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bucketbueckers · 5 days ago

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HIIIII SEXY

if ur taking requests can i request smth angsty for paige ? i was thinking maybe if you could do something based on ilyis by gracie abrams where reader is in love w paige but doesnt think paige will ever like her back cause paige is always flirting w azzi and then paige comes over and acts all flirty with reader and reader blows up at her and is storms out and paige forces her to admit her feelings cause all along paige liked her but she didn’t know if reader liked gworls 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

and it ends happily PLEASEEEE I BEG

I LOVE YOU, I’M SORRY

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: language, teensy bit of angst, girls who hate communicating, reader might be a lil mean but we ball

wc: 2.4k

synopsis: You’ve been in love with Paige Bueckers for years, just another one of the countless moths drawn to her flame. You’d made your peace with only being her friend long ago, but it’s not until a well-timed blow up at Ted’s makes you realize it was mutual all along.

notes: as requested and in honor of finishing my last fuck ass exam 🫶 thank you sm for the request and im hoping i did this justice for you anon!! im sorry its a lil short 😓 but as always i hope y'all enjoy 🫶

Ted’s was supposed to be a welcome distraction to cap off a hectic week. Between two back-to-back away games, constant traveling, terrible naps on bumpy bus rides home, and homework that just seemed to keep piling up, you were ready to unwind and tackle the next week with a clearer mind. However, you couldn’t seem to relax, and the jealousy blooming in your chest like hemlock as you stared at Paige and Azzi whispering to each other wasn’t doing you any favors, either.

The team had invited you out with them, intent on celebrating another regular season conference win. You’re one of their graduate assistants, having served as the team manager for a few years before the position opened up, although you’d built incredible friendships with the girls over the years. Well – most of them, seeing as your brain and your heart couldn’t quite agree on how you felt for Paige. Her freshman year was your first year as team manager and she went out of her way to make you feel welcomed, greeting you every day at practice and inviting you out to team get-togethers.

At first, you’d kept it together. You were strictly friends, not even considering anything else. By Paige’s sophomore year – your junior year – you’d realized that she was beautiful. Like, a dangerous beautiful where you’d find yourself staring at her, even when she wasn’t doing anything more than watching film on her iPad. During her junior year, you were finally able to put a name to your confusing feelings and discovered that you were falling for her – hard – somewhere in between ACL recovery and her corny jokes. You realized it was love at the end of her junior year when you told her that Coach agreed to bring you on as a graduate assistant and she almost broke your spine hugging you. Now, nearly a year and a half into your Master’s program, you’re still hopelessly in love with Paige Bueckers and dreading the day the NCAA tournament begins – because the end of the season means the end of you and her. Because she’ll be on the first plane to Dallas and you wouldn’t have gotten the chance to find your courage and confess to her.

Ted’s was supposed to be a distraction. But it’s not, because the drink you’re sipping on makes your throat burn every time you swallow, and all you can think about is how you and Paige are a ticking time bomb that’s set to explode in April, and all you see is Paige looking at another girl that’s not you, and all you feel is the sickening mix of jealousy and shame that courses through your veins – jealous because all you want is Paige; shame because she’s your friend and you hate the way she makes you feel. You hate that your love makes you a little insecure and you hate that it feels like she’s choosing someone else over you.

Jana, who’s sitting next to you, throws an almost absentminded arm over your shoulder, pulling you out of your thoughts and back into whatever conversation they’re having at the table. KK is yapping and you barely catch the gist of it – something about Coach making them run suicides and how the new protein powder she’s trying gave her a tummy ache, but the heat of Paige’s gaze on you makes you glance over at her. Her brows are furrowed, eyes hardened as she stares at Jana’s arm around your shoulders like it’s personally offended her.

What confuses you even more is how Azzi notices. She sighs, an exasperated sort of noise, and stands – not without flicking Paige harshly on her forehead and muttering something about “Talk to her” as she slides her way out of the booth and towards the bathroom. Paige’s cheeks are a little red as she rubs her head forlornly. You’d probably laugh if you weren’t feeling so green.

You go to take another sip of your drink, needing to occupy your hands and your mouth if you wanted to appear somewhat put together tonight, but you frown when you realize you’re empty. Catching Jana’s attention, you motion to your cup and she nods, removing her arm and allowing you to make your way to the bar.

You don’t think too hard about your drink order as you rifle through your clutch for your card. What you do think hard about is the all too familiar voice saying, “I got you. Can I get another Shirley, please?” as Paige slides her card across the bar, her free hand finding your wrist like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Paige,” you deadpan, an amused annoyance lacing your tone. “I can get my own drink.”

She grins ineffably at you, but there’s an uncharacteristic hesitation in her eyes. It’s almost enough to make you forget why you’ve been so off all night. “Doesn’t mean you should,” she retorts.

“Oh?” you ask. “You making decisions for me now?”

Paige shrugs coyly. Her hand trails from your wrist to your waist, tangling in your belt loops – not pushing or pulling. Just holding. The touch makes you freeze. You and Paige had always been close. She was a touchy person, but never in public like this. “Just the important ones,” she murmurs. “So I know you’re taken care of.”

You blink at her, mouth suddenly dry. The sound of glasses scraping against the hardwood counter startles you. Paige thanks the bartender as she retreats, leaving the both of you alone at the edge of the bar, and you reach for your drink to occupy your hands as your mind spins. As unsure as you are about Paige returning your feelings, you’re not dumb. You’ve been flirted with before, been around Paige enough to know what her flirting looks like. The gentle confidence in her voice, the way her eye contact is so intense that strangely, it forces you to focus on her because otherwise, you’re sure that she’d find something she didn’t like if you couldn’t face her. The physical contact and the way she’s leaning into you. She’s flirting with you. Under any other circumstance, you’d probably be jumping for joy, but not now.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Azzi making her way back to the table. You make direct eye contact with her. She glances down, taking in your proximity, and she smiles at you. It sobers you up instantly.

“What the fuck are we doing?” you ask Paige, setting your drink back down on the bar and yanking her hand off of you. She blinks, her jaw falling slightly and confusion twisting her brows. “What are you doing? What, Azzi walks away, so you go and find someone else to keep you entertained? The one person who would run back to you anyway?”

“I – what?” Paige asks, hurt lacing her tone. She reaches out for you again but you take a step back, your thighs hitting the stool behind you. “I don’t understand what you mean. What does Azzi–”

You don’t realize you’re tearing up until you register the burn in your throat and the way your eyes sting. “You flirt with Azzi in front of my face all night. She leaves, and you wanna follow me up here, talking about taking care of me? You wanna touch me and buy my drink, ignore this weird push and pull thing we have, and then walk away like it means nothing to you?”

When she doesn’t say anything, you laugh despite the hurt swelling in your chest. “Sometimes you can be such a dick.” You wipe your eyes, trying not to lose your mind when your thumb comes back smudged with mascara. At the heart of it, sure, you’re sad, but the most pressing emotion is anger. You’d rather not be a choice at all than be a second choice.

The both of you pause, just staring at each other, until guilt and realization blooms simultaneously on Paige’s face. She murmurs your name, her voice cracking a little like what you’ve just said has changed her life, but you don’t let her reach out for you as you turn on your heel and walk out.

You know you can’t leave – Aubrey drove you and you’re not built for walking home at midnight. You lean against the railing, your head in your hands, knowing that Paige will likely be on her way. The two of you weren’t one for arguments. On the rare occasions you got carried away, apologies were swift. Guilt of your own bubbles in your stomach – you blew up for no reason, allowing your emotions to get out of hand. Now, you know that you and Paige will have to have another difficult conversation, and you’re not even sure if she’ll still want to be your friend afterwards. This is something you might not be able to come back from.

You feel her next to you before you see her. She leans against the railing, giving you space, and it’s in this devastating little moment that your anger comes back. It’s muted, not directed at her, but at yourself. You’re angry because as much as you want to be angry with her, you’re not, and all you really want is her. It’s selfish – you’d hurt her feelings in the bar, barely thirty feet away from your friends, but your body doesn’t care about that.

She breaks the silence to ask you, unsurprisingly, “Do you like me?”

There’s a million responses on the tip of your tongue. You consider sarcasm, but you feel as though the weight of this conversation needs something a little more genuine. Maybe genuine communication could have saved the both of you from feeling like this. No more cop outs, is what you tell yourself, so you exhale and admit, “I love you.”

You’re not sure what you’re holding your breath for. Maybe rejection. A small part of you holds out for Paige’s agreement. You’re unprepared for the way her arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into her body, and despite the shock, you sink into her anyways, your head falling onto her chest. It feels like acceptance, like forgiveness. “I didn’t know you liked girls,” Paige confesses, sounding a little sheepish.

At that, you groan, resisting an eye roll. “I literally have a pride flag in my Instagram bio,” you mumble. “You want my coming out in writing too? ‘Dear Paige, I’m gay. I’d apologize but you probably should have known anyway. Love, me.’”

“You’re annoying,” she huffs, but you can hear the amusement in her voice anyway. She tightens her hold on you. “I probably…should have done that a little better. At the bar. Don’t want you thinking it meant nothing to me. It does. And I just–” Paige trails off a little, looking for the right words. “I was really scared. I’ve always been worried about doing too much, scaring you off, and losing you forever. I thought…maybe I could drop hints and let you figure out what you wanted, but I never stopped to think about how that would feel from your end. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you say. “For calling you a dick and making those accusations. I was scared and I let it consume me.”

You can feel the tentative smile Paige presses to your temple. “Truce?” she asks, and you nod, your fingers tangling in her shirt as you finally let the tension in your body dissolve. “For the record…there’s nothin’ going on with me and Azzi. She’s been telling me to ask you out for years. She was the first person I told when I thought I was in love with you.”

You pull back a little, meeting her eyes. The earnestness and honesty is clear as day, but you refuse to get your hopes up. “You love me?” you ask, not only to clarify, but also because this is something you’ve spent countless hours thinking about, wondering if it was even possible. To have it so close within reach…you need to be sure.

Paige, in typical Paige fashion, smiles crookedly at you and says, “You want that in writing, too?” She clears her throat dramatically. ‘To my favorite grad assistant, I’m in love with you. I’d apologize, but–”

“You are so fucking annoying,” you seethe, but there’s no real malice in your voice, your smile far too wide to be anything but over the moon. You’d thought about this moment a hundred times – how you’d respond to Paige confessing, or even how your own confession would sound. You’d never planned for it to happen this way. Maybe it was something that was supposed to be a spur of the moment thing. Maybe something out of a rom-com involving rain. Never an argument like this. The realization was never something dramatic with some cinematic soundtrack in the background. It was simple, almost like something clicks into place quietly. It’s messy, but it’s yours. And that’s enough for you. “So what happens now?”

Paige hums, leaning against the railing as her thumb brushes against your jaw gently. “Well…you can let me buy you another drink. Maybe split some fries. And, I don’t know if this is something you’d be interested in…but maybe you could be mine, too?”

You raise a brow, resting your hands over her shoulders. “Oh, really? Is that everything you want?”

Paige grins at you, her eyes flicking down momentarily before finding yours again. Her expression softens. “Not everything,” she admits. “But I’m trying to do this right. I wouldn’t want to assume.”

You roll your eyes, not missing the subtle tease in her words. When her hands drop to your waist, finding your belt loops again, you don’t freeze up. If anything, you melt into her. “Whatever you’re thinking…I don’t think it’s that much of an assumption.”

“Yeah?” she echoes. “‘Cause I’m still thinking about the fries.”

Huffing, you cup her cheeks in your hands, her skin warm against your palms, and you stand on the tips of your toes as you lean in to kiss her. She laughs, although she responds with a mix of softness and eagerness that makes you want more. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more, but you pace yourselves, taking it slow and sinking into the feeling.

When you part, Paige brushes her lips across your temple, her arms tightening around you like she can’t believe she has you. And, maybe, the truth is you’ve always been a little bit of hers, just like she’s always been a little bit of yours. That is all you could ever need.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #dallas wings #wnba

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tccicomputercoaching · 9 months ago

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Signs of a good programmer

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#best programming course at tcci #Coaching for Programming Language #computer coaching class in Bopal-Ahmedabad #computer course at TCCI #Youtube

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hyomaslut · 2 years ago

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──★ ˙🌟 ̟ !! gold star redemption program. 18+!

☆⌒(ゝ。∂).ᐟ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ʙʟᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴄᴋ's ғᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇʀ

✿ ─ synopsis: you are the new manager for team blue lock and you have a great idea to make the players get along better. after all, positive reinforcement worked really well on dogs, why not men? ✿ ─ characters: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, shidou ryusei, itoshi rin, chigiri hyoma + kunigami rensuke referenced ✿ ─ cw: smut, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, aged-up!characters(18+), pet names, kissing, penetrative sex, oral receiving/giving, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, overstimulation, rough sex, deepthroating/face-fucking, non-exclusive relationships, lots of jealousy, pda, use of foul language, suggestive themes, shidou is an asshole, rin threatens murder, somewhat proofread ✿ ─ notes: okay so every is going to ignore the logistics and mental gymnastics done to put all these guys on the same team and have any of this go on, right? cool. this work was requested by @anastasiablossomlove pls enjoy!

managing team blue lock was no task for a person of average conviction. anyone with less of a spine would be easily trampled and consumed by the members, all with big personalities and even bigger egos. you took to the role with exceptional organizational skills and a positive attitude that didn’t falter, even under the cold glares of the less compliant men of the team (cough cough itoshi rin cough cough barou shouei). before the end of your first week you had drafted up detailed and individualized meal plans, unique to each of them. by the second you had worked with the coach to create special training regimes that works towards their fitness goals while providing challenge and variety. right under their noses you dug your pretty fingers into every part of team blue lock, finding every issue and soothing every conflict, turning a group of somewhat wild animals into a well functioning machine with you at its core.

and not a detail slipped your eye. you could always tell when kunigami had pushed himself too hard in the gym by the stiffness in his shoulders. honestly you doubt you would’ve been able to convince him to let you help him if he wasn’t just as sore as you predicted. but the minute your palms were pressing into his back he was groaning in relief, “you’re an angel” grumbled under his breath. he’s a bit less embarrassed the next time around, blushing while asking you to fix him like you did last time.

you quickly took responsibility for doing chigiri’s hair before every practice and game. after seeing it fall out of its style and flap wildly in his face whenever he reached top speed on the field, you decided he needed something a little more reliable to keep it out the way so his eyes could stay on the ball. though when his hair was this soft, who could blame you for taking a bit longer than necessary, brushing through the knots and gently scratching at his scalp. plus, he didn’t seem to mind all that much, always red faced and all smiles, leaning into your touch. the thank you kiss he plants on your cheek lingers long enough to leave a matching blush on your face as a token of his appreciation.

being the backbone of their system earned you respect, acknowledgement, even affection from the overly friendly members of the team (cough cough bachira meguru cough cough shidou ryusei). no one could deny the benefits of having you around, always offering all kinds of helpful advice and showed not a shred of judgment when listening to their problems. and you weren’t exactly ignorant to the fact that your constant support was causing some of your new friends to become especially attached to you. maybe to someone else it would be a bigger concern, but in your eyes, this was only another opportunity to do more for your team.

that’s why you implemented the gold star redemption program to help motivate them. it was quite simple to follow, you had a chart with all of their names along with cute, slightly wonky doodles of them, and a list of ways to earn gold stars. from goals and assists to being on good behavior, whatever way they earn their stars, team members can then cash them in for certain prizes from you. the list had looked something like this…

2 ☆ = snack or drink of your choice 4 ☆ = a home cooked meal 5 ☆ = a kiss <3 7 ☆ = a massage <33 10 ☆ = private training session <333

the objective was to give incentives towards cooperation. not to mention, it’s always good to strengthen bonds with your team members. it seems, however, that you underestimated how much of your time this new system would take up. or maybe you just overestimated how easy it would be to keep up with the greedy desires of so many egoists at once.

ever since your arrival, anyone with eyes could see that isagi yoichi carried a torch for you. you let him talk your ear off for hours about tactics and players, never tired of his company or too busy for his rambles. it gets his heart thumping obnoxiously loud in his chest. so yoichi makes it his objective to dote on you as much as possible to try to make up for all the time you spend fussing over everybody else. always staying after practice to help you or walking you home. so when you start handing out stars for that kind of stuff, isagi is already making a steady income. he considers himself a gentleman, so at first he spends his stars on meals. and he’s more than happy to eat your cooking, stirring up all kinds of wifey fantasies in his head and enjoying his lunches with you. but at night, when he’s lying in bed, the big ticket item at the bottom of the prize board haunts him. and when he can’t take it anymore, he slips into your tiny little office that you share with the coach, a self-satisfied smile on his face when he lets you know that he just finished the stat sheets you asked him to fill out, earning him his tenth gold star. enough for one private training session.

in all the times you thought about sex with isagi, you’re not sure you ever pictured it to be like this. bent over your own desk, tennis skirt bunched up around your waist, your star player too eager to sink into your pussy to even push down your underwear. they stayed tugged to the side, thoroughly soaked from the way his hips meet yours in sloppy desperate thrusts. “i knew i needed to fuck you when i saw this skirt,” he confesses, eyes fixed to the point where you connect, mesmerized by the way his cock disappears inside you, “you’ve been tempting me all day, so be a good girl and take my cock, okay?” before you can respond he hooks a finger into the elastic of your panties to let it snap back against your skin, drawing a small yelp from you. he changs the angle to fuck you harder, deeper. you wonder if this could be the same sweet yoichi that carries your things and bashfully tells you your outfit looks good.

apparently that yoichi doesn’t exist once he’s balls deep inside you, all that’s left is the side of him you’ve only caught glimpses of when he’s dominating his opponents on the field. and if you thought that it was a chance encounter, you’re sorely mistaken as week after week isagi makes sure he earns his ten stars and you get to know just how mean he can be. his grip is always tight around your hair, whether it’s pulling and steering you into the position he wants or guiding your head down to take more of his dick. god forbid he asks you nicely for something like he always does when you’re not ‘training’. one time you even had the gall to suggest the idea to him and lived to regret it as now if you want anything from him, isagi is only accepting the most convincing of your begs. “c'mon princess, mind your manners, if you wanna cum then you’re gonna have to ask really nicely.” and no teary eyed puppy dog look will get you what you want, even when he makes getting your words out so difficult. truthfully, he never intends to be so hard on you, but having you crying and begging for his cock is the only way to soothe the devil on his shoulder that tries to tell him to take you for himself. in the aftermath, you start to recognize your yoichi again, sheepish in his apologies for how rough he was with you, kissing away the tears that run down your face. he’s lucky you’re too fucked out to charge him for them.

there’s not a world where you offer bachira meguru sexual favors in exchange for playing soccer and he says no. he was already gonna do that anyway, and now not only does he get to make even more of a game out of it, but his reward for winning is the cute little manager he’s had his eyes on for far too long? consider him sold. bachira knows it would be most fun for him to save up and have sex with you as soon as possible, but all of a sudden he has five and he’s itching for a kiss. one he decides to give you right before practice starts… in front of the whole team. but can you blame him? he’s already been waiting forever to feel those pretty glossed lips on his, you couldn’t really expect him to make it through the next few hours when he’s so close to getting what he wants. and you could maybe understand that, but was it really necessary to go for a full open-mouthed wet almost make out that left you panting when everyone’s eyes were already on you? you suspect not, but bachira doubles down, telling you it was of upmost importance that he got it in, else he wouldn’t be able to focus. he neglects to tell you that he overheard reo in the locker room talking about what he was gonna do now that he had five stars. shidou already made it very clear that he would be first to ten, so bachira had to be crafty in order to secure at least one first from you.

meguru was certainly one of the more needy players, right under nagi that required some form of encouragement every step of the way to get anything done. bachira usually does what you tell him to, but not without whining about deserving a prize for being good. quite frankly, you dread having to ask anything of him, because he is determined to be fully compensated for even the smallest of requests. even a task as easy as grabbing something on a high shelf was met with a cheeky smirk and a request for a kiss. and don’t think he’ll budge either, holding the item hostage if he thinks he can squeeze two out of you. it didn’t make it any easier that bachira didn’t possess a shy bone in his whole body, openly showering you in affection when the others were around, holding your hand and nuzzling his face into your collar. it was enough to make even a professional like you blush. he acted as if he was oblivious to the jealous stares of his friends, but the smug cat-like smirk he sends them and the way he only holds you tighter when you try to shyly brush him off gives him away. it may come as a surprise considering his reputation for being a bit delusional, but bachira tries to root himself in reality for once. he frequently reminds himself of the nature of your relationship and tries his best not let his imagination run wild with anything that would be beyond the boundaries you’ve clearly set. things like picturing himself taking you on dates, coming home to you at night, introducing you to his mom. they were all too dangerous to let his mind settle on them for too long.

and what better distraction than burying his face between your thighs. it’s hard to think of much when he hasn’t bothered to stop lapping at your cunt long enough to take a breath in a couple minutes. suffocating was the least of his concerns when the clench around his fingers lets him know your orgasm is just around the corner. meguru swears that your pathetic little whimpers and the slick dripping down his chin are like a straight hit of dopamine to his brain and he’s at real risk of addiction at this point. lidded amber eyes travel up to watch your expression twist into one of pleasure as you gasp out his name. now that catches his interest. when your vision clears and your brain is functioning again after that intense high, you search for his comfort as if you had done any of the hard work. but all you’re met with is that signature wild look that he gets when he brushing past the enemy team’s defense straight towards his goal. it’s your only warning that he’s far from tired and even farther from sated. “if i can keep going, so can you baby. i know you have more for me. jus’ need t’see you make that face one more time.” you have no room to protest, his tongue already finding your clit and working towards bringing you to the edge once again. by your fourth time cumming, you’re sobbing for a break and debating whether you should charge him four times over or give him a star for each one.

someone who was on board with your system from the second that you explained how it worked, was shidou ryusei. what better way to celebrate another one of his blood pumping, heart stopping performances than racing to the locker room to blow a load in his favorite girl while his teammates debrief with the coach? to him it was simple, you fuck him, you feed him, you take care of him, you spend time with him. shidou is, by all of his definitions, dating you. while some might be turned off by the idea of dating someone who isn’t offering exclusivity, he didn’t see it as much of an obstacle. not when he spent star stickers like a gambler on a slot machine, having you multiple times a week if the economy allowed it. and if he’s short a few, no worries, ryusei is quite the negotiator. it starts one week when he’s only missing a star or two, promising he’ll pay back the difference, you know he’s a good customer. it’s probably not a good idea to give in to him though, as the next time he wants a private training session, he’ll insist they’re only nine stars for him. he has made all kinds of fake coupons from 50% Off! to Buy One Get One Free! to even a homemade punch card in his own terrible handwriting. shidou was the first one to ever get a star taken away when he tried to give you an arby’s gift card in exchange for a blowjob. he didn’t try that tactic again.

the worst is when he tries to haggle in the middle of sex. your legs are thrown over his shoulders and his tip is kissing your cervix when he chooses to whine about not being able to kiss you because he has no stars left. he worked too hard to get good star credit, he can’t go into star debt!! “ and with his lips just hovering over yours, his hot breath fanning across your face, how could you say no? in a moment of weakness, you have unfortunately given an inch to shidou, infamous mile taker, and now it’s hard to get him to pay for any of his kisses, especially while he’s fucking you. you thank god that at the very least no one knows he’s been getting them for free… if only shidou would allow your life to be that easy. even worse than giving him an inch, you expected shidou to keep a secret. and you thought his big mouth was something you liked about him. until he’s using it to brag to everyone that he’s your favorite, practically your boyfriend, all because you let him get away with a smooch here and there. let’s just say you had to give out a lot of free kisses to smooth over the problem his bragging habits created.

honestly ryusei was starting to cause a lot of confusion outside of the team with his antics. what with his always hanging off your arm, giving you as much affection as you’d tolerate, calling you sweet nicknames. the people in your life were actually starting to believe you two were dating. not that shidou does anything to discourage such rumors, only grinning and agreeing every time someone mistakes you as a couple. hell, he was starting to get you confused, saying things during your training sessions that certainly didn’t fit the transactional nature of the act. “holy shit you’re so tight- love this pussy, l-love you so much. say my name. c’mon baby, say you love me and i’ll make you feel so fucking good.” and only because ryusei always makes good on his promises do you allow yourself another moment of weakness.

itoshi rin didn’t have much interest or faith in you upon first introduction. he sized you up as some nobody doing this whole manager thing as a fun extracurricular, so as long as you stayed out of his way he didn’t care what you did. with his luck, he shouldn’t be surprised that you were immediately in his way, extremely often, rambling to him about ideas and strategies that he had no intention on listening to. although even he could admit, he understood why the others were so easily charmed by you. he was wrong about how seriously you took your job. not that it changed anything. at least that’s what rin tells himself, but in reality your relentless efforts and endless dedication to supporting all of them was something that spoke to him, made him a bit soft for you. it didn’t help that you were his type in every sense of the word, your attractiveness doing nothing but make feigning indifference a lot harder for rin. your seemingly endless patience didn’t help either. you always responded in kind to all of rin’s harsh words and cold stares, never let his sour attitude deter your subtle acts of service like getting grass stains out of his uniform and making sure he stays unbothered during his yoga. against his will, he was slowly warming up to you, but you were still caught off guard when rin started cashing in his stars, even if it was just a meal. he had lots of them sitting idle on the chart waiting to be used, so you supposed it was only natural for him to get some free food out of it. but you were even more taken aback when a couple days later he requested a massage from you with insistence that he only asks because he’s been extremely tense as of late. which wasn’t entirely untrue. rin had been very tense. just not from anything soccer related like he’d like you to believe. he was tense from the stress of his budding feelings for you combined with the dread of knowing he probably will never have you all to himself. at least not with this stupid reward system in place.

he despises it. he absolutely hates going about his day knowing there are other guys, his shithead teammates, that are getting your time, attention, and affection for the price of a couple of stupid fucking stickers. he misses the days when shidou’s incessant bragging about how many times he was able to make you cum or bachira’s unnecessary details of what your pussy tastes like didn’t bother him. now his blood boils to hear them talk about you like that. that kind of anger makes it clear to him that being your friend was simply not an option anymore. which is how he settled on getting a massage from you. he would satisfy this overwhelming craving he has for you and go back to normal and be able to focus solely on becoming best in the world again without thoughts of you plaguing his mind. that was his hope going into it, but feeling your warm touch on his bare back, melting away years of untreated knots and neglected aches in his body, he could almost blush at the intimacy he feels. especially when that foreign kindness he loves so much is on display as you reassure him that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about and that you’re proud he finally put his pride aside long enough to let you help him. you’ve got him, hook, line, and sinker now. no use in struggling so hard, he supposes, as some part of him knows he’s doomed to fall sooner or later. perhaps it’s time to surrender. he fought a good fight, but his greed for you was candidly too tough of an opponent.

and to rin, surrender looked like asking you when’s the soonest he could book a private training session. you don’t think you could look any more shocked. rin had a quick turn around from someone you doubted even liked you, to someone reserving as much of your time as his stars could buy. the more often he was with you, the less time you spent giving those lukewarm brats the treatment he wants reserved for him. and he wishes he gave in a lot sooner when he feels the wet heat of your mouth around his cock for the first time. how fast he would’ve folded if he knew how pretty you would look on your knees for him. rin tried to be gentle and let you set the pace, but between hissing out curses and barely biting back moans, that same greed to get more from you has his hand twisting itself in your hair and pushing down on the back of your head. he couldn’t help it. and it was so worth it to watch you choke and sputter around his length but never pull away. he knew you weren’t a quitter. “shit, feels good… don’t stop,” he all but gasps, hips instinctively jumping to reach further down your throat, grip tightening when you try to come up for air. after a long moment of breathing through your nose you relax enough to let him ease himself the rest of the way in. rin sighs in relief when your nose finally presses against his pelvis. the way you look up at him starry-eyed and full of adoration made his chest feel heavy with desire to be the only one you ever look at. it drives him crazy that any guy on the team can see you like this, and that heartache has rin fucking your face to forget it. “fuckkk. don’t look away, eyes on me, g’nna cum in that pretty mouth.”

you couldn’t deny that your new attempt at encouraging the team had its kinks. while overall the amount of arguments that broke out between players lessened to keep on good star-earning behavior, you could tell that it came with its own set of tension creating problems. you also couldn’t deny that being pulled in every direction by men vying for your attention was both very time consuming and extremely gratifying, but you think you manage it well. save for when they were already pumped up with adrenaline from a game, that is when real issues arise. especially when a player from the enemy team thinks it’s a good idea to try and hit on the cute little lady holding the clipboard. fatal mistake.

it starts with your favorite pot stirrer, bachira, calling out from his position, making everyone else on the team aware of the situation. “no shot dude, she don’t want you! focus on losing!” you’re confident you can diffuse whatever is about to go down before you notice rin leaving the ball alone in centerfield to beeline straight towards you. threats are flying from his lips on approach, quick to get in the guy’s face, planting his hands on his shoulders to shove him back. “what the fuck do you think you’re doing? i’ll kill you if you don’t get the fuck away from her.” you think maybe you have a shot of getting rin under control if you just- your eyes widen in horror as a flash moves in from your peripheral. there are no words, just shidou drop kicking this poor stranger at top speed. you cringe as you watch shidou knocks this guy off his feet, cleats first, taking rin down with him. what a way to earn a red card.

this was a fun project and request tysm!!! i just went about it in the interpretation i found most interesting, i really hope it was to your liking!!!

#divider credit to @cafekitsune #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bllk smut #blue lock #bllk #isagi yoichi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi smut #isagi yoichi smut #bachira x reader #bachira meguru x reader #shidou ryusei x reader #shidou ryuusei smut #shidou smut #chigiri x reader #kunigami x reader #miwa sins

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ricr-bhopal · 4 days ago

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Best Business Analytics Courses In Bhopal | Top Institutes & Career Opportunities 2025

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goldfades · 15 days ago

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𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 1/3)

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MASTERLIST | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.7k

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

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | competitive tension, mentions of injuries, slow burn dynamics, rivals-to-something-much-messier, media speculation, college basketball politics... this is only part one to the lay the works for the next two parts

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | listen. i just wanted to write about what happens when you throw two untouchable girls into the same gym and force them to coexist. this is about power, perception, and the kind of obsession you can’t quite name. it’s loud games and quiet bus rides. it’s two stars learning they shine brightest side by side.

You were born into greatness before you even had the language to name it.

The first thing you ever held was a mini basketball, your tiny hands clumsily wrapped around its worn leather like it had always belonged there. Your baby photos weren’t in soft pastels—they were draped in UConn blue and white, your mother’s old jersey hung behind you like a crown you hadn’t earned but would eventually grow into. You took your first steps on a basketball court. Learned your first words in locker rooms. The sharp scent of sweat, rubber soles, and Gatorade became as familiar to you as lullabies.

You were Diana Taurasi’s daughter. And that meant something.

Even when you were too young to understand the weight of it, other people did. They looked at you and saw potential. Expectation. In the eyes of coaches, scouts, fans—you weren’t just a kid. You were a blueprint. A second coming.

And you never got the chance to be anything else.

You were in second grade the first time someone referred to you as a “problem” on the court—meant as a compliment, of course. You dropped twenty-four points in an AAU game filled with girls four years older than you. By middle school, Gatorade was sponsoring youth events you headlined. By high school, you were trending every time you laced up. A walking headline. A phenom. A legacy in progress.

You didn’t just play basketball. You were basketball.

There was a calm that came with it. A clarity. You didn’t feel the pressure like other people expected you to. You felt something closer to instinct. The game spoke to you in a language you were born fluent in—cuts, passes, screens, shot clocks. It pulsed through your veins like memory. And your mother—your mother made sure you never coasted.

Diana Taurasi wasn’t just your mom. She was your coach, your mentor, your mirror. Brutally honest. Ferociously protective. She never let you fall for your own hype. Never let you take the easy road. You had to earn every point, every compliment, every step forward.

But still—there was no denying it.

You were that girl.

The number one recruit in the country for the 2024-25 season. The most scouted, most talked-about, most coveted player in women’s basketball. Some analysts said you were bigger than Cooper Flagg, more valuable, more marketable. Others called you a unicorn. A guard with a forward’s strength, a forward with a point guard’s court vision. You had Diana’s fire, but your own flavor of finesse. And you knew how to sell it. NIL deals rolled in before you turned seventeen—Nike, Beats, Gatorade, even a short documentary on your life that ESPN dropped during your senior year.

You didn’t ask to be the face of a movement. But you didn’t shy away from it, either.

They called you the princess of basketball. Not because you were soft. But because you were born in the castle and never once questioned whether or not you belonged.

Every program in the country wanted you. Coaches fawned. Analysts speculated. Your name was in every headline, your stats on every screen. Everyone—everyone—assumed you were going to UConn. How could you not? It was written in your blood. Your mom’s legacy was carved into the walls of Gampel Pavilion. Geno called you his “basketball granddaughter” before you could spell his name. You grew up running through their tunnels, watching legends take the court, dreaming in shades of blue.

But dreams change. Or maybe yours were never really yours to begin with.

Because when decision day came, you chose USC.

And the world? Imploded.

Headlines hit within seconds.

“TAURASI’S DAUGHTER SHOCKS BASKETBALL WORLD.”

“NUMBER ONE PROSPECT SNUBS UCONN.”

“PRINCESS TURNS REBEL.”

Everyone wanted a reason. Everyone needed an explanation. But it wasn’t complicated.

You didn’t want to inherit a legacy. You wanted to build one.

UConn would’ve been the safe path. The linear one. The predictable one. But you were never interested in repeating history. You were interested in rewriting it.

And USC—the City of Angels, the rebirth of West Coast basketball—was the place where you could do that.

Because LA offered you more than a court. It offered you a chance to step outside of your mother’s shadow, to start fresh, to make people see you for who you really were, not just who you were born to.

And maybe, deep down, it wasn’t just about legacy.

Maybe it was also about control. About owning your narrative before someone else could spin it for you.

You showed up to campus with cameras waiting. Your arrival was treated like the second coming. You weren’t a freshman—you were an icon in training. The team photographers caught you walking into Galen Center in a fresh pair of white and crimson Kobe 6s, your curls slicked back, diamond studs catching the California sun. The post went viral in under an hour.

“She’s here.”

“It’s over for the rest of the NCAA.”

“UConn fumbled the bag.”

People were already talking about championships. About rivalries. About changing the landscape of women’s college hoops.

But none of the buzz fazed you.

You’d been watched your whole life. You knew how to turn that into power. Still—there was one thing you hadn’t accounted for.

You weren’t the only star in town. And Juju Watkins? She wasn’t about to hand over the keys to her kingdom without a fight.

When people thought of USC women’s basketball, they thought of Juju Watkins.

It wasn’t up for debate. It wasn’t a question or a maybe or a footnote. It was fact. She was the headline, the face, the foundation. The hometown hero who chose to stay, to build, to bet on herself when everyone else was chasing dynasties across the country. She was the one who said no to UConn and South Carolina and Stanford and carved her own path under the California sun. And she was proud of that. She should be proud of that.

Because she didn’t just help put USC back on the map.

She was the map.

The jersey sales, the packed home games, the national coverage, the buzz—the heat that hadn’t touched USC in decades—it all started with her. She was a one-woman revolution in a bun and Kobe kicks, an LA native who brought cameras and fans and credibility back to the Galen Center.

And she worked for it. Every inch.

No one handed her anything.

She didn’t have a last name that made people bow. She wasn’t born into legend. She earned her way here—through sweat, and pressure, and expectation so loud it nearly drowned her more than once. And even now, with her name etched into the culture of this team, with her photos plastered on every poster and promo, she still didn’t feel safe.

Not when you were coming.

She saw the rumors online before she believed them. Saw your name floated in interviews, message boards, pre-season speculation. Everyone thought you’d go to UConn. It made sense. You were Diana Taurasi’s daughter, after all. Basketball royalty. UConn blue practically ran in your blood. But then the decision came, and it broke across social media like a crack of thunder.

You picked USC.

And everything shifted.

Juju was scrolling Twitter when she saw the official commitment post. A photo of you in cardinal and gold, arms folded over your chest, looking like you already owned the place. The caption was something cocky—something short, like legacy starts now or chapter one—and the likes exploded in real time.

At first, Juju just stared. Blinked. Read it again.

Then she threw her phone across the bed and laughed.

Not because it was funny. But because what else could she do?

You were coming here. To her house. To the team she rebuilt from the ground up. And she already knew what was going to happen next. All the headlines. The endless comparisons. The whispers that this—you—was the beginning of a new era.

As if she was already yesterday’s news. As if she hadn’t fought tooth and nail to give USC its identity back.

She hated it. Hated the way your name lingered on everyone’s tongue like some kind of prophecy. Hated how you were treated like the second coming of women’s basketball when she wasn’t even done writing her own story yet.

Most of all, she hated how easy it all seemed for you.

Juju watched your highlight tapes obsessively. More than she was willing to admit. Alone, late at night, headphones in. She’d scroll through hours of clips—AAU, USA Basketball, random TikTok edits—and she’d try to find the cracks. The flaws. Something she could use to tell herself you weren’t as good as they said.

But there weren’t any.

You were that good.

And that was the worst part.

You weren’t just hype. You weren’t just legacy and bloodline and pretty branding. You were legit. You moved like a pro—fluid, confident, calculated. Your handle was filthy. Your jumper, clean. You read defenses like they were written in bold font. And your passing game? That pissed her off the most. It was unselfish. As if the game didn’t revolve around you, even though everyone treated it like it did.

You were the kind of player who made the court look small.

And Juju knew what that meant. It meant she had a problem.

Because now she had to fight for her spot on her own team.

This wasn’t high school anymore. It wasn’t a one-woman show. She wasn’t going to get by on name recognition or local loyalty. There was another star on the roster now. And not just any star. The star. And no matter how hard Juju tried to downplay it, the truth kept showing up in her chest like a bruise she couldn’t ignore.

They weren’t just making room for you. They were rearranging things for you.

The trainers. The media staff. Even the coaches—Coach Gottlieb hadn’t said anything directly, but Juju could feel it. The careful balancing act. The subtle shifts in tone. The way they said your name like a promise.

It made her stomach twist.

It made her wake up earlier. Stay later. Work harder.

Not because she wanted to impress anyone. But because she wasn’t about to get pushed out of her own kingdom.

She’d bled for this team. She’d sacrificed for this team. She’d become the face of the program when no one else believed it could be done. And now everyone wanted to forget?

She wasn’t going to let that happen.

So yeah—she watched you. Studied you. Tracked your movements in every practice, every drill, every media appearance. Not out of admiration. Out of necessity. Because if she didn’t, she’d get left behind. Replaced. Reduced to a co-star in your story when she hadn’t even finished writing her own.

And maybe, just maybe, that obsession came with something sharper. Something deeper. Something she didn’t want to name just yet.

Because every time she looked at you—cool and collected, already being adored by everyone around you—she didn’t just see a rival.

She saw a mirror. A threat. A spark.

And she wasn’t sure which one scared her more.

You told them over dinner.

Not in a dramatic way, not with some big announcement or a video reveal or anything even close to that. Just the three of you—your mom, Diana, her wife, Penny, and you—sitting around the table in the backyard of your Arizona house. The kind of night where the sun stretched out long, warm and pink across the horizon, the cicadas were already singing, and the grill still smelled like steak and vegetables.

You’d been quiet most of the meal. Not tense, just… focused. Waiting for the right moment. You’d known what you were going to say for days—maybe even weeks. It had been building in you like a tide, inevitable. But knowing didn’t make saying it any easier.

Penny was the one who asked, voice soft and casual as she leaned back in her chair, wine glass balanced in her hand. “So, babe… where’s your head at with schools?”

You looked across the table at them. Diana, in her usual tank top and slides, her expression unreadable. Penny, barefoot, relaxed, but always watching closely. You pushed a piece of grilled zucchini around your plate for a second. Then you said it.

“I’m committing to USC.”

Diana blinked.

Penny smiled, almost immediately. “USC, huh? That’s exciting—LA, sunshine, staying West Coast. Great coaching staff. Good program.”

Diana still hadn’t moved.

You watched her fork freeze midair, hanging over her plate. She blinked again, slower this time, like maybe her brain was buffering. Then she set the fork down.

“USC?” she repeated, voice flat. “As in… the Trojans?”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I already talked to Coach Gottlieb. I’m sending my papers in tomorrow.”

It was quiet.

Penny sipped her wine. Diana didn’t say anything, just stared at you. You could practically hear her thoughts. You weren’t surprised, not really. You’d been bracing for this since the idea of USC first came into focus. Since the first whispers of doing something different—your thing—started to bloom.

Diana leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So what happened to UConn? You know, you already have your spot on the team, Geno promised.”

You shrugged. “It’s not what I want.”

“And Stanford?” she asked, voice sharp now. “South Carolina? Notre Dame? You literally have offers from every top ten school. Every. Single. One.”

“I know.”

She scoffed. “So explain to me how you ended up choosing USC like it’s not a massive downgrade.”

“Di—” Penny warned gently.

“No,” Diana cut in, eyes still locked on you. “I’m serious. I need her to say it. Because it sounds a lot like she’s throwing away every advantage she’s got to go be on a rebuilding team for—what? A vibe? Sunshine and Instagram opportunities?”

“It’s not about that,” you said quietly. “It’s about making something mine.”

Diana didn’t laugh, but she might as well have. The sound she made was dry, almost bitter. “You have something that’s yours. Your name, your talent, your future—all of it. And you really think going to USC is gonna make people forget you’re my kid?”

You stared at her. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to be great,” you said, firm now. “I want to win. But I don’t want to do it where people are already expecting me to. I want to do it somewhere I chose. Not somewhere that was handed to me because of you.”

The table went quiet again. Penny reached over and placed a hand gently on Diana’s forearm.

“She’s not trying to disrespect you,” Penny said softly.

But Diana wasn’t even angry. Not really. She looked almost hurt. Or maybe confused. Like she was staring at a stranger wearing your face.

“I get it,” she said finally, low and tight. “You don’t want to follow in my footsteps. You want your own lane.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

Diana sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Look, you know I respect USC. I do. But they don’t have a championship pedigree. They don’t have the infrastructure. If you really want to build something from the ground up, then go to Arizona. Hell, go to UCLA. At least those would make sense.”

Penny smiled behind her glass. “You’re negotiating now?”

“She’s not thinking it through.”

“I have thought it through,” you snapped. “I’ve thought about it more than anything in my entire life.”

Diana just looked at you, and for a second, it felt like you were ten years old again, after a bad game, standing at the free-throw line in the driveway while she drilled you on your form until the sun went down.

Then she exhaled, leaned forward, and said, “Fine.”

You blinked. “Fine?”

“But if you’re going to USC,” she said, voice suddenly sharper, “you’re going to do it like a Taurasi.”

You held her gaze.

“You’re not going there to participate. You’re not going there to be cute. You’re going there to win. And not just games—I mean finals. National championships. I don’t care if you’re a freshman or if you’re going up against five-star recruits. You go there, you better drag that team into the tournament and you better make it count. Or it’s a waste.”

There was a pause.

And then you smiled. A small one. The kind that came from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Okay,” you said. “Deal.”

She nodded once. “Then I don’t want to hear any complaints when you’re waking up at 5 a.m. every day for two-a-days and you’ve got cameras in your face asking why you didn’t go to UConn.”

“I won’t complain,” you said.

“You better not,” she muttered, but her voice had softened.

Penny looked between the two of you and shook her head. “God, you two are the same.”

Neither of you denied it.

Because you were. In ways you couldn’t run from, even if you tried.

You were Diana’s daughter through and through. The sharp edge. The attitude. The refusal to do anything halfway. And when she threw down that challenge, that line in the sand, it didn’t scare you.

It thrilled you.

You were going to USC. And now, you were going to prove that you could do exactly what she said.

Because making it to the finals wasn’t a request.

It was a promise.

There’s something about first impressions.

You know how they say don’t judge a book by its cover, but that’s exactly what everyone does—especially in women’s basketball, where reputation walks into the room before you do.

And yours?

Yours has been following you like a shadow since the moment you could dribble.

So when you showed up to Galen Center on the first day of summer workouts, it wasn’t just an arrival. It was a statement.

You stepped onto that court like it was already yours.

Custom Jordan 1s in USC colors, trimmed with metallic gold laces. Dutch braids tight and glossy, edges laid, diamond studs catching the light. Oversized vintage Nike tee tucked into black USC practice shorts. The look was casual, effortless—but make no mistake, it was curated. You weren’t just the new recruit.

You were the moment.

The gym buzzed when you walked in. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Girls nudged each other subtly, stealing glances over their water bottles. Someone whispered your name like a prayer. A few others just stared like they couldn’t believe you were real. That she—basketball’s golden child, Diana Taurasi’s legacy—was actually here.

You didn’t smile.

Not because you were being rude, but because you didn’t need to. You let the silence stretch a little. Let it settle.

Own the room first. Be friendly later, that’s what Diana always said.

Coach Gottlieb was already making her way toward you, clipboard in hand, eyes bright and slightly nervous—like she knew she had something valuable in her hands and didn’t want to drop it.

“Welcome to USC,” she said, offering her hand, and you shook it with a firm grip, your expression unreadable.

“I’m excited to be here,” you replied smoothly, voice low, even.

And you were. You meant it.

The rest of the staff followed—assistant coaches, trainers, strength coaches. They all greeted you like royalty. Like this was the day they’d been waiting for, the shift they’d been promised. You could feel it in the way their eyes lingered too long, in the way their smiles tightened when they spoke. The expectation was heavy. But it didn’t scare you.

You were used to it.

You’d been molded in the spotlight.

Still, even as you let them usher you toward the team, subtly placing you at the center of the gym, you felt her before you saw her.

That heat. That edge.

That silent resistance.

Juju Watkins stood off to the side, arms crossed, chewing on a piece of gum like she was watching a movie she’d seen before and already hated the ending.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Didn’t move a muscle.

Just stared at you with a look that could slice glass. And for the first time that day, you felt your pulse jump.

You turned your body slightly, acknowledging her. Nothing obvious. Just a glance. A barely-there curve of your mouth. A flicker of something beneath your lashes.

Juju didn’t flinch.

Didn’t acknowledge the coaches still circling you like satellites. Didn’t bother with the whispered conversations or the teammates already inching toward you like moths to a flame.

Her energy was solid. Grounded. Unimpressed.

And God, you liked it.

It fed something in you. Pulled the thread tighter.

Because everyone else had already folded. They’d smiled too wide. Said too much. Laughed too loud. They wanted to be close to you, to claim you before the season even started.

But not Juju.

She didn’t want to claim you. She wanted to test you.

“Watkins,” Coach Gottlieb called out, beckoning her over. “Come introduce yourself.”

Juju walked slowly, deliberately, like she was being summoned to something beneath her. Like she couldn’t care less.

She stopped in front of you, hands on her hips, her expression unreadable.

You extended your hand, polite. Calm.

She looked at it for a beat too long before finally shaking it. Her grip was firm. Just like yours.

“I’ve seen your highlights,” she said, voice flat.

“I’ve seen yours too,” you replied.

“You’re good.”

“So are you.”

Another pause. Neither of you smiled.

The gym was too quiet. Everyone else was watching like it was a live broadcast—like if they blinked, they’d miss the exact moment everything shifted.

Because it had.

Right there, in that subtle, loaded exchange.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t bend.

And you loved that.

Because if this season was going to be a war—and you already knew it would be—you didn’t want people behind you. You wanted someone standing across from you, sharp and hungry.

“You came here for the spotlight,” she said, still looking you dead in the eye.

“I came here to win.”

Juju’s jaw tightened just a little. Then she stepped back.

“Then I hope you can handle the heat.”

You smiled then. Not big. Just enough.

“I grew up in Phoenix,” you said. “I am the heat.”

A few girls nearby muttered, one of them letting out a soft, “Damn.”

Coach clapped her hands, trying to cut the tension with forced cheer. “Alright, alright! Let’s get this practice started.”

Juju turned and walked back toward her side of the court without another word.

And you followed, just a step behind, already measuring the distance between you.

Not to catch up. But to compete.

Because if she wanted this team to be hers, she’d have to earn it the same way you always had. By going through you.

The gym was thick with the scent of rubber soles and sweat and adrenaline.

Summer practice meant no fans in the stands, no cameras, no bright lights—just the brutal honesty of open court under high ceilings and fluorescent lights. Coaches watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, clipboards held to their chests like shields. The rest of the team had spread out along the baseline, hydrating and whispering, but their eyes stayed locked on you and Juju. Everyone was watching.

It had started off civil.

A few plays in, no one had said much. You took a three—clean, efficient, net barely moved. Juju answered with a drive, weaving through two defenders, finishing off the glass. It was back and forth. Electric. Mutual respect in motion.

But then things shifted.

It happened in the second rotation, when the scrimmage flipped and Coach had you both guarding each other.

And Juju’s mouth opened.

“Cute shot,” she muttered, brushing your shoulder with hers as she passed. “Let’s see you try it with pressure this time.”

You blinked.

That was… new.

You’d watched her tapes. You knew her rep. Juju wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be. Her game was usually enough.

But now? Now she wouldn’t shut up.

“Left side’s dead, princess. You ain’t getting through there.”

“Where’s that Taurasi footwork? Lookin’ a little slow today.”

“Oh, we getting soft now? C’mon. That’s all you got?”

And the thing that got under your skin wasn’t just the chirping.

It was that she was good. Really good.

Her defense was sticky, her hips low, her reads quick. She played like she had something to prove—and maybe she did.

Your heart thumped harder every time she bumped you. Every time her breath hit your neck. Every time she cut in front of you, fast and mean, and forced you to reset.

She was fast.

You were faster.

She was sharp.

You were sharper.

But she was playing dirty. And you liked it.

You didn’t back down.

You locked her up the next play, forced her baseline, body tight against hers, your sneakers screeching against the court as she pivoted to escape you. You cut her off again. This time, she didn’t get the shot off.

You felt her frustration ripple like heat off her body.

“You reaching now?” she barked, eyes narrowing. “Gonna need more than your last name to stop me.”

Your grin was slow. “Good. I was getting bored.”

But inside, your blood was pumping like bass through a speaker.

You were not bored. Not even close.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

This gym—her gym—used to be silent when she moved. Used to breathe when she did. She built this place from the ground up. She made USC a name again. She chose it when no one else would, when people asked why she wasn’t going East, when they begged her to ride someone else’s legacy. She stayed. She led.

And now she was being overshadowed in her own house.

By you.

Diana Taurasi’s daughter. The golden child.

She hated how easy it looked for you. How clean your handles were. How smooth your jumper was. How you moved like the floor had memorized your rhythm.

You didn’t even look tired.

You were laughing, talking shit back. Like this was some kind of game.

But Juju knew better. This wasn’t a game. This was war.

Because you weren’t here to play second. You weren’t here to learn from her. You came to take her spot, whether you said it out loud or not.

And worst of all?

You were good enough to do it. She hated that more than anything.

By the third quarter of scrimmage, your jersey was sticking to your skin and your legs were starting to ache in the way that meant you were working—not for cardio, not for endurance, but for dominance.

Juju was right there, still glued to your hip, still yapping, still refusing to break. Her loose ponytail swished behind her as she moved, jaw clenched, sneakers relentless on the hardwood.

“She don’t pass, huh?” she called out mid-play, just loud enough for the others to hear. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re used to being the favorite.”

You spun on the drive, caught her slipping for half a second, and rose for the jumper—elbow high, wrist flick perfect.

Swish.

“Maybe if you kept your mouth closed,” you muttered as you jogged back, “you��d hear the whistle next time.”

The sidelines erupted with half-laughs, oohs, and fake coughs.

You were both breathing heavy now, chest to chest as the ball reset.

Juju’s voice dropped low as she leaned in for the next possession. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”

You looked her dead in the eyes. “Good. I want you to see it.”

The ball snapped back into play.And there you were again.

Two stars burning too close. Too fast.

Her footwork was beautiful, all twitch muscle and timing, cutting angles like she’d drawn them herself. You matched it with precision. Hands up. Feet planted. You were reading her eyes now.

She was reading yours, too.

No one else on the court mattered anymore. The game had collapsed into the two of you, trading buckets and barbs, like this was all just a prelude to something bigger. Deeper.

By the final buzzer, your arms were burning. Your lungs, raw.

But so was your heart.

Because that tension? That unspoken current between you?

It wasn’t just rivalry. It was obsession. And neither of you had even scratched the surface of what it meant yet.

The next couple of weeks were harder than anything you expected.

And it wasn’t the drills. It wasn’t the lifting sessions or the playbook or the sweltering summer heat rising off the gym floor in waves.

It was her.

Juju.

She was everywhere. She was in your space, in your face, in your head.

You’d never had a teammate like her before—someone who didn’t just match your energy, but challenged it. Someone who pushed back. Who called you out. Who didn’t give a damn about your name or your highlight reel or the fact that Diana Taurasi was your mother.

Juju didn’t treat you like royalty. She treated you like a threat.

And you hated it. Hated the way she barked at you on defense like you weren’t doing enough. Hated the way she boxed you out with unnecessary force, like she was trying to send a message. Hated that she never gave you even a sliver of praise—never nodded, never smiled, never gave an inch.

You hated that she acted like you didn’t deserve to be here. And most of all—you hated how deep down, some part of you didn’t feel totally sure that you did.

Because this was the first time in your life you were sharing the court with someone who felt like a mirror. Someone who wanted it just as bad. Someone who could match you. Someone who reminded you that greatness wasn’t owed.

It had to be taken.

And that kind of pressure? It cracked things open.

You didn’t notice how bad it had gotten until that Thursday.

It was mid-scrimmage—five-on-five, game tied, coaches silent on the sidelines. You were running the wing, fast break after a turnover, and the ball hit your hands like lightning. You barely slowed your momentum as you cut in for the layup, extending toward the glass with your left.

And then—impact.

A hard shove. Not enough to break bone, but enough to throw your angle off, enough to send you stumbling into the padding beneath the basket.

You hit it with a grunt, palms catching your fall, knees scraping the floor.

Whistles blew, and the gym fell into a hush.

You pushed yourself up slowly, chest heaving, and turned around.

Juju was standing a few feet behind you, chest puffed, hands on hips, not even pretending to look sorry.

Your jaw clenched.

“Are you serious?” you snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“It was an accident,” she bit back, already rolling her eyes.

“Bullshit.”

“You cut into the lane late,” Juju added to the coach, but her eyes never left yours. “Wasn’t my fault you can’t finish through contact.”

The dig sliced clean through your composure. You stepped forward.

“Finish through contact?” you echoed, voice rising. “You shoved me. You’re not slick. You’ve been doing this passive-aggressive shit since the day I got here.”

“Yeah?” Juju said, stepping toward you now. “Maybe if you earned your minutes instead of walking in like you own the place, you’d get some respect.”

You felt something crack.

“Respect?” you repeated. “You think I don’t earn my shit? You think just ‘cause my last name is Taurasi, I get handed everything?”

She shrugged, smirking. “If the shoe fits, princess.”

You took another step forward.

“Say that again.”

“Why? You gonna call Mommy to defend you?”

The breath you took was sharp, chest tight, heat blooming under your skin like fire.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” you hissed. “You don’t know what I’ve had to prove just to exist in this sport without people saying it’s all because of her.”

“Well guess what,” Juju snapped. “This is my team. My court. I built this. I bled for it. And you? You’re just here to make headlines.”

“Then guard me better,” you spit.

“Then play better.”

The gym was deadly silent.

No one moved. No one breathed.

The two of you stood nose-to-nose, fire in your eyes, fists half-curled at your sides like you weren’t entirely sure what came next.

And then Coach’s voice cut through like thunder.

“HEY!”

Both your heads snapped toward her.

She was furious. Red-faced. The veins in her neck visible.

“I’ve had enough of this little pissing match.”

Neither of you said anything.

“You two think this is cute?” she asked, voice thick with venom. “Think you’re the only stars I’ve coached? Newsflash—I’ve seen plenty of talent crash and burn because they couldn’t get over their damn egos.”

She stepped forward, eyes darting between the two of you.

“You want to fight? Fight fatigue.”

She pointed to the baseline.

“Both of you. Suicides. Until I say stop. And if either of you open your mouths again, the whole team’s running with you.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Your eyes locked with Juju’s, still crackling with tension, but something else simmered underneath it now. But whatever it was, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

You turned first, storming to the line, jaw set, hands shaking as you settled into position.

Juju jogged beside you. You didn’t look at each other.

The whistle blew.

You ran.

Back and forth. Over and over.

Sweat blurred your vision. Your lungs ached. Your shoes burned against the hardwood. Your muscles screamed. But you kept running. Because you had to.

Because you weren’t going to be the one who quit first.

Not now. Not ever. Not while she was still watching.

And even as the coach’s whistle echoed through the gym, even as the rest of the team sat in awkward silence, even as the seconds ticked by like hours—there was only one person you were racing against.

And she was right beside you.

That night, you called your mom with your legs submerged in ice.

The dorm was quiet. Your roommate was gone for the weekend, the glow of the lamp by your bed the only light in the room. Your phone was propped against a half-drunk water bottle on your nightstand, speakerphone on as you tucked your chin into your hoodie and stared blankly at your swollen ankles.

“—and then she shoved me,” you were saying, your voice climbing with every word. “Like full-on, no regard for human life. I hit the floor so hard I’m pretty sure my rib cage is lopsided now.”

The sound of Diana Taurasi’s laugh crackled through the phone. Dry. Sharp. Annoyingly amused.

You blinked at the ceiling. “Why are you laughing? I could’ve died or like, torn something!”

“Oh yeah,” Diana said. “Because Juju Watkins was out there committing murder one hard foul at a time.”

“Mom.”

“I’m just saying. You’re alive. Your limbs are still attached. You’ve survived tougher.”

You pouted, even though she couldn’t see you. “You don’t get it. She hates me. Like she doesn’t even try to hide it.”

“That’s because you’re a threat.”

You froze.

The silence lasted long enough that you heard her settle into what sounded like a leather couch, maybe in the living room back home. A game was playing faintly in the background—probably EuroLeague or WNBA reruns. You could imagine her perfectly: one leg thrown over the armrest, probably in sweatpants, wine glass untouched on the coffee table.

“A threat?” you repeated.

“To her spotlight. Her ego. Her starting position.” Diana’s voice was calm, pointed. “This isn’t new, baby. That’s how the NCAA is.”

You huffed, dragging your fingers through your hair.

“She’s just—she doesn’t respect me. She talks down to me. Like I didn’t earn being here.”

Diana didn’t respond right away.

You waited, thinking she’d say something soothing. Something comforting. She’d been like that your whole life—brutally honest, yeah, but always protective. Always on your side. You expected her to say Juju was out of line, that the coaching staff needed to do a better job keeping her in check, that you were the star now and people should treat you accordingly.

Instead, what you got was: “So what?”

You blinked. “What?”

“So what if she doesn’t respect you?” Diana said plainly. “Why does that bother you so much?”

You sat there, stunned.

“Because—” you sputtered, “—because I’ve always earned my respect. I show up, I work, I win. People like me. People listen to me. This—this is the first time I’ve ever had someone act like I don’t belong. Like I’m just some spoiled brat with a famous mom.”

A beat of silence.

And then: “And what if you are a spoiled brat with a famous mom?”

“Mom—”

“I’m serious,” Diana cut in, still maddeningly calm. “What if that’s what she thinks? What if the whole team thinks that? Are you gonna whine about it for the next six months, or are you gonna go get that Natty like we talked about?”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re being so mean right now.”

“No,” she said, voice suddenly sharper. “I’m being honest.”

And that was the first time she’d ever said it like that.

Like she wasn’t just your mom anymore. Like she was a player. A champion. A Taurasi.

“You wanted USC,” she continued. “You picked this path. You chose to leave UConn and LSU and Stanford on the table because you wanted to be the one who turned this program into something. You said you wanted a legacy. You said you wanted the pressure.”

You stared down at your phone, your throat dry.

“Well, baby,” she said, her voice softening just a fraction. “This is what pressure looks like.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away.

There was a silence between you—something weighty, not quite painful, but real. Something that made you sit up straighter and take your legs out of the bucket. You wiped them dry with a towel as your heart thudded in your chest.

Because somewhere in the middle of that call, the fog lifted.

You remembered who you were.

You weren’t some freshman with big shoes to fill. You weren’t just Diana’s daughter. You weren’t just a shiny new recruit with a Nike deal and a highlight tape that made grown men gasp.

You were you.

You’d broken records before you could legally drive. You’d played against grown women in the Olympics. You’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the best of the best and dominated.

You didn’t have to be liked.

You just had to win.

And if Juju was going to come for you, push you around, run her mouth?

Good.

You’d run harder. Hit back cleaner. Score louder. And when the time came—when the lights were on and the title was on the line—she’d see.

They’d all see.

You wiped your eyes—tears you hadn’t even realized were building. Not sad tears. Just… heavy ones. Exhaustion. Frustration. A little clarity.

“Thanks,” you muttered finally.

Diana chuckled. “You done crying now?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Sure.”

You cracked the tiniest smile, pressing your phone to your chest.

“I’m gonna win it, you know,” you whispered. “I’m gonna win the whole damn thing.”

“I know,” she said.

And she meant it.

She didn’t say ‘if.’ She said when.

Because deep down, Diana had always known this day would come—the day you stopped playing like her daughter and started playing like yourself.

And it started here.

In a quiet dorm room, with your knees still aching and your ego a little bruised, but your vision suddenly, perfectly clear.

The air hangs heavy as you walk into the gym the next morning. It's not just the early heat, though it clings to the rafters like a thick curtain, but the palpable weight of yesterday.

Everyone feels it. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife.

The upperclassmen, who witnessed the argument firsthand, avoid eye contact. The coaches, forced to end scrimmage after only twenty minutes of barely-contained hostility, wear tight-lipped expressions. And the freshmen, their eyes wide, dart between Juju and you, as if they'd just watched two titans clash.

You stride in with your usual swagger – custom Jordan slides, iced coffee clutched in your hand, the hood of your sweatshirt still shadowing your braids. But there's a new tension in your jaw, a barely leashed energy simmering beneath the surface. Your eyes sweep across the court the moment you step inside.

Juju is already there, headphones clamped over her ears, hoodie discarded, meticulously tying her shoes. She doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge your arrival in any way.

But she knows. You both do.

Coach's whistle pierces the strained quiet the second everyone gathers.

"Alright, let's cut the shit," she declares, clipboard in one hand, the other planted firmly on her hip. "We need to talk."

The gym stills. Every movement ceases.

You lean against the baseline wall, arms crossed over your chest. Juju finally pulls off her headphones and joins the semicircle.

"I don't care if you hate each other," Coach says, her gaze sweeping between the two of you. "But what I do care about is this program. And the culture we're trying to build here."

A long, heavy pause stretches out. You can feel the heat prickling behind your ears.

"If I have to bench two of the best players in the country to make a point," Coach adds, her voice firm, "I will."

That makes everyone shift uncomfortably. Even Juju blinks, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

"You think I won't sit you for the first game?" Coach says, her gaze now locked onto yours. "Try me."

Your jaw clenches tighter.

Coach pivots to Juju. "You think I care what ESPN ranked you? You act like that again, you're out."

The silence that follows isn't just awkward – it's charged with unspoken threats and simmering frustration.

And then, just as abruptly, Coach claps her hands together.

"Same teams as yesterday," she announces. "Watkins. Y/N. You're together today."

You nearly groan out loud. Juju scoffs softly under her breath. You both line up. The whistle blows, sharp and decisive.

And then something unexpected happens.

It begins as pure muscle memory. You take the inbound pass and your eyes instinctively scan the court, pivoting naturally to where Juju usually cuts across the top of the key – and there she is. Quick. Fluid. Your eyes meet for a fleeting second, and without even thinking, you pass the ball.

Juju catches it in stride and elevates for a mid-range jumper.

Nothing but net.

No celebration. No smug smile. Just two silent nods exchanged across the court.

Next possession, Juju finds herself trapped in the corner, two defenders closing in. You see it unfold even before she calls for help – you slip out of the paint, creating an open passing lane. Juju whips the ball to you without looking. You take two quick dribbles, spin off your defender, and hand it right back.

Juju drives baseline, two defenders clinging to her hip, and pulls up for another shot.

Swish.

And then it clicks.

You move together as if you're wired the same way. You dictate the pace, and Juju responds with perfect timing. Juju pushes the tempo, and you fill the lane without hesitation. It's intuitive. Seamless. Like two pieces of the same powerful engine finally finding their rhythm.

Coach folds her arms on the sideline, her eyes narrowed in observation.

You're not just good together. You're terrifying.

Even with the lingering tension, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air – neither of you smiling, neither speaking – it doesn't matter. Your bodies communicate in a language you haven't shared until now. Pure, instinctive chemistry. And the rest of the team feels it too. Plays that were once clunky and disjointed now flow smoothly, both of you orchestrating the pace with an effortless understanding.

You start anticipating Juju's footwork, trailing behind her and dishing the ball mid-step, trusting her to catch and finish. Juju begins trusting you to take the pressure off when she's double-teamed – something she rarely allows anyone to do.

For the first time in her life, Juju isn't the only one calling the shots.

And she doesn't hate it.

She wants to hate it – wants to ignore the way your timing elevates her game, makes her sharper. Wants to pretend the bounce passes that slice between defenders aren't the best she's seen since high school.

But facts are undeniable.

You make the game easier. You even make it fun.

But Juju isn't about to admit that. Not with yesterday's harsh words still lodged in her throat.

She glances at you after another assist – a fast break finish, clean and precise – and catches the faintest hint of a smirk playing on your lips.

Cocky. Effortless. Of course.

You don't say anything either.

You're not ready to voice it aloud, but this feels right. This is what basketball should be. Fast, ruthless, and beautiful. And for the first time in a long time, you're not the only one who can match your tempo.

You've spent weeks dreading Juju's presence, resenting her dominance. But out here, with the scoreboard ticking, sweat dripping, and no one else able to keep up?

You can't deny it. You need her.

And maybe, just maybe, Juju needs you too.

Coach's whistle blows again. "Hold it."

Everyone freezes mid-motion.

She doesn't speak for a few long seconds. She just looks at the two of you, her gaze intense. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips.

"That's what I'm talking about," she says, her voice low and steady.

She isn't grinning or clapping her hands like some overly enthusiastic little league coach. No – Coach looks satisfied. Like someone who's been patiently waiting for this exact moment to unfold.

"If you two keep playing like that," she says slowly, deliberately, "we're not just going to the tournament."

Another pause hangs in the air.

"We're making a deep run."

Your heart thuds in your chest.

Juju doesn't look over at you. But she doesn't have to. You both know what that means.

It isn't about becoming best friends. Or even about getting along.

It's about legacy.

About banners hanging in the rafters. About proving something – everything – to the world. And you're finally on the same page.

Even if neither of you is ready to say it out loud.

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