimmed as the announcer stepped to the podium. The crowd slowly settled, though there were still phones recording everywhere.

“Tonight, we honor excellence,” the announcer said. “With two of the most prestigious awards in college basketball.”

She smiled.

“The Wade Trophy, awarded to the best women’s college basketball player in the nation — goes to… Sarah Strong, University of Connecticut.”

The cheers were deafening.

Sarah squeezed your hand and walked up, tall and composed, tears in her eyes. She raised the trophy, kissed it — then turned and pointed straight at you.

Flashbulbs. Screams.

“And the Most Outstanding Player of the NCAA tournament,” the announcer continued, “goes to… Y/N, University of Connecticut.”

Your knees went weak. The team shoved you forward.

You walked the same path Sarah did — and when you reached the stage, she was there, waiting, grinning.

She held your face with both hands and kissed your forehead, whispering, “You earned this, baby.”

~~~~~~

The big screen above center court flickered to life. Music pulsed beneath highlights.

Sweet 16.

You diving for a loose ball. Sarah helping you up.

An and-one bucket with Sarah yelling “LET’S GO!”

Elite Eight.

Sarah blocking a shot into the third row.

You hitting back-to-back threes.

You two chest-bumping at halfcourt.

Final Four.

Slow-mo of your grin after a steal.

Sarah’s face, intense, loving, always looking at you.

Championship Game.

The kiss.

The spin.

The confetti falling on both of you like golden rain.

Then the final clip. One no one had seen.

A grainy tunnel video — maybe from a practice earlier in the season.

Sarah, sitting on the floor with you between her legs, arms around your waist, whispering something in your ear.

Then your voice, caught on mic:

“I don’t need a trophy. You’re my favorite win.”

~~~~~

Postgame Press Conference

The media room buzzed.

Your awards sat on the table — gleaming in front of you.

A reporter raised a hand.

“To both of you — the kiss. Is this a coming out moment?”

Sarah didn’t flinch.

You just nodded and smiled.

“Yeah,” Sarah said. “That’s my girl. She’s been my best friend since day one. And… she’s my everything.”

You looked at her — and this time, you didn’t look away.

~~~~~

Later That Night

The team was partying somewhere — but you and Sarah snuck away. Out to the empty court. Just you two.

The nets had been cut. The lights were dim. But the energy still lingered.

You sat on the floor, Sarah behind you again. Arms around your waist, face pressed to your shoulder.

“So…” you said. “We really did it.”

Sarah hummed. “Yeah, we did.”

“I kinda like being your hard launch,” you teased.

She chuckled. “You’re not a launch, baby. You’re my forever.”

You turned and kissed her softly, sweetly, this time with no cameras. No crowd.

Just love. Real. Unapologetic. Home.

~~~~~

Social Media, 12 Hours Later

@UConnWBB

Champions. Legends. Soulmates. 🏆❤️

[Photo: Sarah holding the Wade Trophy with one arm, holding you with the other. Confetti still in her hair. You kissing her cheek.]

@espnW

That kiss. That trophy. That love.

[Video: The moment Sarah picked you up and kissed you. Paige and Azzi cheering in the background.]

@SarahStrong_

“Best day of my life. Not because of the win. But because I finally got to love her out loud.”

[Photo dump: You two kissing, holding trophies, snuggled on the team bus asleep together.]

@Y/N

“I don’t need a trophy. You’re my favorite win.”

[letsnowtalk]

CMON KC

FIRST OFFICIAL WNBA POINTS 🙂‍↕️

[letsnowtalk]

𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which there are some changes

part one - part two - part three - part four

The apartment is still dark when you wake.

Heavy curtains pulled across the windows, early morning light diffused to a warm gray. The air’s still cool from the night before, and the hum of the AC blends with the occasional rumble of traffic down below. You roll over slowly, your body aching in places you didn’t know could be sore from watching a game.

Paige is still asleep beside you, curled on her side, back to your chest. Her hair’s messy and soft, falling over her cheek and the pillow like tangled silk. One of her arms is tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely over your wrist where it wraps around her waist.

You don’t move.

Not because you’re tired — though you are — but because for the first time in what feels like weeks, the two of you are still. Unbothered. Alone. No press conferences, no game tape, no Chris standing in front of a whiteboard like he’s summoning spirits. Just her. Just you. Just this moment suspended in soft quiet.

She stirs eventually, body shifting just enough to press further into your chest. You feel the sigh before you hear it.

“Are you awake?” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” you say softly, voice rasped from sleep. “You?”

She hums. “Barely.”

You bury your nose against the back of her neck and breathe in — lavender, fabric softener, the familiar salt of her skin. It grounds you. Steadies you. She’s here. You’re here.

You stay like that for a while.

By the time you both drift out of bed, the clock is creeping toward eleven. You make coffee while she sits on the counter in an oversized UConn t-shirt, legs swinging idly. She doesn’t say much, and you don’t push her. Last night is still sitting on both your shoulders. Press room lights. The sound of your own voice cracking across a dozen microphones. The silence that followed.

When you hand her the mug, she takes it with both hands like it’s something precious. Her fingers wrap around yours for a second longer than they need to.

“Do you regret it?” she asks.

You glance at her, mid-sip.

“Saying what I said?”

She nods.

You set your cup down.

“No,” you answer. “Not for a second.”

Paige studies you. Eyes still a little puffy from sleep, but clear in a way that always unnerves you. Like she’s seeing every inch of you.

“I don’t either,” she says.

She hops off the counter and walks over, coffee in one hand, the other finding your waist without thinking. She leans into you, her forehead pressing to your collarbone.

“I just…” she trails off, searching. You wait. “I just hate that it has to be this hard,” she finishes.

You nod. You do too.

“But I don’t hate us,” she adds, quietly.

You pull her closer. “Me neither.”

The hours pass slowly. You sit on the couch with her legs across your lap, watching game footage she insists she doesn’t want to watch but won’t stop watching anyway. You talk about rotations, coverages, what she saw on that last switch. You don’t talk about Chris. You don’t need to — not right now.

At one point, she turns to you and says, “You know, I don’t think I would’ve survived this season if you weren’t here.”

You meet her eyes. “You would’ve. But I’m glad I was.”

She smiles — a small, worn thing — and leans in to kiss you, slow and soft, like she’s reminding herself you’re real.

And when she pulls away, she whispers, “I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

You don’t answer. You just kiss her again.

Because there’s nothing left to prove. Because the only thing that matters right now — in this moment, in this apartment, in this messy, beautiful in-between — is that you’re still standing. Together.

Later in the day, you arrive at the facility first.

That’s not new. You’re always early — clipboard in hand, shoulders squared, hair pulled back tighter than it needs to be. But today feels different, like the walls themselves are waiting to see what happens next.

The locker room lights are already on when you walk through the tunnel. You half expect Chris to be there, whiteboard in hand, going on about “vertical flow states” or some metaphor that makes no sense to anyone but him.

But the seat where he usually stands is empty. Just silence. Cool air. A printed schedule taped to the wall.

You walk into the coach’s office and find the assistant GMs standing there with two WNBA compliance reps. Paige’s name is on a player wellness report sheet. There’s a manila folder on the desk with “CONFIDENTIAL – INVESTIGATION” stamped across the front.

You don’t even have to ask. They tell you.

Chris Koclanes has been suspended indefinitely, pending an internal investigation involving coaching conduct and conflict of interest with Curt Miller, who’s now also under WNBA review.

You’re being promoted to interim head coach — effective immediately.

You stand still for a beat. Not shocked. Not excited. Just… steady.

You thank them quietly. Take the clipboard. Nod once. And walk out.

The team arrives not long after.

Paige’s eyes catch yours first. You shake your head gently — not in warning, but confirmation.

DiJonai walks in with Arike. NaLyssa and Myisha trail behind, laughing quietly until they see the coaching staff cluster. The moment they step onto the court and see you standing at the front — alone — every conversation dies.

Paige walks over, subtle, measured. She leans close.

“You good?”

You nod once. “He’s gone. League took it seriously.”

Her eyes don’t widen. They just soften. Her shoulders drop. She looks around the gym like she’s seeing it new again. The others gather around when they hear.

Nai doesn’t even blink. “What about Curt?”

You meet her gaze. “Also under review.”

A hush moves through the team.

You continue, calm and direct. “I’ve been asked to lead practice today. They’ve made it official.”

Arike exhales hard. “Took long enough.”

And without needing to say anything else, the team slowly moves into warmups. No questions. No tension. Just movement. Trust.

Practice is efficient.

Paige is the first in every drill. Arike is vocal, energized. NaLyssa boxes out like she’s got something to prove. The entire session hums with a different kind of discipline — not fear-based, not rigid, just aligned.

You keep it tight. You run defensive sets first, making adjustments to the switching scheme that the players have been quietly talking about for weeks. You stop drills when they need to be stopped. You let them run when they don’t.

When you diagram out a new end-of-game possession on the board — a wrinkle off a double drag — Paige looks over your shoulder, reads it once, and says, “Yup. That works.”

Nai claps. “Let’s get that in tonight.”

There’s no blow-ups. No eye-rolls. No disconnected speeches about vibrations or geometry. Just basketball.

The kind they want to play.

By the end of the session, you’re walking across the gym toward the locker room when you hear someone call out your name.

You turn.

It’s Arike. She tosses you a water bottle.

“Head coach looks good on you.”

You catch it with one hand. Smirk. “It’s temporary.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You push open the door and hear laughter behind you — not forced, not performative, just real. And for the first time in a long time… you exhale.

In the coaches’ room, the advance scout folders for Golden State Valkyries are stacked neatly. You flip them open. Start reading through their offensive tendencies. Their rotations. Their heavy post usage.

Tomorrow’s another game. But tonight? Tonight you sleep knowing that the team is no longer fractured. And the person at the front of the room? Is someone they chose.

The locker room is quiet.

No music. No yelling. Just sneakers squeaking lightly on tile, tape ripping from pre-wrap rolls, low murmurs between teammates. You stand near the center of the room, not at the whiteboard. You don’t need it. You’ve got something better — them.

You scan the room.

Paige is lacing up, head low but eyes on you. JJ is seated backwards on a chair, nodding quietly to herself. Nai’s got her headphones half-on, arms folded, but she’s tuned in. Arike’s biting her nail — a bad habit, sure, but she only does it when she’s focused.

You take a breath. Not a performative one. Just real. And then you speak.

“I’m not gonna give you some speech about proving something tonight,” you say. “I’m not gonna talk about redemption arcs or silencing critics or what the league thinks of us. That’s not what tonight is.”

You pause. Step closer into the circle.

“Tonight is about remembering who the hell you are.”

A few eyes lift. A few backs straighten.

“Because this team — this group right here — you’ve been building something in spite of everything. In spite of confusion. In spite of silence. In spite of not being listened to. You’ve built a system of trust and intelligence and care, even when the person in charge didn’t believe in any of that.”

You nod toward the door — not at anyone in particular, but at the shadow that’s no longer there.

“Well now that person’s gone. And it’s just us.”

You move closer again. Now they’re all watching.

“Paige,” you say, locking eyes with her. “You’re the brain of this team. You see everything before it happens. I trust your eyes more than any camera feed. So if you see something — say it. Adjust it. Own it.”

She nods, calm and certain.

“Nai. You’re our edge. Our protector. You anchor the defense not just with effort, but with pride. I want that vocal. Loud. You’ve got the green light to hold everyone accountable, including me.”

Nai’s already smirking. “Copy that.”

“Arike.” You tilt your head. “You know what I’m gonna say.”

She chuckles. “Let the game come to me.”

“Exactly. We don’t need 30. We need presence. We need pressure. Play your pace.”

She gives you a small nod. Eyes glinting.

“JJ, ZaZa, Kaila, Myisha — all of you? You’ve been the heart of this locker room since day one. You grind. You show up. You say the hard things when it’s time. I’m asking you to keep doing that. Not for me. For each other.”

You turn, facing the whole room now.

“I’m not going to yell at you tonight. I’m not gonna bark from the sideline like someone trying to prove they’re in charge. I don’t need to prove anything. Because you’re already enough. And when we play connected — when we play together— there’s not a team in this league that wants to see us in the fourth quarter.”

The silence is alive now. It’s not tension. It’s fire.

You breathe in once more.

“One more thing.”

You point to the logo on the center of the locker room floor.

“You don’t play for that name. Not tonight. Tonight, you play for the person sitting next to you. For the woman who ran suicides beside you in training camp. For the one who guarded your ass in practice. For the one who said ‘I got you’ and meant it.”

You let that land.

“Golden State is flashy. They’re loud. They’ve got shooters. They’ve got length. But they don’t have this.”

You press a hand to your chest.

“They don’t have each other the way you do.”

You step back. Voice low now.

“So you go out there tonight, and you remind them. You remind every single person watching what happens when this team is allowed to be itself. You play free. You play smart. You play like you already know the outcome.”

You glance at Paige.

She meets your eyes. Nods once.

“Now let’s go take our fucking game back.”

The gym smells like fresh wax and adrenaline.

The lights are still low overhead, just the warm gold of the early setup bouncing off polished hardwood. No crowd yet. No cameras rolling. Just the sound of shoes brushing the court, the echo of dribbles, the rhythmic thud of leather meeting wood.

Paige is already in a groove — gliding through midrange pull-ups, brushing past you like gravity doesn’t quite apply to her. You’re feeding her passes off a tight angle, barely a breath between catches. She doesn’t miss. Not once.

You don’t speak much during warmups. You never have. Everything between you happens in glances, in timing, in the tilt of her head and the way her wrist flicks just before a cut.

The arena is calm but humming. Like a storm is waiting behind the bleachers.

And that’s when you hear it.

That voice. Half-gravel, half-smirk.

“Well, well. Look at this little operation.”

You freeze. Paige stops in her tracks. You both turn at the same time. And there he is.

Geno Auriemma.

Paige’s eyes go wide. “Coach.”

You beat her to him, crossing the distance and pulling him into a hug that he accepts with that quiet, solid kind of affection only Geno knows how to give. He claps your back twice before pulling back.

“I had to come see it for myself,” he says. “You — the clipboard. Her — still doing everything except missing.”

Paige grins and hugs him too. She’s still sweaty from her warmup but he doesn’t care. He wraps her in both arms and squeezes her tight.

“You look good, kid.”

“Feel good,” she says. “Better than good.”

He turns back to you.

“I saw the press conference,” he says.

You stiffen.

He smiles. “About damn time someone said it.”

You breathe out a little laugh.

“I didn’t think it’d go that far.”

“Please,” he says. “You’ve always gone that far. I used to have to talk you out of going further.”

Paige laughs, grabbing a ball and spinning it in her hands.

“You always knew how to pick us,” she says.

Geno looks between the two of you. There’s something almost emotional in his eyes — not quite tears, but pride pressing against the edges.

“You two were always more than players,” he says. “And now… look at you. Running a damn team.”

You glance at Paige. She’s beaming.

Before you can say anything else, there’s the sound of sneakers behind you — quick, soft, a little uncertain.

You turn.

It’s Kaitlyn Chen.

She’s in her Valkyries warmup, hair in a tight braid, cheeks a little flushed like she just came off court. She’s walking with a kind of tentative excitement — like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to interrupt. Her eyes catch yours, and then Paige’s, and then Geno’s — and she slows to a stop, smiling.

“Hi.”

It’s soft. Hopeful.

“Kaitlyn!” Paige says, stepping forward and wrapping her into a hug before Chen can even blink.

You’re right behind her.

“Oh my god,” you say, grinning as you pull her in. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” she says. “They signed me again.”

You pull back, hands still on her arms. “You deserve it. You’ve always deserved it.”

She looks overwhelmed but happy. “I didn’t think I’d get another shot so soon.”

Geno steps in now, beaming like a dad at graduation.

“You think talent stays hidden forever?” he asks. “Please. You were born for this.”

Chen flushes a little.

Paige drapes an arm over her shoulder. “You’re gonna kill it. Just don’t kill us.”

They all laugh.

The moment stretches long and warm — the four of you standing near center court like time folded back in on itself. UConn stripes under new lights. Old roots, new soil. A reunion in the truest sense.

You reach up and brush Chen’s shoulder lightly.

“Second chances aren’t about making up for lost time,” you say. “They’re about rewriting the next chapter. You belong here.”

Chen nods, eyes shining just a little.

“I’m ready.”

Geno glances between all three of you. “You better be. I’ve got dinner riding on this.”

Paige raises a brow. “What kind of dinner?”

“The kind where I order appetizers and wine and pretend I don’t know how expensive the bill’s gonna be.”

You all laugh again.

And for a moment — just one — it feels like nothing’s changed. And everything has. And somehow, that’s exactly how it should be.

“Welcome to Dallas, folks — and welcome to what might just be the start of a whole new era for the Wings.”

The game clock is still ticking through warmups, the last minute before tip-off winding down. Paige is jogging back to the huddle with Arike and Nai, energy already high.

You stand on the sideline near mid-court, eyes scanning the Valkyries’ starters, already adjusting your mental playbook.

The broadcast cuts in again.

“And of course, all eyes tonight are not just on the floor, but on the sideline — where Y/N L/N, former assistant and longtime player development specialist, is making history tonight as the youngest interim head coach in WNBA history.”

The other commentator chimes in, voice sharp with excitement. “Let’s not forget — this appointment didn’t come quietly. After weeks of visible tension with now-suspended head coach Chris Koclanes, and a bombshell postgame press conference in Vegas, L/N is stepping into this role with the backing of the entire locker room. Including franchise centerpiece Paige Bueckers.”

The camera cuts to you for a moment as you motion for My and ZaZa to drop back into your modified matchup zone on the opening possession.

No clipboard. Just your voice, and they respond instantly.

Tip-off goes to Dallas.

ZaZa grabs the ball on a lucky deflection and kicks it wide to Paige. You’re already yelling, “Flat 3! Flat 3! Let it flow!”

Paige flashes the call, dribbles once to her left, and suddenly Arike’s slicing across the top of the arc, curling off Nalyssa’s screen and catching in perfect stride for a pull-up elbow jumper.

Splash. 2–0.

You nod once. Set jaw. Step back.

The Valkyries try to push in transition but Nai picks off the pass, flips it behind her to Myisha. Fast break. One dribble. Bounce to Lyss. Right-handed layup, clean off the glass. “And that’s the thing with this new look Wings squad — they’re playing fast, but they’re disciplined. Look at how L/N is pulling the strings already. Every possession, she’s calling adjustments. There’s structure, but it’s not robotic.”

Golden State’s next possession ends in a rushed floater from Veronica Burton — who looks sharp, but Lyss swats it off the glass. Paige’s voice echoes as she crashes for the board, “Run! Run!”

You point mid-transition, already calling, “Elbow flash — flip it!”

Arike flashes to the high post. Paige fakes the pass, spins baseline, and somehow squeezes between two Valkyries for the left-handed finish.

Timeout, Golden State. 

6–0, Dallas.

The arena crowd’s on their feet. The bench is buzzing. Your players jog back to you — confident, in rhythm, like they can breathe again.

“I’ve been covering the W for years,” one of them says, “and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a team this energized after losing their head coach. Whatever’s happening behind the scenes — it’s working.”

“It’s trust,” the other commentator says. “And it’s not just Paige — look at Arike, look at Kaila, look at the way the bench is locked in. They’re playing like they’re finally being heard.”

Back on court, the next few minutes unfold like something out of a training video.

NaLyssa anchors the paint, swatting a second shot. Kaila jumps a passing lane for a steal. Paige hits a no-dribble step-back three with the shot clock winding down, and you just nod from the sideline.

You don’t over coach. You guide. You direct. And they move like water around you.

Golden State claws back a bit near the five-minute mark — Thornton hits a pretty scoop layup, and Myisha gets beat on a backdoor cut — but even then, you’re composed.

You clap once, motion to Myisha. “Get under, not over. Eyes on the second pass!”

She nods, resetting her feet on the next set.

On offense, you call for a different play — Paige runs the double screen, curls left, and instead of finishing herself, finds a slashing Kaila for the soft reverse.

It’s basketball poetry.

24 -14 Dallas, end of the first quarter.

The camera pans to you.

Standing steady, arms folded, voice low as you talk to Kaila and NaLyssa about timing on help-side rotations.

“That’s Y/N L/N on your screen — not even twenty-four, never played in the league, but every player on that team is looking to her like she’s been doing this for a decade.”

“She’s not screaming. She’s not performing. She’s just coaching. And right now? She’s winning.”

“And the man who helped her be the coach she is today is right there in the front row. Geno Auriemma.”

“What a legend.”

Golden State opens the second with a tighter zone look, and for a moment, the pace slows.

You watch Paige scan the defense from the wing, her hand out, bouncing low on the balls of her feet. You don’t have to say anything — you see the flicker in her eyes when she recognizes the drop coverage rotating late.

“Corner flare!” she calls.

Before the words finish echoing, Arike darts to the short corner, Nai seals high, and Paige whips a behind-the-back pass around her defender — laser-precise — right into Arike’s pocket.

Swish.

“Bueckers is playing with surgical precision tonight. That pass wasn’t just instinct — that was preparation. That’s tape study. That’s trust in the system.”

“And let’s give some credit to Y/N L/N here. These sets they’re running? These are player-empowering schemes. She’s giving her guards freedom and ownership.”

Back on defense, Paige presses up against Burton, and you can see the little smile on her face. Not cocky — just confident. A quiet “I studied your footwork” grin.

Burton tries to cross left — Paige strips her clean.

Fast break. Paige pushes the ball hard up the left sideline, eyes up, pacing the floor. Maddy sprints middle. Arike trails wide right.

Golden State commits to Arike — mistake.

Paige fakes the pass, stops on a dime, hesi-hops, and floats a teardrop over the collapsing big.

It’s textbook. It’s classic. It’s so her.

You don’t celebrate. You don’t need to.

You just lift two fingers, signal the transition press package, and Paige nods. Instant buy-in.

Golden State breaks it once — barely — and then Paige reads the skip pass, tips it out of bounds. She claps her hands, high-fives Arike on the switch, resets.

Midway through the quarter, she gets subbed out for a quick breather. You walk over, kneel in front of her as she towels off.

You keep your voice low.

“You’re forcing rotation off second movement. They’re biting on the first cut too hard — sell the fake and hit the backside.”

She nods, breathing heavy.

“You see it too?”

“I see it,” she says. She suggests a play.

You nod.

“Let’s run it next trip.”

She’s back in two minutes later.

First play back. Myisha sets the ghost screen and leaks inside. Paige sells the shot, whips it around her back, bounce pass between two defenders.

Layup. Easy. The crowd roars.

You just smile to yourself and check the play sheet.

Last possession of the half. Score tied at 36.

You call it from the sideline. “ISO two. Drag.”

Paige walks it up. Clock winding down. She waves everyone off.

The crowd’s getting louder.

10 seconds.

She pulls the ball high. Crosses left. Crosses again. The big steps up and she freezes her with a hard right jab — then hits a step-back three from the top of the key like it was scripted in a movie.

Buzzer. Splash.

39 - 36.

The team mob her near half-court.

You stay back. Let her have that moment. But when she jogs past you on the way to the tunnel, she holds up three fingers, tucks them against her chest, and gives you that grin.

You shake your head.

“God, I love your game,” you say.

She doesn’t even slow down. “I know.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft echo. The room is already alive with low chatter — players pulling at jerseys, toweling off sweat, water bottles being passed hand to hand. Paige leans forward with her elbows on her knees, catching her breath. JJ is untying and retying her shoes like she always does when she’s locked in. Arike is leaning against the lockers, talking through a last possession with Nai and Lyss, palms up in explanation.

You walk to the center of the room. Not the whiteboard — not yet. You don’t need diagrams to say what needs to be said first.

“All right,” you start, calm but loud enough for every head to lift. “I’m not starting with adjustments.”

Everyone quiets. Paige sits up straighter. You take a slow look around the room. Every pair of eyes finds you. Waiting.

“I’m starting with this. You are doing a hell of a job. Every single one of you.”

There’s a pause. Not quite disbelief — more like everyone’s not used to hearing praise come without a ‘but’ attached.

You continue.

“I don’t care what anyone outside this locker room expected from you tonight. I don’t care what the betting line was or what the commentators predicted. You came in here and you playedconnected. You played intelligent. You played like a team that knows exactly who the hell they are.”

Paige nods slowly, wiping her forehead. You press forward.

“We talked before the game about playing for each other — about not letting anything outside this room define us. And what I’m seeing out there? That’s not just good basketball. That’s intentional basketball. That’s trust. That’s chemistry. That’s earned.”

You give it a second to sink in.

“Nalyssa, your rebounds has changed the flow of their offense completely. You’ve got complete control over them.”

Nalyssa’s eyes widen a little, like she wasn’t expecting to be mentioned by name. She nods once, chin lifting.

“Nai, you’re anchoring every switch like it’s second nature. Keep quarterbacking the backside. Everyone’s feeding off your voice.”

“Arike, you’re not forcing. You’re letting the game come to you. That last flare set? That was exactly the read we wanted.”

She nods. You can tell she’s proud. Not cocky — just seen.

“Kaila, you’re playing one hell of a game. I am so glad they resigned you just days after waiving you. You are proving why they made that mistake of letting you go in the first place.”

She blushes, the first time she’s heard praise like that this year.

“And Paige—” You pause, watching her meet your eyes. “You’re running this like you were born for it. Keep reading, keep adapting, and keep trusting that every set we built is built for you to thrive.”

Paige doesn’t smile, but the way she exhales tells you she needed to hear it.

You shift slightly now. Tone grounded, focused.

“That being said — they’re going to make adjustments.”

The team nods, collectively.

“They’re going to blitz the high screens now that Paige has found the rhythm. They might shift into a 1–3–1 zone if we keep killing them off the ghost screens. And on defense, I need backside help earlier — especially on baseline drives. If they collapse the weak side, you’ve got to communicate it loud and fast.”

You walk to the board, drawing quick rotations.

“Help comes early. Don’t get caught ball-watching. Leite’s quick — she’ll slice through if we freeze for half a second.”

You tap the chalk against the diagram.

“Offensively, we keep their bigs moving. We wear them down. Third quarter is when you break their legs. I want constant motion, even off ball. Don’t rest. Don’t relax.”

You step back, hands at your sides again.

“But understand this — we’re not in here adjusting because we’re chasing. We’re in here adjusting because we’re dictating. That’s what great teams do. That’s what you are. Right now. Today.”

The room is still. Focused. You meet their eyes again, slowly, one by one.

“This game isn’t about proving people wrong anymore. You’ve already done that. It’s about proving yourselves right.”

Silence.

And then Arike slaps her knee and says, “Let’s go.”

Nai’s already on her feet. Paige stands last, walking past you toward the door, gently bumping your shoulder with hers. You smile. Just a little. And follow them out.

The third quarter starts fast.

Golden State opens with a drag screen for Thornton, who threads a perfect bounce pass under Myisha’s outstretched arm. Easy layup.

You’re already yelling, clipboard tight under your arm. “Talk the switch! Don’t die on the drag!”

Paige jogs it up the floor, scanning. You raise two fingers and swipe — she nods.

Set play. High horns action. Arike cuts corner, Kaila flares weak side.

The Valkyries trap Paige hard — but she slips right through the double with a quick spin, then steps back and drills a fading two from the right elbow. It’s surgical.

“And just like that, Paige Bueckers calms it down. She’s the metronome for this team — she never speeds up, even when the defense does.”

“But watch how Coach L/N reacts — she’s already calling the next two sets ahead. That kind of rhythm between a coach and star guard doesn’t happen by accident. That’s years of work.”

You don’t even smile. Just pivot to your next call.

“Swing double! Make them work!”

And they do.

Golden State counters with a corner three from Hayes. Good shot. Clean look. It falls.

Dallas answers right back — Paige runs a modified floppy into a ghost screen with Luisa, who seals her defender just long enough for Paige to bury a stop-and-pop three.

She backpedals. You’re already clapping once, signaling Nai to prep early help on the next trip.

The energy on both benches is rising.

The Valkyries press higher now — doubling early, trying to rattle Dallas. It works once. Lyss fumbles a short-corner jumper, leading to a transition bucket the other way.

Dallas 50 – Golden State 42.

The crowd is buzzing. The air shifts. Timeout.

“You good?” you ask Paige quietly, handing her a towel.

“Yup,” she says. She’s not winded. She’s just pacing herself.

You kneel briefly in front of the players.

“They’re speeding the ball side. That means the backside’s soft. We attack it next time down.”

Kaila nods. “Slip early?”

You nod. “Before the second shift hits.”

Back from timeout. Paige takes the inbound.

She hesitates just enough to bait the trap again — and immediately skips it to Arike, who ball-fakes, drives baseline, and whips it across to Nai for a wide-open corner three.

Splash.

You call it the second she releases. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Coach L/N is coaching every frame right now. You see that? She called the make before the shot dropped.”

“She knows what’s coming — and more importantly, so do her players.”

Golden State doesn’t back down. They hit again. Billings hits a step-back two. Amihere finishes a put back on the break.

It’s a knife-fight now. Every play matters.

That’s when it happens.

Carla Leite drives hard into the lane. DiJonai steps up — chest out, feet planted — and Leite flails sideways. The whistle’s instant.

Offensive foul? No.

Blocking. On Nai.

She slaps her hands down once, tight. Eyes wide.

You can hear her shout — not at the ref, but to you. “Coach! I was set! I swear!”

And you believe her.

Without hesitation, you motion to the lead ref. Fingers twirling.

“Challenge that.”

The buzzer sounds.

Your players immediately gather around. Paige’s hand rests lightly on Nai’s back. Arike and Lyss crowd close. You keep your voice low but steady.

“If we win the challenge, we switch to 2–3 zone on their inbound. Trap the high corners. Force baseline.”

Paige nods. “Send me to the back corner?”

“Exactly.”

“And if we don’t win it?” Arike asks.

“We go back man, but no switches on weak side. Stay home and force the shot. Rebound hard.”

They all nod. Nai’s still tense. You place a hand on her shoulder.

“I trust your feet,” you say. “You were set? Let’s prove it.”

On the big screen, the arena plays the challenge angle.

Leite leans in hard. Nai’s chest is square. She’s outside the restricted area. No lean. No slide. The footage plays twice. The crowd’s reacting.

“Oooh… I don’t know about that call. Carrington looked solid there. And you have to love how quickly L/N called for the review.”

“That’s real-time trust. Most coaches hesitate — she didn’t even blink.”

The official walks to the center court.

“After review… the call is overturned. Offensive foul. Dallas retains possession. Gains another challenge and keeps their timeout.”

The arena explodes.

Your bench is on its feet. Nai claps her hands twice and exhales — a heavy, quiet relief. Paige grins and bumps her chest on the way back to the line.

You meet Nai’s eyes. “Next time, they won’t even try you.”

She grins. “Damn right they won’t.”

Last few minutes of the third are scrappy. The Valkyries press. Paige takes a hard bump on a drive and gets no call. You’re halfway onto the court yelling before she waves you off.

“I’m good,” she mouths. “I got this.”

And she does.

She ends the quarter with a filthy behind-the-back step-through floater in traffic, giving her 24 points on the night.

“Bueckers is running the show, but let’s give credit where it’s due — L/N has unlocked her game in ways we haven’t seen since UConn. This is the Bueckers we knew was in there.”

They’ve cut the lead down, but you’re still ahead. And the locker room knows exactly who’s in charge.

You don’t sit once.

The fourth quarter opens with a miscommunication on a switch. Thornton buries another three from the wing. The lead cuts to two.

The crowd groans. You don’t flinch.

Paige jogs up the court, sweat dripping from her chin, eyes locked on yours.

“Clear side?” she asks, reading the Valkyries’ spacing.

You nod once. “Yours. Eat.”

She waves everyone off and isolates on Burton. One crossover. Two hard pounds. The help slides late and Paige floats it soft off the glass with her left.

Back on defense, Lyss gets caught on a backdoor. Golden State scores.

They press full court. Paige is doubled.

You call it from the sideline. “Slice motion!”

She spins through the trap, whips it crosscourt to Nai. Nai drives, kicks to Arike. Short corner jumper. Good.

“Dallas refusing to break. Bueckers is bending everything around her. And you can tell — she’s playing with absolute clarity. That’s coaching. That’s trust.”

The next five minutes are war.

Golden State runs three straight successful backdoor cuts. You adjust your defense into a hybrid 1–2–2 zone. Paige organizes it on the fly, calling assignments with just her eyes and a tilt of her head.

You sub Kaila back in. You whisper in her ear. “No hedge. Just wall. Make them float it.”

She nods.

They test it. Leite drives — Kaila absorbs the hit, hands high. Miss.

Fast break. Paige grabs the board. One dribble. Two. She sees Arike leaking and throws a no-look bounce pass through two defenders that somehow finds her in stride.

Layup.

Golden State comes right back. Thornton drills another corner three. Valkyries take the lead for the first time all night.

The air in the arena stiffens. You feel it — every part of it. It’s like the crowd is holding a single collective breath.

You call timeout.

The huddle tightens around you. Sweat. Hands on knees. Heartbeats.

You kneel.

“We are not giving this away,” you say, low and sharp. “We’ve been the better team. They’re chasing. You keep playing smart, we finish this.”

You look at Paige.

“You ready?”

She nods once. “Let’s go win it.”

Four minutes left. Paige goes full lockdown on defense — face-guarding Burton, cutting off every drive. She fights over a screen and still contests the shot without fouling.

Miss.

Rebound to DiJonai. Kick to Paige.

You raise three fingers and shout, “Firework! Now!”

She recognizes it instantly.

Myisha sets a screen high. Paige uses it but doesn’t finish. Instead, she spins back, rejects the second screen, and hits a sidestep three over the scrambling defender.

Crowd erupts.

“That’s a superstar bucket. That’s a ‘give me the ball and get out the way’ bucket.”

“And credit L/N again — calling a play at exactly the right time. They knew that screen reject was going to be there.”

Two minutes left. Tied at 71.

Golden State hits a tough floater over Lyss. Dallas gets the ball. Paige walks it up. Calm. Ice.

You whisper from the sideline. “High iso, clear weak.”

She glances at you. Nods. You already know what she’s going to do. You trained her for this moment. She dances. She waits. Crossover. Jab. Pull-back. The defender jumps. Paige steps forward and drills a mid-range dagger.

Dallas up 76-71.

Golden State runs iso for Burton. She pulls up from deep — off. Rebound Dallas.

You don’t call timeout. Paige waves you off, just once. You let her go.

Shot clock’s two seconds off from the game clock. 18 seconds.

She walks it up.

Kaila clears. Arike clears. She’s at the top. Right wing. Burton’s on her again.

12 seconds.

She dribbles low. Calm. So, so calm.

7 seconds.

She fakes left, drives right. The big slides up — late.

She steps back and hits a rainbow three from beyond the arc.

Soft. Clean. Perfect. Whistle. And one.

79–71.

2.3 left.

Timeout Golden State.

The bench explodes. You don’t. You’re focused. Locked in. But there’s a ghost of a smirk that forms on your face. 

Paige hits the free-throw.

Valkyries run their final play. Burton catches on the wing. She fires.

It rims out.

Buzzer.

Wings win.

You don’t celebrate like you just won a championship. You walk to Paige as the rest of the team swarms the floor. She’s breathing hard. Smiling. Glowing. She bumps your fist.

You say, softly, “You did that.”

She grins wider. “We did.”

“That’s the moment. That’s your star player. That’s your interim head coach. This is a team.”

“Paige Bueckers scores twenty with four rebounds and four steals. Y/N L/N wins their first official game as interim head coach. And this team, this Dallas Wings team, may have just found their heartbeat.”

The postgame presser room is hot with flashes. Reporters already buzzing before you even sit down. The last shot’s been replayed a dozen times. Paige’s twenty points are headlining national coverage. And every tweet, clip, and camera has caught the subtle — or not-so-subtle — chemistry between you and her.

You walk in with Paige to your left and Nai to your right. Paige’s hair is pulled into a bun, sweat still glistening under the fluorescent lights. Nai sits with her legs bouncing, still keyed up from the finish.

You sit, smooth the front of your Dallas Wings quarter-zip, and nod to the moderator.

“Coach L/N, Paige, DiJonai — congratulations. We’ll take questions.”

Hands shoot up.

A reporter from ESPN gets the first one.

“Coach L/N, walk us through that last play. Was it drawn up for Paige, or did she take the reins?”

You lean into the mic.

“She took the reins. And I trusted her to do so. Paige sees the floor like no one else. We’ve been building that kind of trust since high school. So when she waved me off, I didn’t hesitate.” You glance at her. Paige’s mouth twitches, holding back a grin. “She knew what the moment needed. She’s built for that.”

Another hand. A WNBA.com writer.

“Paige — twenty points, a shot to seal the win and clearly playing with freedom. What’s different now with Coach L/N on the sideline?”

Paige doesn’t answer right away. She leans into the mic slowly, voice calm but sure.

“I’m trusted,” she says simply. “I know I can make mistakes, take risks. I know my reads won’t be second-guessed from the sideline. That kind of space, it’s everything.”

You feel that land. Hard. A few pens scratch harder. Everyone in the room hears the not-so-subtle dig at Chris. Another hand.

“Coach, this win puts the Wings at 2–10. There’s obviously been turmoil. Do you feel like tonight changes the trajectory of the season?”

You fold your hands. Speak clearly.

“Tonight was about showing what we’re capable of when there’s clarity, structure, and trust. Our record is what it is. But tonight wasn’t about erasing the past, it was about setting a standard for the future.” You pause. “We’re not chasing wins anymore. We’re building an identity.”

Another question — this time for Nai.

“DiJonai, that third-quarter challenge you asked for changed momentum. Can you talk about what it meant to have your coach trust you like that?”

Nai exhales slowly, nodding.

“I knew I was set. I knew it. I just looked over and didn’t even have to say anything. Coach didn’t blink. She believed me. That kind of support in a high-stakes game? That’s different. It means something.” She glances at you, adds softer, “I’ve played a long time. That level of trust? Rare.”

A younger reporter, maybe from a digital outlet, finally goes for it.

“Coach, there’s been a lot of attention on your dynamic with Paige — during games, in practice footage, and even in interviews. Some are calling it unusually close. How would you describe your relationship with her from a professional standpoint?”

You don’t flinch. You expected this. You meet the reporter’s eyes, then glance briefly at Paige — just a flicker — before answering.

“I’ve been working with Paige since we were teenagers. I’ve studied her game for a years. That familiarity, that trust, allows me to coach her with a precision that’s earned, not given.” You let that sit. “As for what people call it? They’re free to speculate. My job is to elevate this team. Her job is to lead it. And tonight, we both did that.”

You can hear cameras clicking faster. The subtext is clear. But your tone never wavers.

“So you’re not denying there’s more there?”

Paige clears her throat. Her voice is quieter but no less sure.

“Everything that matters? You just saw it on the court.”

The room freezes. The tension rises. And you? You lean forward.

“We’re done here,” you say smoothly.

And you stand. Paige follows. DiJonai too.

The press room erupts behind you, questions shouted, cameras going wild — but the three of you walk out as a wall. And as you disappear behind the door, Paige brushes your fingers with hers, just once, in the hallway where no one’s watching.

“I got you,” she says under her breath.

You nod.

“I know.”

The last of the fans were gone. The arena lights had dimmed to their overnight settings — still on, but muted, soft like a curtain being drawn halfway across the sky. The jumbotron ran a silent highlight loop above center court, flickering between still frames of the last shot and the postgame celebration.

Down on the court, you sat on the scorer’s table, legs swinging lightly. Paige stood to your left, sweat-damp hair tucked into a loose bun, jersey half-untucked. She was quiet now, coming down from the adrenaline, hands on her hips, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

Across the baseline, Kaitlyn Chen walked out from the tunnel. Still in her Valkyries gear. Her hair was slicked back, eyes alert, but tired. She looked like she hadn’t broken a sweat. Because she hadn’t.

Paige noticed her first.

“Kait,” she called, a smile pulling slow across her face.

Kaitlyn raised a hand in greeting but didn’t speak. She walked the length of the court, sneakers whispering against the hardwood.

You watched her — the way her steps slowed as she reached mid-court. She wasn’t sulking. But there was a quiet weight to the way her eyes stayed low.

Paige hopped off the table and met her halfway.

“You looked good in warmups,” she said gently.

Kaitlyn cracked a small smile, then sighed. “Warmups were the peak of my night.”

You joined them at mid-court, hands in your pockets. “Geno’s still here. Thought we all might want to see him.”

“Yeah,” Kaitlyn said quickly. “I mean—yeah.”

As if on cue, Geno Auriemma stepped out from the opposite tunnel. He walked slower than usual. No entourage. Just Geno — in his typical blue blazer. His voice rang softly across the court.

“Well,” he said, “if this isn’t the most dramatic group of Huskies I’ve ever coached.”

Paige grinned and walked to him first, embracing him with one arm. He pulled her in tighter, kissed the top of her head like it was instinct.

“Twenty points, four rebounds and four steals?” he muttered. “You never did that for me.”

“I’m thriving in a different tax bracket now,” she joked.

Geno turned to Kaitlyn next. And for a second, you saw the composure on her face falter. She stepped in and hugged him without hesitation.

“You look good, kid,” he said.

“I feel... grateful,” she replied. “Even if I’m not seeing the floor.”

He didn’t brush it off. Didn’t rush to say ‘your time will come.’ He just squeezed her shoulder and said, “You belong. Don’t forget that.”

You stayed back for a moment, watching the three of them. Paige and Kaitlyn, standing side by side in two very different uniforms, two very different seasons of their life. Geno between them, like the pillar that tied it all together.

Finally, Geno turned to you.

“Interim head coach,” he said, a smirk curling his lip. “I should’ve known you’d end up here.”

You shrugged. “I’ve been lucky.”

“No,” Geno said, stepping closer. “You’ve been relentless. There’s a difference.”

That humbled you more than you let show. The four of you stood there in a quiet circle. Kaitlyn leaned lightly into Paige’s shoulder, just for a second. Paige didn’t move.

Geno looked up at the rafters. He didn’t speak for a long moment.

“I used to think the most important thing I gave players was structure,” he finally said. “Systems. Offense. Legacy.” He looked at the three of you. “But maybe it was each other.”

None of you had anything to add to that. Not yet. The jumbotron looped one last time, this time pausing on Paige’s rainbow three. You all looked up at once.

Kaitlyn smiled faintly. “It’s a good picture.”

Paige nudged her lightly. “Next time it’ll be you.”

Kaitlyn didn’t answer. Just nodded, quiet.

You didn’t make promises. You didn’t say what every player gets told — that the moment will come, that patience pays. Because sometimes it didn’t. And sometimes it didn’t pay fast enough.

But you looked her in the eyes and said, “We’ll be watching.”

She smiled. “I know.”

You barely shut the door before Paige’s shoes are off.

They land with two soft thuds by the entryway, one halfway on top of the other. She walks straight into the kitchen and opens the fridge, standing there in her practice shorts and the oversized Wings hoodie she always steals from your side of the closet.

You lock the door behind you and lean against it for a second, watching her.

The fridge casts a faint white glow over her cheekbones, her nose, the slight furrow in her brow as she debates sparkling water or Gatorade like it’s a late-game decision.

“You still hungry for real food?” you ask, your voice low.

She shrugs one shoulder. “I had three protein bars after the game.”

You arch a brow. “You call that dinner?”

“I call it fuel,” she mumbles, cracking open a lemon water and shutting the fridge with her hip.

She leans on the counter. and looks at you. Really looks.

You haven’t changed yet either. Your shoes are still on. Game pass still clipped around your neck. There’s dried sweat on the back of your neck and your shoulder's stiff from pacing all game.

“You good?” she asks softly.

You nod.

“High’s wearing off,” you admit.

She takes a sip, sets the bottle down, and walks over, slow, until she’s standing right in front of you. Close enough that the leftover arena on her skin — the faint tang of Gatorade, sweat, fabric softener — hits your nose.

She reaches up and peels the lanyard off your neck. Tosses it somewhere behind you. It lands with a soft thwack.

“Still can’t believe it,” she says quietly. “The game. You. That whole fourth quarter.”

You smile, just barely. “You’re not surprised.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “But it still hits different.”

Her hand finds yours. You let your fingers lace without thinking. Her palm is warm and damp. Her thumb grazes the back of your knuckles like it’s checking for something — pulse, maybe.

“You were so calm out there,” she says.

You exhale through your nose. “I was holding on by a thread.”

She laughs. Leans her forehead to your chest. You feel her shoulders finally drop. For a while, neither of you speak. It’s like you’re both waiting to come down together. Eventually, she looks up again.

“Was it weird?” she asks. “Coaching me in front of... everyone?”

You shake your head.

“No,” you answer honestly. “That part felt natural.”

She studies you. “Even with the way they look at us now?”

You pause. Then lift your other hand and tuck her hair behind her ear, gently. She leans into your palm like a reflex.

“They can look all they want,” you say. “What we’ve got isn’t for them.”

She smiles, slow and tired. “Good answer.”

Later, you both sit on the couch — legs tangled, two bowls of cereal between you, game highlights playing muted on the TV. Your laptop’s open on the coffee table, half-full of notes from tonight, still unsaved.

Paige points at the screen when her last shot flashes.

“Why do I look like I was falling over?”

“You were falling over.”

She mock shoves you with her foot. A beat passes.

“You saved me tonight,” she says suddenly.

You glance over, eyebrows raised. She meets your eyes. Not joking now.

“You didn’t have to let me wave you off. You didn’t have to trust me with the last shot. But you did.”

You set your bowl down and shift closer.

“I didn’t save you,” you say. “I just gave you the floor. You did everything else.”

Her fingers find yours again. That quiet touch. The one that’s never loud, never rushed, always just there. She leans her head on your shoulder.

“Still,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

The night stretches quietly around you. Just the two of you.

And the knowledge that tomorrow? You’ll get up and do it all over again.

Together.

[letsnowtalk]

𝙸𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝚂 𝚂𝙾 𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙰𝙻 pairs :: judea x fem!oc ( brylie ) in which :: she hates ya boyfriend ,, which leads you to break up with him .

Juju Watkins x Reader ( BRYLIE ) — ⋆.𐙚 ̊ — Judea POV 🧸 — (angst • jealousy • pining • tension • fluff at the end • whole lotta attitude from Juju because she likes you for real)

JUDEA POV 🧸

I don’t like him. I don’t care how many times Brylie tells me he’s “nice” or how “he treats her good.” I don’t care.

He’s a weirdo.

He walks around campus like he invented air. And he talks to Brylie like she’s lucky to have him. Like she ain’t her. Like she isn’t the most fire, most cold, most glowing thing I’ve ever seen.

“You coming with me or not?” she asks, standing in the mirror with her lip gloss in hand, looking back at me with that raised brow. She already knows what I’m about to say.

“No,” I mutter, laying back on her dorm bed like it’s mine. “He’s gonna be there.”

Brylie groans. Cute when she’s mad. Real cute. “You always do this, Ju.”

“And I’m gonna keep doing it,” I mumble, arms crossed.

This has been going on for a while now. Brylie got with him mid fall semester — some tall lightskin dude with waves and a fake chain he doesn’t take off, even in the weight room. I don’t even remember his name. Don’t want to.

And ever since she’s been with him… I don’t even know. We don’t spend time like we used to. I don’t get the late night calls. The random “come outside” texts so we can go get boba or walk around downtown L.A. in hoodies and bonnets.

Nah. Now I get the “I’ll text you later” and “he wants it to just be us tonight.”

Us. The way my stomach twists when she says that word.

I’ve got practice. And normally, she’s there. Front row. Headphones around her neck. Sometimes wearing my hoodie, even though she swears it doesn’t mean anything.

But not today.

She’s with him. Some dinner date or party — who knows. I just know that seat in the front row is empty, and it feels real loud in this gym all of a sudden.

Later that night

I text her.

juju🧸: You up?

…No reply.

juju🧸: You good? juju🧸: Say less if he’s around. Just blink twice.

Delivered. No “read.” No triple dots. Just silence.

I lock my phone and toss it across the bed. But like two seconds later, it vibrates.

BRYLIE 🫧: I’m good, Ju. Just tired. Talk tomorrow?

…

Nah.

Nah, I’m not doing this tonight.

Next day Locker room

“Yo, Ju,” Rayah calls. “You good?”

“No.” I don’t even sugarcoat it.

“You and Brylie fighting again?”

“We don’t fight,” I say, pulling my hoodie over my head. “You can’t fight someone who doesn’t even know you’re mad.”

Rayah just gives me this look. Like she wants to say something but doesn’t.

I roll my eyes and leave.

Later that week Friday night

Brylie walks into my dorm. Unannounced. Like she always does when her man pisses her off.

Her lashes are a little clumped, lip gloss all wiped off, and the same gray hoodie I’ve been looking for all week is sitting on her.

“What?” I say, not even looking up from the phone. Petty? Yeah. But deserved? Also yeah.

“You mad at me?”

“You know I’m mad at you.”

“Why, Ju?” she sighs. “Because I have a boyfriend?”

“Nah,” I scoff. “I’m mad because he doesn’t deserve you, and you’re too blind to see that.”

She stands there, quiet. I can feel her eyes on me. And then, soft—

“You jealous?”

…

I don’t answer.

Because yeah. Yeah, I am.

But not in the childish “I want what you have” way. In the I’ve been here. I’ve been the one showing up. Supporting you. Listening to your rants. Holding you when you cried on the bathroom floor.

Where was he?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” I say, standing now. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you.”

She freezes.

“Juju…”

“Nah. Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t feel the same,” I whisper. “You do. You’re just scared.”

She bites her lip.

“So what do you want me to do?” Her voice cracks now.

“Choose me.”

A long pause.

And then she moves toward me, slow. Like she’s scared her feet are gonna betray her heart if she walks too fast.

Then she wraps her arms around my waist. Tight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I thought I had to like him. I thought I was supposed to.”

I swallow, my hand sliding up the back of her head.

“Don’t settle, Bry.”

“I’m not.” She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. “I’m choosing you.”

My whole chest thumps like a drumline. And I kiss her forehead, slow.

“’Bout time.”

Next game? She’s sitting front row. In my hoodie. Grinning like she’s been mine forever.

And I hoop like the world is watching.

Because Brylie’s mine now.

And ain’t nobody taking her from me.

Not again.

🧸 🧸 🧸

NEA SPEAKS ⋆.𐙚 ̊ : MY FIRST JUJU FIC . FOLLOW FOR MORE !!

[letsnowtalk]

walk with me now, juju and her gf arguing because juju hasn’t been around lately and reader gets tired of it, and they’ve been ignoring each since so to get her mind off of things her bsf takes her out to a party or smth, juju finds out and is mad because reader didn’t tell her where she was going, and a other stuff but idk what

𖥻 COLD COUCH. juju watkins x reader

reblogs + comments are more appreciated than likes.

synopsis: juju’s absence leaves nothing but a cold couch you wake up to and a hole in your heart that you try to fill—lucky for you, your girlfriend has common sense.

notes: hi lovely! i’m so sorry i got to this request so late, i thank you for your patience. juju and the reader don’t necessarily ignore eachother for long, but they definitely don’t speak for long enough to be concerned!!! this all happens in the span of one day because me thinks juju would never leave you with a heavy heart for too long… unless it’s toxic juju. but this isn’t toxic juju nonono … but anyways !!! i did my best to make your vision come true and i hope you enjoy it <3

cw: arguing, juju is a tiny bit conceited but guys she’s a celebrity, partying, reader drinks alcohol but not to the point it’s detrimental, kind of fast paced because i’m using dividers, reader and juju are both down bad in their own ways

juju has shit to do.

it can’t be helped, and you know that. she’s juju watkins— the face of women’s collegiate basketball, with multiple awards to show for it. but juju, in all ten months and fourteen days of being your girlfriend, has never once missed a date. she made sure to make time for you, always showing up and going an extra mile: flowers, ironed outfits, an extra clean car even though it’s already clean, and most of all—the biggest smile on her face. you loved that part the most; the telling sign she was happy to see you, to spend time with you, to relax.

you haven’t seen that smile in a while. that’s usually what occurs when you date a D1 athlete with like 20 NIL deals.

you haven’t seen that smile in a long time.

you thought you would be able to. you had texted juju two weeks ahead of time telling her to keep herself free today, tonight, and you had tore the internet apart finding the best recipes—subsequently ending up with a splitting headache from looking at the directions too much to make sure you followed them perfectly. perfect; that’s what you wanted this night to be. you’d greet juju with a kiss to her cheek and a tight hug, then you’d eat dinner, then you’d watch a movie, you’d cuddle— juju would fall asleep first, hopefully, and then you’d steal her hoodie because she always took off her hoodies whenever she wanted to cuddle with you. she’d pretend she didn’t know you stole it, and she’d leave the next morning feeling lighter in more ways than one. the first because she didn't have her hoodie on, and the second because you soothed her enough to, for once, just stay in the present.

you hoped you’d be able to bring her the peace you knew she deserved. you set up the table, and even had the blankets and pillows all ready. infact? netflix’s searchbar was already waiting—and as you plated juju’s portion of the dinner you hoped you cooked right, the only thing you were waiting for was juju.

juju, who should’ve been here by now.

did she get caught up in traffic? she should’ve texted about that. she hasn’t texted you at all today.

she hasn’t texted you a lot in general these past few weeks.

you sit on the edge of your kitchen counter despite the chair you already pulled out being right infront of you, because a part of you— your heart—does not want to sit alone. you scroll through your phone absentmindedly, until a notification snaps you out of your zone. it’s juju.

juju posted something on her story—another common mainstream logo in your face directly confirming it’s some sort of brand deal— and... wait, why would she be posting about brand deals? isn’t she supposed to be on her way to you right now? she said she’d be able to make it.

you search for answers.

you find out it wasn’t just a brand deal, but a brand trip. juju’s not even in the same area code as you right now. juju’s away.

you call her the moment that it clicks.

the phone rings for way too long, and you count the seventh ring before she picks up with an exasperated, “what? what is it?”

you don’t speak.

she repeats your name, impossibly more exasperated: “what is it? i’m on a cruise right now—“

“your food is cold.” you say, simply. there is silence on the other line and you don’t know if it is from realization and subsequent guilt, or complete and utter apathy. you don’t want it to be the latter. you don’t speak any more.

judea’s voice comes out on the other end of the line. it’s slow, low, and barely apologetic. “i had a last minute offer.”

“and you didn’t think to tell them you weren’t free today? tonight? because you would be— or you were meant to be having dinner with your girlfriend?” you reply, snappy, your sweaty hand gripping your already-heating-up phone too tight. you’re exasperated, obviously. you saw juju mark this date on her calendar app— she had it labelled ‘date with my baby’ with three exclamation marks. god forbid you believe she’s genuinely eager to see you.

you hear her click her tongue on the other line. “i warned you about shit like this,” she responds, her tone more angry than exasperated—more uncaring than the (barely) apologetic tone you previously heard.

“i scheduled this with you two weeks in advance, ju,” you countered, “don’t give me that excuse. don’t- don’t even give me excuses.” you choke on your words, simultaneously choking on your own pride. you wait. she speaks again, and it’s another excuse.

you go back and forth.

“i just haven’t seen you in a while, and i missed you,” you say,

“i’ve been busy, you know how it is,” she replies,

“but you promised you’d be able to make it.”

“see now, i didn’t promise—“

“you said you’d be able to make it, juju.” you interrupt.

“yeah, and i just got … sidetracked.”

sidetracked?

sidetracked?

“what do you mean?” you ask.

“you know what i mean, ma,” she murmured,

“no. i don’t. you said you could come last week— but now you’re not even here because of a last minute offer. am i being put to the side now?” your response is curt, and by now, things get noticeably more tense.

“god, can you stop doing that?” juju says on the other end.

“doing what? i’m just saying the truth—“ you tried to reason, because— side tracked? did she mean she put you on the sidelines? what did she mean? more importantly, what else could she possibly mean?

“it’s not always about you.” juju says, finally.

she’s right, and you say so.

“you’re right,” you say, voice breaking. “it’s not always about me. that’s why i haven’t been texting that much, or asking to hang out,” you begin, “or asking for too much,” there’s a lump in your throat, and a crack in your heart, but you press on. “because i know you’ve been busy. but juju, you said you’d be—“

“and now i can’t.” her voice cuts, her tone cutting. juju isn’t yelling, but her voice is low and outright cruel when she says your name— she says it as if it disgusts her to say, and when you hear her on the other end, your ears start to ring.

“i’m a fucking celebrity,” she continues, “i can’t be at your beck and call immediately when you say,”

“that’s why i scheduled you two weeks in—“ you tried to interrupt,

“yeah, and this brand's been eyeing me for way longer—come on, i couldn’t flake out on a deal like this. they asked for whenever i was available, and tonight was really the only night because it was just you—“

you end the call.

it’s just you, she says. it’s just you. juju obviously doesn’t want your company, doesn’t she?

it can be just her now.

you eat your plate alone. it’s still warm, but that doesn’t mean it’s good; the call with juju left a bad taste in your mouth. now juju’s plate is in the fridge labelled as leftovers you’ll probably never eat. you remove the extra pillow from your couch and use both blankets for yourself, playing another episode of your favorite show, tuning out the entire night despite hoping with all of your heart that you’ll have missed calls and texts from juju when you next check your phone.

you feel the lump in your throat still. you swallow it.

you wake up in the morning on the same couch, and you shiver at how cold it is. juju usually brought you the warmth.

you check your phone and you can’t swallow the lump anymore.

there are no notifications. your friend, bree, texted you about some party and how all her ‘fyne shyts’ were coming, but you could barely read the rest of the text because of how blurry your eyes were.

there were no calls. there were no texts.

not from her.

there was only silence, and it sent you into a spiral.

bree opens the door with the extra house key you gave her and a single knock to see you slumped across your couch completely and utterly miserable. you look at her, and she looks at you—bree, psychology major, miss know it all, looks at you and instantly knows.

“trouble in paradise?”

you burst into tears. bree’s kitten heels clack on your floor as she sits next to you and places your head in her lap, urging you to vent it out. “it’s good to get stuff like this out, hun,” she murmurs, “i’m saying this as a future therapist.”

you, three minutes into your wailing, will yourself to calm down for a moment— usually, when bree says that, it means she has something else to say, but “as my friend?”

your hunch is correct. bree tilts her head and looks down at your very miserable form curled up into a fetal position. “i say we get wasted tonight.”

“okay.”

that’s how you’re here now.

the bass is booming in your ears, and usually you’d leave solely because it’d make your head hurt—but right now, your heart hurts more. you could care less about the head ache you know you’ll get. you’re free right now. your phone’s charged, your arm is entwined with bree’s, and with every click of your heels you grow livelier. eyes flutter towards you by instinct, and they stay on you—you’re not wearing anything given to you by juju. this is your dress, these are your heels, and this is your jewelry— everyone seems to get the message.

tonight, you speak for yourself.

you’re bound to judea, but she isn’t pulling her leash, so you’ll stray. you’ll stray far, until she either lets go or you choke yourself.

bree looks at you with a soft smile, and tells you to drink safe knowing you’ll get absolutely knackered whether or not you drink. she pinky promises not to separate from you.

the gods may not have blessed you with a good week, but they’ve blessed you with a good friend.

she keeps the promise.

three hours in, and your heels are already off and in your hands, and you’re three drinks in, and you’re dancing, and bree has her arm around you and is singing the lyrics to the hollywood undead song playing. you are on top of the world but the ache has not subsided.

you’re sober enough to know you can’t drink the ache away.

so you choose to dance longer.

until your feet ache even more than your head, and your head aches more than your heart— until your legs are numb and your right hand is tired from holding your heels. but somehow, the ache, as small as it should be, is still the one you feel the most.

you don’t stop dancing.

the police crash through the back door.

you run straight for the front, with bree hot on your heel, and an unfinished cup of coca-cola and… something mixed into it, and your heels. the ice in the glass cup is melted so you throw it into the patch of grass near you. bree ends up more wasted than you are, and she, giggly, says that you watered the plants. you have no idea how she saw water in your cup when it was legit an abyss of dark brown... you know, the coca cola color? but maybe that’s why she’s more drunk than you.

the campus is not far from this party. you don’t mind walking barefoot. bree can crash at your place tonight, you owe her this much.

you are so focused on looking forward, as if there is any hope left for you, and keeping bree steady, that you don’t really pay attention to the fact that there’s a car coming up right behind you, who probably went over the speed limit just to. you also don’t notice when the car lowers it’s passenger seat window.

but you do notice when juju yells your name from the drivers seat.

your head whips around so fast you nearly drop bree, who’s taken to being slung across your shoulder. “what the fuc— juju? juju, it’s—“

“yeah, yeah i do know what time it is, genius. get in the goddamn car.” she snaps, unlocking the door as you open the backseat to gently place bree in. you get into the passengers seat next to juju.

she looks worried sick.

it’s three minutes into the car ride when the lyft that juju apparently called, and paid, for bree whisks her away from the two of you—and it’s four minutes in that you stay in complete silence out of your own shock.

in the empty car, as you drive to what you recognize is not the way to your dormitory but to juju’s apartment— you muster up the courage to break it.

“how are you here?” your voice is soft.

juju doesn’t answer for a good while, but when she does, her voice is impossibly softer.

“i have your location.”

“that's not what i meant. i thought you still had the brand trip.”

“i left early.”

“what?” you say, incredulously. juju doesn’t say anything. she parks, and then she gets out of the car—and before you can even open your door, she’s already helping you out. as you walk? you pry for answers.

“juju, i don’t think you can do that—“

“i’m a celebrity, i can do .. basically? anything.”

“juju.” you scoff. “you’re not serious. it’s just me—“

“it’s not.” juju interrupts this time, so firm it makes you lose your track of mind— her hand, once wrapped around your wrist, lowers itself and softens its grip. it intertwines with your fingers. “it’s not just you.” she repeats, visibly regretting her choices of words last night. “it’s you. you get it?”

“truthfully, no.”

“bro—I,” juju stutters, chokes even, on her own words, fumbling like she’s fumbling with the keys to her apartment right now—“i mean that…” she restarts, “i mean that i’m sorry, okay?”

you stand still in your pretty dress and high heels. you stand frozen until she pulls you in. she closes the door and she takes your face into her hands, and her palms are warm, and she is warm.

warmth. that’s what you were missing.

the ache disappears.

and then you start crying.

“you’re such a fucking asshole sometimes.”

“oh, baby,” juju immediately coos. “i know,” she says, pulling you into her chest, her right hand stroking your head while her left hand pulls you in close by the waist. “i’m sorry.” she whispers. “i’m so sorry, baby. i wasn’t thinking. i’m sorry. i got my common sense back, yeah? i’m here now. i’m here, baby—please don’t cry.” she whispers. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry.” she repeats, sinking down to the floor with you—“i got you gifts, ma?” she offers. “got you so many gifts.”

“i just wanted you.” you say through a rather pathetic voice crack.

it only makes juju even more apologetic.

“i’m so fucking sorry baby. i’ll make it up to you, okay? i’ll make it up to you. come onn, prettiest girl—“ she whispers, kissing your temple, smoothing down your hair and getting it out of your face. you finally look up, still mad but not able to resist her—and you breath a shaky sigh.

“there she is,” juju says anyway, because the fact you’re looking at her is progress. “my girl.” she continues, “my girl who set up a whole dinner for me, set it all up for me, my girl who worked so hard— my girl who missed me s’much—shhh, baby, i’m here, i’m here,”

you find yourself squeezing tighter. she’s here now. that’s all you've really wanted.

she ends up cleaning you up, putting you in what she knows is your favorite hoodie (hers), carrying you, bridal style, to her couch—wraps you up in a little blanket burrito and places you on her chest where she can kiss your forehead easy. this time, she has netflix opened and ready—and she knows exactly what to have you guys watch: your favorite show that you’ve watched over seventy times, but can’t seem to get tired of.

your eyes are blown wide, focused entirely on snuggling into her hoodie and at the show you’re watching, and you’re too lost in your own post-party, post-argument, post-bad week bliss that you don’t notice juju spends every second looking at you.

you just know that it’s warm.

her hands are wrapped around you, and she’s so warm. and she’s saying sorry. and her voice is soft and it makes you sleepy.

so you close your eyes, and you start to fall harder for her, and simultaneously start to fall asleep.

there is no ache anymore. and you know it is not okay yet, but it will be.

but for now, the awareness that you will not wake up to a cold, empty couch—that's enough.

@likelysobbing.

[letsnowtalk]

Ride or die

Flau’jae johnson x reader

In which shes her ride or die

Warnings : None? I think😭

It had been two weeks since the injury, and Flau’jae was healing up slowly. No crutches anymore, but still icing her knee on and off. You stayed by her side through it all—quiet dinners in her dorm, FaceTiming her mom when she was down, rubbing her back when she got too in her head about missing practice.

But tonight was different.

“Come to the studio with me,” she said earlier that day, casual as ever, like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Flau’jae didn’t just invite people to the studio unless it was business. Even when y’all were together and good, that space had been hers and hers alone.

So when she reached for your hand and led you past the soundproof door into the booth, your stomach fluttered. She looked serious, almost nervous.

“Just… sit and listen, aight?” she said, adjusting her mic. “Don’t say nothing until I’m done.”

You nodded. You sat. Watched. Waited as the engineer gave her the signal.

Then, the beat came in—slow, stripped back. Just an acoustic guitar loop with a heartbeat kick underneath.

And then she started:

“I was trippin’, pushin’ you away like you ain’t hold me down

Tried to act tough, but I’m soft when you around

I crashed hard, you pulled up, no hesitation

Pain in my leg, but your love was the medication”

Your breath caught.

She didn’t look at you, just closed her eyes and kept going.

“All them nights you stayed when I ain’t deserve it

Arguin’ like we enemies, but you still said I was worth it

Ain’t no gold chain better than your loyalty

And I ain’t never met a soul who rode for me like you did for me”

Her voice cracked a little on that last line. The engineer didn’t stop. Neither did she.

“Coach said she saw it in the way I stare at you

Truth is, I ain’t never wrote a verse that bare, it’s true

This ain’t a single, ain’t a hit, it’s a thank-you

I almost lost you tryna chase what I already had—boo.-”

“You my ride or die, in the bleachers or the fallouts

When I get lost in the game, you the one I call out

So I’ma write you in my rhymes, every song, every line

And if I forget, just play this back, remind me you mine.”_

The guitar faded. Silence.

She took off her headphones slowly, her eyes still cast down.

You were already walking toward her, heart pounding.

“That was…” you whispered, eyes glassy. “Flau, that was you.”

“I ain’t wanna say sorry with just words,” she said quietly, looking up at you. “I needed you to feel it. All of it.”

“I felt it,” you said, voice shaking. “Every single word.”

She reached for you, hands trembling a little, and wrapped her arms around your waist. “Then I did it right.”

You kissed her—soft, slow, deep—and her breath hitched like it was the first time all over again.

A week later, she dropped a snippet of the track on Instagram.

“For the one who held me down when I was too stubborn to ask for help. Ride or die, always.” 💜🎙️🔥

Coach Mulkey reposted it to her story with a heart emoji.

And the top comment under Flau’jae’s post?

@Y/N: “Forever riding. Forever yours. 🎧❤️”

[letsnowtalk]

MASTERLIST

Nika Muhl

Juju Watkins

Private, not secret

Flau’jae Johnson

No one rides for you like i do

Ride or die

Angel Reese

Sarah Strong

More than teammates

[letsnowtalk]

No One Rides for You Like I Do

Flau’jae johnson x Reader

Warnings : Angst to fluff

Outline: in which Flau realizes how much she needs her ride or die

You and Flau’jae have talked in three days.

Not since the fight in her dorm—when words were sharp and neither of you flinched. She accused you of not understanding how much pressure she was under, and you had said, with too much heat, “I’m not trying to compete with your career, Flau’. I just wanna feel like I matter.”

That line sat heavy. Still did.

You’d walked out before she could say anything else, tears threatening to fall. She hadn’t called. You hadn’t texted. And now, you were sitting in the PMAC stands with your arms folded, surrounded by roaring fans and regret.

LSU vs South Carolina. One of the biggest games of the season.

You didn’t plan on coming. But something pulled you here—maybe instinct, maybe loyalty. Maybe the tiny, worn Polaroid of you and Flau’jae she had taped to the inside of her locker. The one she never let anyone touch.

Second quarter. LSU down by six. Flau’jae was playing with grit—aggressive, explosive—but you knew her. You could see it in the way her jaw clenched, the way she kept looking to the sideline. She was off.

And then, it happened.

A hard foul. Mid-drive to the rim. She hit the court hard, her head bouncing once before she grabbed her leg and curled into herself.

You didn’t even think. You pushed past people. Ignored the staff. Didn’t stop until you were down near the tunnel, screaming, “I’m with her! Let me through!”

She was being helped off the court when your eyes met hers.

Pain. Panic. But when she saw you?

Relief.

You were by her side in seconds, your hand wrapping around hers. She squeezed so tight it hurt. “You came,” she whispered, voice cracking.

“Of course I came,” you said, blinking fast. “You could be mad at me forever and I’d still show up if you needed me.”

She looked at you like the game, the world, didn’t exist anymore. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I ain’t mean none of that shit. I was scared. Of losing, of failing—of you leaving.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “I just need to know I’m not alone in this.”

“You’re not.” She brought your knuckles to her lips. “No one rides for me like you do. I see that now.”

Later that night, after LSU pulled off the win without her, you sat by Flau’jae’s side in the training room. Her knee was bruised, not torn. She was resting with her head in your lap, eyes closed, mumbling lyrics she didn’t want to forget.

That’s when Coach Mulkey walked in.

You straightened up, heart skipping, unsure if she was going to kick you out. She looked down at Flau’jae, then at you. Her hands on her hips, her signature fierce expression softening into something rare.

“I see the way she looks at you,” Coach Mulkey said, voice warm. “Like you’re her safe place.”

You blinked. “Yes, ma’am. I try to be.”

“Well, keep trying. She needs that. Lord knows this world doesn’t always give girls like y’all the space to love loud—but I see it. And I’m proud of her. Proud of both of you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding.

As Coach turned to leave, she added with a smirk, “Just don’t let her start writing sad songs about you. They’ll be stuck in my head all season.”

Flau’jae, still half-asleep, chuckled against your thigh. “Too late.”

You laughed, brushing her curls back from her forehead.

“You’re my ride or die,” she whispered, eyes barely open. “Don’t let me forget that again.”

You leaned down and kissed her temple. “you wont.”

[letsnowtalk]

Hey girlypop got anotha request 🙂‍↔️ juju x reader where theyre “private but not secret” like everyone has speculation but they have eachothers jerseys numbers stitched into their jerseys very small but still visible. And while they have two games against ucla and at the first game kiki rice starts to flirt with the reader and juju give her dirty looks and you can tell she dont like it and the reader rejects kiki and at the second game kiki is mad and fouls the reader hard and juju is mad and gets all in her face and tells her if she touches her again shes gonna make sure they both get taken out the game and mentions the reader being her girl and the crowd goes crazy and the media goes crazy over them

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴜᴘ

ᴊᴜᴊᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴋɪɴꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: the relationship ain’t secret, just sacred. and juju? she’s tired of being subtle.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: game violence, jealousy, tension, light cursing

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.4k

People always ask why I don’t post her.

Why I don’t wear her chains, why she don’t comment on my pics, why we don’t feed into it.

But they never look close enough.

Never see the tiny gold “12” stitched in my jersey hem. Or how hers has a little “05” tucked right by the seam.

They never see how she always finds me after the game, win or lose, sweaty or not, and presses her forehead to mine. Quiet. Close. Just us.

Private, not secret. And she likes it that way—until UCLA.

The moment we walk into Galen Center for Game 1, I feel it. Kiki’s eyes. She’s been on weird timing since warmups.

Whole first half she’s following me like she trying to match my steps. Talking slick under her breath. Laughing a little too hard when I miss a three.

And Juju? She’s calm. Arms crossed on the bench, legs spread, chewing gum like she’s plotting. That “I’m watching you” type chill.

It gets bolder second half. I’m walking off the court, wiping sweat with my towel, and Kiki slides up next to me like it’s nothing.

“Number five,” she smirks, “you always look this good after dropping six points, or am I special?”

I raise a brow. “You got jokes now?”

“I got eyes,” she says, licking her lips. “Tell your little secret admirer to stop staring and come introduce herself.”

I glance toward the bench. Juju’s still locked in—except now she’s not even pretending to hide it. Head tilted. Jaw tight. I can feel her mood shift from across the court.

“Keep it cute,” I say, stepping back. “Ain’t nothing secret about that girl watching me. And I’m not interested.”

Kiki’s smile drops.

Fast forward. Game 2. UCLA’s court. It’s louder. Tenser. Everybody noticed last time. Now they waiting.

I’m cooking. Dropped 10 in the first. And that’s when Kiki comes back for round two, only this time—she ain’t flirting.

She fouls me hard mid-drive. Whole body check. I hit the floor rough. Crowd gasps. My elbow’s burning.

Before I even push myself up, I hear it.

“Back the hell up.”

Juju’s already stormed over. Didn’t wait for the ref. Didn’t wait for the timeout.

“You got a problem, Kiki?” she barks, chest-to-chest. “You mad she curved you? Thought being petty was gonna fix it?”

Kiki rolls her eyes. “Play ball, Juju.”

“Nah, you better play smart. Touch her again, I’ll make sure we both get ejected. I don’t care. That’s my girl—you not.”

The gym erupts. Cameras flash. Phones up. Bench players holding each other back. Even the ref’s frozen.

Me? I’m still on the ground like damn. That’s my girl.

Juju doesn’t even wait for a response—she turns, walks straight to me, and offers her hand.

I take it. She pulls me close. Fixes my jersey like I didn’t just get body slammed.

“Tell ‘em again,” I whisper.

She smiles, low and lethal. “I’ll tell the whole damn world.”

And just like that—our private became public. But baby, it was never secret.

The moment we step off the court, reporters start foaming at the mouth.

“Juju, was that a declaration?”

“Are y’all together?”

“Did you say your girl?”

She just smirks, towel over her shoulder, ignoring everybody like she didn’t just almost fight a top recruit on national TV. Meanwhile, I’m limping with an ice pack and a smile like it’s prom night.

In the tunnel, it’s quiet for a second—until Juju grabs my wrist, swings me into a corner by the wall, and plants her hand flat beside my head.

“You good?” she asks low, eyes searching mine.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “You didn’t have to go that hard.”

Her jaw flexes. “She hit you. I told you—play with me all you want. But not with you.”

I laugh, leaning back against the wall. “You was ready to risk it all, huh?”

She hums. “I still might.”

And then she kisses me. Right there in the damn tunnel. Slow. Hands in my curls. Tongue sliding against mine like she ain’t got media waiting and fans screaming her name.

Private? Who?

We break apart when the team starts yelling down the hall. I pull back, still catching my breath.

“We just made every blog in the country.”

“Let ‘em post it,” she shrugs. “They was gon’ find out eventually.”

⸻

𝙏𝙞𝙠𝙏𝙤𝙠 - @thehooptea

🎥: “Y’ALL. JUJU WATKINS JUST TOLD KIKI RICE ‘THAT’S MY GIRL’ ON NATIONAL TV. USC x UCLA JUST TURNED INTO A SOAP OPERA.”

“the way she meant that with her whole chest omg”

“she’s always been obsessed with reader u can tell”

“Kiki fumbled before she even had a chance 😭”

⸻

Back in the locker room, everyone’s wild.

Phones blowing up. Girls replaying clips, mimicking her voice like “Touch her again—THAT’S MY GIRL” over and over.

I’m sitting on the bench, rubbing my knee when Juju walks over with her duffle in one hand and my leg in the other.

“Lemme see.”

“It’s just sore—”

“Lemme see,” she repeats, softer this time.

She props it up in her lap and starts massaging gentle circles into the muscle. Everyone watching. No shame. No hiding.

“You just gon’ act like you didn’t shut down the entire gym?” I tease.

She grins. “Just so they know.”

And in that moment—hand on my thigh, heart still racing, media still going feral—I realize something:

She never needed to post me. I’ve been hers. Loud and clear.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-Vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @zizi-bee-yapping @kaliblazin @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey

[letsnowtalk]

Your writing is so amazing I want to slurp it up like noodles. (PLEASE I NEED IT)

Omg stawwppp

[letsnowtalk]

Private, Not Secret

Juju watkins x Fem!Reader

First time writing kinda scared😜

No one could prove it.

Not the teammates who raised eyebrows when you and Juju showed up to every practice together.

Not the fans who zoomed in on those barely-there numbers stitched into your jerseys—her 12 on yours, your 7 on hers.

Not even the commentators who tried to sound casual when they said things like, “They just have an incredible bond on and off the court.”

Private? Yes.

Secret? Not even close.

The first USC vs. UCLA game had a buzz around it anyway—it was LA bragging rights. But this time, it felt personal.

Especially when Kiki Rice cornered you during warmups, her smile sugary-sweet and too familiar.

“You always this focused before tipoff?” she asked, brushing a hand over your shoulder like she had a right to.

You offered a polite, distant smile. “Always.”

“You know,” Kiki added, stepping closer, “You don’t have to be all loyal to your little Trojan family all the time. If you ever feel like switching up…”

Juju was stretching on the sideline but froze. You didn’t have to see her face to feel the glare burning across the hardwood.

You stepped back. “I’m good where I am.”

Kiki raised a brow but said nothing more.

Juju didn’t say anything either. But her jaw was tight for the rest of warmups. She barely looked at Kiki all game—except to glare. The tension? Palpable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fast forward a week.

Everything felt more heated.

The crowd was louder.

Every rebound felt heavier.

You played through it like usual.. until the third quarter.

You went up for a fast break layup. Kiki came in too hot.

CRASH.

The foul was hard. Intentional.

You hit the ground with a thud, pain radiating through your hip as the whistle blew. The gym erupted—boos, gasps, a collective shock.

Before the trainer could even reach you, Juju was already there.

Not kneeling beside you—in Kiki’s face.

“If you touch her like that again,” Juju snapped, her voice low and furious, “I swear to God I’ll make sure both of us get taken out this game.”

Kiki smirked. “What, she can’t handle a little contact?”

“That’s my girl you just fouled,” Juju said, loud enough that the front row gasped. “You try me again, and I won’t miss.”

The refs had to step in.

But it was too late.

The crowd went insane. People were already pulling their phones out, posting clips. The camera zoomed in on the way Juju helped you up gently, whispered, “You okay, baby?” before walking you to the bench with a hand at your back.

By the time the final buzzer sounded—with USC winning by 12—the media frenzy had begun.

“Are Juju Watkins and Y/N dating?”

“Did Juju just say ‘my girl’???”

“USC’s power couple might not be secret anymore.”

You scrolled through the headlines later that night, sitting beside Juju on her couch, your legs tangled with hers.

“We’re about to break the internet,” you teased.

She kissed your shoulder. “Let them talk.”

You looked down at her jersey tossed over the armrest—your number stitched into the hem.

Private. Not secret.

Just the way you both liked it.

Send me requests

[letsnowtalk]

i’d write her 5 poems a day. paige can barely even spell 😒😒

[letsnowtalk]

The league is so funny

[letsnowtalk]

We don’t talk about this outfit enough… sue me

[letsnowtalk]

Correction, Baby

Pairing: Suagr mommy turned gf!Nika Mühl x sugar baby turned gf!Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Seattle Storm

Summary: maybe it’s all too much at once

🏷️: @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 , @fairyblossomsavg

There are few things more exhausting than a double shift with barely any tips and a throbbing lower back. But that’s what I signed up for when I picked up extra hours at the restaurant. School fees don’t pay themselves, and I sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask Nika.

Especially not after Croatia.

A dream of a vacation—five-star hotels, private boat tours, designer boutiques in every major city we hit, and a suitcase I could barely zip because Nika kept stuffing it with things she thought would look good on me.

I didn’t even ask for half the things she bought, and yet she dropped money like it was nothing.

Like I was nothing.

I heard the little jingle of the bell above the restaurant door and didn’t even need to turn around to know it was her.

My spine straightened on instinct.

She always had that effect—commanding without even trying.

Even when dressed in joggers and a tee, she looked like she stepped out of a fashion editorial.

“Hey, your hot mafia wife’s here,” my coworker Aisha whispered with a smirk.

I laughed under my breath, tired and sore, the weight of tuition hanging over my shoulders. “I’m not asking her for it,” I mumbled, wiping down the counter. “We just got back from vacation. It feels wrong.”

“Y/N, you’re literally her girlfriend. And for like… a year now? Ask her.”

“I don’t want her to think I’m still in sugar baby mode.”

“Girl, she lives to spoil you.”

I didn’t notice Nika standing just behind the pastry case. But she definitely heard that.

She didn’t say a word the entire car ride to her place.

Not a single word.

Her jaw was tight, hands on the wheel a little too firmly, and her silence was louder than anything she could’ve said.

I hated it.

I hated the guilt clawing at my stomach and the ache in my chest. I also hated that I knew I was partially wrong, and partially not.

Once we were inside her place—the condo she kept telling me was ours even though I still hadn’t moved in fully—she tossed her keys on the table and leaned against the kitchen island.

“You really weren’t gonna ask me?” she finally said, voice low, even.

“Nika…”

“No,” she interrupted, standing straight. “You weren’t going to ask me for help with your tuition because you think I do too much?”

My arms crossed defensively, even though I hated when I got like that with her. “We just got back from a vacation where you spent—what—like ten thousand dollars minimum on me? You bought me shoes I didn’t even say I liked, and then you saw me glancing at a bracelet and got it in two colors.”

“And?”

“And before we even left for Croatia, you bought me a new laptop, clothes for the trip, skincare, a carry-on—Nika, you spoiled the hell out of me. And it was… beautiful. But it was a lot. It started feeling like I was just a sugar baby again.”

Her jaw twitched, but she didn’t raise her voice. She just came closer, her hands gentle as they reached up to cradle my face. “Baby. Love. That’s kind of the point.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Whether you’re my sugar baby or my girlfriend—or both, like you are now—my job is to spend a shit ton of money on you. No matter how ridiculous or important it is. You need something for school? You ask me. You wanna set up a date? I’ll pay for it. I don’t care how much Croatia cost me. You’re not an expense. You’re an investment. My investment. My girl.”

It should’ve melted me.

And it did… until she really started getting petty.

The first time I paid for dinner, she didn’t even say a word.

Next morning? A blush-pink LV bag set on my bed. Wallet, phone case, cardholder, tote. Custom monogrammed. I wanted to scream.

Then I paid for her coffee on a random Tuesday. That weekend, she sent three crates of my favorite drinks to the apartment. THREE. C R A T E S. Of little canned lattes and obscure matcha blends that cost more than groceries.

I tried to outdo her once—set up this elaborate, romantic, expensive date night for her. I planned it down to the lighting and the playlist.

She stole my phone while I was in the bathroom, removed my cards, added hers, went into my shopping apps… and BOUGHT EVERYTHING in my cart.

Skincare.

Lingerie.

A random kitchen appliance I’d been debating for months.

Everything.

Packages started showing up like it was Prime Day for a week straight.

I confronted her. Furious, overwhelmed, borderline humiliated.

“Is this some kind of punishment?” I asked.

She laughed. Laughed. “Punishment? Babe, this is normal. You’re just not used to being treated right.”

But it wasn’t normal for me.

So I stopped.

Stopped going out. “Wanna go on a date?” she’d ask. I’d say no.

“Wanna grab coffee?” Nope.

Stopped replying to her ‘what do you need today?’ texts. Ignored the packages. Politely asked our doorman to return anything in Nika’s handwriting.

And for the first time in a year, she stopped sending gifts.

Our relationship shifted. Became… off.

She’d stare at me from across the room, confused and frustrated, like she was waiting for me to come back to her. And I was trying.

I was.

But she didn’t hear me.

Until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Sit.”

I looked up from my laptop, sitting at her kitchen island with homework sprawled out. “What?”

“Sit your ass on the couch. We’re talking. Now.”

Her tone didn’t leave room for argument. So I went.

She sat next to me, close but not touching. “I know you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad, I just—”

“Let me finish.”

I shut my mouth.

“I thought I was being a good girlfriend. A good�� whatever we are. You said you needed something, and I fix shit. That’s what I do. That’s what I did from the beginning. I don’t know how to stop. But when you pulled back, it felt like you were punishing me. And I didn’t understand why. Not until I realized… you were scared.”

My throat closed a little.

“You think I’m trying to make you dependent on me.”

I nodded slowly.

“I’m not.” Her voice broke a little. “I just want to love you the only way I know how. And yeah, maybe it’s through buying you dumb shit and sending you drinks I know you like. But I never want you to feel like you owe me. Or like you’re just a sugar baby again. I want to be your girlfriend first. And if you need space, I’ll give you that. But don’t shut me out.”

I didn’t even realize I was crying until her thumb brushed a tear from my cheek.

“I felt like I was losing myself,” I whispered. “Like I was slipping into someone who only existed because you funded her. I love you for how you love me, Nika. But I need to know that even if I couldn’t accept a dime from you… you’d still want me.”

She pulled me into her arms like she was afraid I’d disappear.

“I’d want you broke, rich, in debt, or even if you made me split a salad on date night.”

I laughed through the tears. “You’d never split a salad.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t,” she grinned. “But you get my point.”

I pulled back just enough to look at her. “You promise to let me pay for things sometimes?”

“Not even a little.”

“Nika.”

“Okay, fine,” she sighed. “Only if you let me add stupid shit to your cart after.”

I kissed her softly, then grinned. “Deal.”

But the next day, I paid for her lunch.

That night, I came home to find a car key on the counter.

“Nika!”

“You paid. I punished.”

“YOU SAID IT WASN’T PUNISHMENT!”

“It’s correction, baby.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[letsnowtalk]

ri and ju crumbl cookie review pt2 😭

I see ju finally likes some of the cookies😭