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silentscrying · 7 days ago

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🏀 buzzer beater | chapter TWELVE.

nba!gojo x manager!reader

summary: you thought you'd gotten rid of arrogant NBA star satoru gojo when he left the curses after your first year in basketball management. but when your contract is up three years later, you find yourself working with him once again as the manager for the sorcerers. as you navigate playoff season alongside long-time friend ieiri shoko and the sorcerers' insufferable star player, you start to realize his sudden departure from the curses may not have been what it seemed, and maybe gojo isn't exactly the person (or player) you thought he was, either.

warnings: language, implied sexual content, playing dirty, not how basketball administration works, so many italics, the LAST CHAPTER! || sfw. 6.6k words.

"WHAT THE FUCK?"

It comes out louder than you’re intending, but still goes unheard in the overwhelming noise of the stadium. Game two of the championship series is in full swing. Satoru throws his hands out, arguing with the ref, both of them talking over each other, and then Kento pulls Satoru away and says something else to the official. Ever the diplomat.

Mahito smirks, everything about the way he holds himself self-righteous and arrogant. Your nails dig into your palm and leave crescent-shaped imprints as the team falls into position for the free throws. What a stupid fucking call. And it’s not even the first questionable choice the ref’s made this game. Mei Mei looks all smug across the court, and it’s making your bones shake with anger.

Geto steps up with an unnervingly calm expression, bouncing the ball once with a resounding thump before taking the shot he shouldn’t have gotten in the first place. Swish.

If Sukuna was still here, he’d be rioting, but he only made it halfway through the second quarter before getting escorted out because “OH, YOU THINK YOU’RE HOT SHIT, YOU PONYTAILED PRICK, DON’T YOU?” and “WHAT ARE YOU COMPENSATING FOR WITH THAT NUMBER ONE ON YOUR JERSEY, PATCHWORK PRINCESS, HUH?”

Shigemo and Mahito definitely heard, and you swear Shigemo tripped a little.

You don’t disagree with Yuji’s uncle, really. You were honestly a little sad to see him leave.

In his place, you’ve picked up a steady stream of cussing under your breath, and beside you Nobara looks almost impressed by it.

Geto does that infuriating little half-smile and nails the second free throw, and you have to turn away, pace a few steps back and forth to collect yourself as the ball launches back into play. It’s third quarter and you’re losing, 64-79. Fuck. Fuck.

Ieiri’s hand comes down on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks, and you raise your head to meet her eyes. She doesn’t say anything, not calm down or stand still or there’s still time to turn it around. She just looks at you like she knows, because she always knows—knows it wasn’t a fair call, knows the stakes are high, knows the tension is squeezing the blood out of your heart and the air out of your lungs like a vice.

She nods. I get it. I’m with you. You nod back.

You walk back to the sideline, fists balled at your side, and you watch. Satoru turns around, raking a frustrated hand through his hair, dislodging his headband. He turns around and you catch his eye, offering him a small smile. You hope it doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

Even from here, you can see some of the tension ease from his shoulders. He cracks a half-smile back.

At the start of the fourth, you’re 75-83, the headset around your neck instead of over your ears—you can’t listen, don’t want to know what the odds are, don’t need to hear the commentators’ pessimism on top of your own.

It’s only eight points. They can do this.

At some point, the Curses sub Dagon on, and after a while he and Yuji are getting a little too physical—or Dagon is, while Yuji tries fruitlessly to not get obliterated. He’s just trying to get open for Satoru, but Dagon is practically on top of him. He’s playing dirty in a way that reminds you of Hanami. At this rate, Yuji’s going to end up on the ground.

“Fucking call something,” Nobara practically growls, eyes narrowed on the ref, who either doesn’t see or just doesn’t care.

Satoru, ball in hand, locks eyes on Dagon as he clings doggedly to Yuji’s side, backing up into him, sticking out an ankle in hopes of tripping him. Only Jogo stands between Satoru and the basket. Jogo swipes a massive hand at the ball and Satoru reaches out and just—fucking catches it.

He palms the ball in his left hand and uses his right to intercept Jogo’s fingers as they reach out, stopping him in midair, a flagrant foul, and the ref blows the whistle, calling the play. Jogo goes still and just stares at Satoru's hand around his, shocked. Yuji stumbles back as Dagon finally lets up.

“Holy shit,” Ieiri murmurs beside you.

“He did that on purpose?” Nobara says, but it’s not really a question. Satoru just fucking fouled Jogo to stop play before Dagon could hurt Yuji. You pull one side of the headphones up to your ear to hear the call.

“And that’s a personal foul by number six, Satoru Gojo, against San Diego guard Jogo.”

Megumi storms over to Dagon and shouts something sharp and fast that you can’t hear, and Yuji puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him away. Kento says something to the ref and it must finally hit home, because the ref mutters something to Dagon before the free throw, and after that he doesn’t try to pull anything shitty over on Yuji again.

Maybe it’ll be fine, you think as you hit the halfway point of the last quarter. The Sorcerers have already won once. They can do it again.

And then they lose.

The Sorcerers, they fucking lose. And as the stadium erupts in cheers and the Curses subs swarm center court, you’re suddenly worried that somehow the first time was a fluke—after all, the Curses are first seed, aren’t they? They’re supposed to win. They’re projected to.

No. It wasn’t a fluke. You know your team, you have faith in your team. They can turn this around, they have to. They’ve defied the odds before, and they’ll do it again.

This doesn’t mean anything.

On the jet, Satoru buries his head in the crook of your neck and you let him, playing with his long, slim fingers in your lap. When you land, he doesn’t go home, and you spend the night trading kisses and reassurances on the couch, against the wall, possibly atop the kitchen counter, and then your bed, and you fall asleep beside him thinking, It’s not too late. There is still every chance the Sorcerers can take this title home.

And even if they don’t, you think, listening to Satoru’s steady breathing in your ear, there are more important things.

—

The week passes in a blur of basketball, training, travel, late nights with Satoru and stolen kisses in offices and cars and bedrooms. The ref from the last game racked up such an outrage online that by the third game of the series—this time on your home court—you’ve got a new official entirely, one who has a great track record with the league. Hiromi Higuruma is actually fair, and things start to run more smoothly.

If someone asked you for a play-by-play of the two home games, you couldn’t give them one, just a vivid recollection of a few scenes, compiled in the back of your mind like a highlight reel.

Satoru and Geto facing off for the tip-off, eyes narrowed and bodies tense, nearly colliding as they both stretch for the ball.

Megumi coming off a dunk and breathlessly grinning at Tsumiki in the stands.

Satoru turning around at the last second to block Jogo like an instinct, like he has eyes on the back of his head.

The Sorcerers winning game three.

Higuruma fouling Mahito when he snags Yuji’s shirt in his hands, and Yuji nailing the free throw like it’s nothing.

Shigemo leering at Kento, only for Kento to pass the ball right around him, straight through the long, blond ponytail. Ino palming the pass and lobbing the ball into the net from the three-point line.

The Sorcerers winning game four.

All the built-up, coiling anticipation has you losing sleep, the knowledge that if you can hang on to this lead, just win one more, it’ll be over, you’ll have won.

The night the Sorcerers win the fourth game, you’re putting away laundry, listening to Mitski and humming to yourself. And then the music fades out and you frown, thinking your phone is just tripping out—until it segues into your ringtone and an unknown number lights up the screen.

You have no idea what to expect from this. The last time you answered an unknown number, you ended up talking to Takada.

“Hello, is this Sorcerers management?”

Definitely not Takada.

“Uh, yes. How can I help you?”

“Well, hey, glad I caught you! This is Yuki Tsukomo with the WNBA.”

Your breath stalls in your throat, fingers tightening around your phone. Yuki Tsukomo. The fucking commissioner of the WNBA. What the fuck?

You knew her in college, briefly, in a peripheral sense—her fifth year was your first, and she played for your university’s rival school. You crossed paths a number of times, but not in any way that would have been significant to Yuki.

Now, though, she’s a household name, a massive WNBA star in her own right before she retired and rose up the corporate ranks. She’s amazing. She’s an idol. And she’s on the phone with you right now.

“So, I’m calling about a career opportunity. I know this is a bit unorthodox, and if you’re interested I will certainly redirect you to our HR manager, but I wanted to speak with you personally. Is now a good time?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, sinking down onto your couch, trying to keep your voice even. “Yeah, now’s great.” Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

“Wonderful!” Yuki says. “Alright. So we have a vacancy this upcoming season for a conference coordinator. It’s a fairly big role, but I understand you’ve had a great deal of success in NBA management over the last few seasons. Your name comes highly recommended. And, I mean, I remember your work ethic back in college.”

The first thing that sticks is that Yuki actually remembers you. You’re astounded. You were so sure she’d have no idea.

The second thing hits a moment later, taking a second to process. Career opportunity. Upcoming season. Conference coordinator. Conference coordinator.

Where the NBA is divided into six divisions, the WNBA has only its two conferences, six teams in each. Coordinating a conference would entail, essentially, managing half of the WNBA.

“I appreciate that,” you manage, and feel your eyes widening the more Yuki lays out the details of the position.

The pay is actually higher. Right now, you’re just managing one team. This, though—this would be monumental for you.

Relief floods your entire body when she says Eastern. You could stay here. You wouldn’t have to move. The WNBA operates on a different schedule than the NBA—you’d be able to maintain a relationship with the Sorcerers, travel during the WNBA season.

You could do this—you could have both.

“Just think about it,” Yuki says brightly, wrapping up the call. “I know it’s a bit out of the blue, and you’re busy with the championships right now. I know this is a tight deadline, but if you could get back to me before the end of the season, that would be fantastic—the vacancy was a bit unexpected and we’re trying to get a jump on things.”

“Yeah, absolutely, I—I’ll think about it. Thank you, Yuki. So much.”

“Absolutely,” she replies. “Thanks for taking the time to speak with me. You have a good one!”

The line goes dead before you can reply. “You too,” you say to the open air, falling back onto your couch, boneless. Holy. Shit.

You only give yourself a minute before you open up your phone again.

“Toru,” you say, when he picks up on the first ring. “Can you come over?”

Fuck your laundry. It can wait.

—

He wants you to take it.

“This is fucking amazing!” he shouts, sweeping you into a hug, your feet off the floor. “Oh my god! This is so cool. My girlfriend is so fucking cool.”

“Toru,” you laugh as he sets you down. “I didn’t say yes yet. I just—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, pulling you over to the couch, sitting down beside you. He pulls one knee onto the cushions, angling himself toward you, and takes both of your hands in his. “Do you remember that night in the gym?”

You snort. “No, Satoru, I don’t remember the first night we f—”

“Not what I meant, but yes, that was wonderful, let’s do it again,” he says. “Listen. I asked you, if you got a better job offer right now, if you would leave.”

Oh. You remember. Define better, you said. Better might mean a pay raise, an admin opportunity, a move back into the women’s basketball sphere.

Not for another team, you told him. You wouldn’t leave the Sorcerers for the Curses, or for some other group of players on another coast. But for higher-level management, something with the league—isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?

“Don’t let us hold you back,” he says gently. “That’s the last thing I ever want to do to you.”

You look at him, sitting here in your apartment, looking like he belongs. Hair like silk under your fingers, eyes the color of oversaturated photos of a summer sky.

You realized a lot of things in the gym that night.

One was that you won’t leave behind what you love.

Another was that you still have higher aspirations, places you want to be, things you want to change.

And taking this job, saying yes? It’s not leaving.

Satoru will still sit on your couch and hold your hands and look at you like you’re the world. And then you’ll go watch him kick ass on the court, and you’ll go to dinner with him and Megumi and Tsumiki and Yuji, and you’ll spend the rest of your time investing in women’s basketball, that thing that’s had so much of your heart for so, so long.

But you can’t—you won’t—leave this team with just anyone.

“It has to be the right person,” you finally say, squeezing his hands. “I’m not saying yes unless I know you’re in actual, really good hands.”

“Well, I really don’t think anyone’s gonna use their hands quite like—”

You glare at him and he shuts up, biting back his laughter. He nods, releases one of your hands to push a strand of hair out of your face. “Then let’s find the right person,” he says.

An hour later, you’re both sprawled out in the living room with computers and phones and papers and a thousand tabs up, scrolling through pages of Google search results, scanning old rosters, throwing out names of a few standout NBA and WNBA managers, debating whether they’d leave their own teams for the Sorcerers.

And it hits you all at once, as you scroll through your contacts. You think about the small forward who was a freshman your senior year of college. She was a business management major, a great player, but you could tell she didn’t want to go pro, not like that.

“Oh,” you breathe, feeling like this answer’s been right in front of you the whole damn time. “Yes.”

Satoru perks up beside you, nudging you with an elbow. “Yeah?”

You look at him and feel the grin spreading across your face, hope sparking in your chest.

You should give her a call, you think.

But Satoru has already sat up, and he’s pulling you toward him with a devilish grin on his face. He shoves the papers and laptops out of the way and pushes you down with a hand on your shoulder, straddling you on the floor, white hair hanging down around his face like a curtain blocking out the rest of the world. It’s just you, and him, and his breath on your lips—

Yeah. The call can wait.

“You are,” he says, tracing the line of your jaw with one hand, “the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” The blood rushes to your cheeks unbidden, and you pull him down to press his lips to yours before he can comment on your blush.

“Not so bad yourself,” you breathe against his neck, and he takes your wrist and holds it above your head, kissing a line down your collarbone.

You have no recollection of getting to your bedroom, shoving the just-folded laundry off your duvet. All you know is Satoru’s fingers at the hem of your shirt, your eyes fluttering closed at the feel of his mouth on yours, wishing you never had to come up for air, thinking maybe you don’t need to. Maybe you and Satoru can just breathe each other’s air forever, and you never have to let him go.

—

“And I'm sorry to throw this on you during championships, and I know that if—”

“I’m happy for you.”

“What?” You blink at Yaga, sitting across from you in his office with his fingers steepled on the desk. His collection of little crochet animals lines the windowsill behind him, a procession of colorful little creatures that feels wholly disparate from his dark clothes, his serious eyes, his broad-shouldered and imposing stature.

You thought this conversation would be harder. You were ready to lay it all out, to thank him for making this the best place you’ve ever worked, to apologize for hanging him out to dry, to tell him that this way he won’t have to deal with any complications that might arise from you and Satoru being together. You talked it over with yourself in the bathroom mirror and in the shower and before you fell asleep, like a final presentation in a class you needed to graduate.

As a conference coordinator, the WNBA will pay you almost 20% more than you make right now. You’ll be running the whole Eastern division. It’s everything you wanted when you first started in sports management. It’s everything you want now—you won’t have to move, you won’t be traveling during NBA season, you can have everything you’ve built here and everything you’ve been working toward all at once and it feels too goddamn good to be true.

“Look,” Yaga says, leaning back in his seat. “You have been instrumental to this team. And I would love to have you here. We all would. But you deserve to go where you want with this career. And if the WNBA is where your heart is, I know for a fact every guy in that locker room would back you.”

And you realize, abruptly, that Yaga was never going to be a real roadblock. That speech you rehearsed wasn’t for him; it was for you.

Yaga is happy for you, in that calm, unbothered way of his, and Kusakabe will be too. You’re suddenly kind of emotional about it, their unwavering acceptance, the encouragement, the truth in Yaga's words. That this team would—will—back you. Even if you tell them you have to pass your position on to someone else.

“I haven’t accepted yet,” you clarify quickly. “I just—there’s a lot of things to think over. But I didn’t want to leave you in the dark, in case… I mean. I love it here. I do. This is just… a big opportunity, I think.”

“Well. If you do choose to take the job, and you have a recommendation for me,” he says, “I would be very inclined to listen.”

Satoru thinks you should take it. Kasumi practically begged you. And you did make that call—you do know someone who could step into your place, someone who would love this team the way you do.

“Yeah,” you tell him, letting the tension melt out of you with the word. “Her name’s Riko. Riko Amanai.”

—

The series goes on, and you push the offer to the back of your mind, heading out to San Diego in hopes of taking home the title. You stand between Ieiri and Nobara, Charles Bernard and Rika Orimoto talking rapid-fire in your ears.

They become background noise as the game launches into motion—not a good start. Geto wins the tip-off. Satoru misses a free throw. Mahito fouls Kento so hard that Ieiri has to pull him off court to check for a concussion. (He’s clear, but he has to sit out for a moment to get his bearings, and you want to punch someone. Preferably Mahito.)

You lose.

The team's mood tonight is a few shades darker, yours saved only by an influx of photos of the dogs from Tsumiki back home.

tsumiki: [4 Image Attachments] tsumiki: [1 Movie Attachment] tsumiki: cuddle mode!!

Satoru steals your phone and sends her a .5 selfie of him wrapped around you in the hotel bed.

you: CUDDLE MODE

Still, the loss is a blow to the ego, and now the Sorcerers are three to the Curses' two. But there’s hope. The next match is a home game, and you could win it and take the series in six games.

Back at Jujutsu Arena, Naoya Zenin (you wonder what the relation is to Maki as she commentates dryly in your headset) pounds two three-pointers in the first four minutes. Takaba makes two free throws, and Geto just will not give Satoru a breath of air. Every time one of them scores, so does the other. It’s a brutal back-and-forth and you abruptly feel like you’re watching a tennis match instead of a basketball game.

Jogo and Mahito couldn’t be more different as guards—Jogo as a point guard is hulking and stands like a wall between the forwards and the basket, but Mahito as a shooting guard never stays still, launching himself around the court with all the abandon of a fucking trapeze artist, anything it takes to knock the ball from Yuji and Megumi’s hands.

Game six is a tight call, but the Curses win by two and cement the tie. It’s running the full seven-game series, the first one the Sorcerers have had since mid-season. The final game in San Diego will decide everything.

You spend the night before the flight at Satoru’s place, all the pent-up frustration and aggression and nerves spilling out in kisses and gasps and his hands in your hair and your lips on his neck, and when you both collapse into bed a few hours too late for a reasonable amount of sleep, you wonder if tonight was more of a workout than a basketball game ever was.

The Sorcerers reach game seven 3-3 and angry. It’s the most stressed you’ve been in what feels like forever.

“We’re gonna win,” Ino says as he paces the common space of the visitors’ locker area. He’s trying to be entirely unbothered, but he can barely stand still. You can’t help but crack a smile, though, as he enlists Yuji and the two of them bounce around trying to hype up the rest of the team, to ease the tension. It seems to work—Satoru laughs, and Megumi is trying to bite back his own smile as Yuji’s arms flail around wildly in an unprepared, spur-of-the-moment pep talk. Ino’s encouragement even seems to get to Kento.

“Let’s put this rivalry to fucking sleep,” Hakari says with a sharp-edged smirk. “Beat ‘em on their own floor.”

“Stay sharp,” Kusakabe demands. “Stay alert, stay calm. Fast on your feet, strategic with your passes.” He glances at Yaga to see if the head coach has anything to contribute.

He shrugs. “End of the season, boys. You walk out of here winners or you walk out of here with a fire under your ass to do better next season.” He crosses his arms, the fingers of his left hand drumming on his right arm. “Let’s try not to set any fires.”

Junpei laughs nervously. Making it all the way to championships in your first season must be a whole different kind of stress. You hadn’t even considered it until now.

Toge wraps an arm around him and ruffles his hair in some kind of half-noogie that is very sibling, or maybe just very boy. Yuta grins, and then everyone looks to Kento, waiting for the captain’s final orders.

“Do what you always do,” he says, looking at each of the guys in turn. “Stay open. Communicate. Weigh the risks. Seventy percent smart—”

“Thirty percent ballsy,” Ino finishes. Not Kento’s word—he usually opts for chance or risk. But the smallest twitch at the corner of Kento’s lips tells you he’s optimistic, despite everything. He nods at Ino.

“Right,” he says finally. “Let’s play some damn good basketball.”

The guys break into a chorus of cheers and Nobara laughs beside you as she films it. Nothing fails to get a rise out of the team like Kento dropping a swear word.

Before the team files out to the court, Satoru grabs you and pulls you into a kiss, heated, bruising, full of nervous energy.

“Score one for me, Six,” you say, and he grins before disappearing down the hall. Ieiri and Nobara start after them and look at you expectantly. But there’s something you need to do.

It’s the last day of the season, regardless of what happens. There’s no more pushing this back. You need to call Yuki back with an answer.

You hold up your hand, waving your phone for them to see. “I’ll catch up.”

—

The double doors leading into the gym are like a huge, metal sound barrier. The moment you open one of them even a crack, the noise comes flooding through, anxious and excited and face-painted fans spilling into the aisles, waving signs and jerseys and those stupid foam hands.

You tuck your phone into your pocket as the door slams behind you, and Nobara immediately catches your eye and grins. She points up into the visiting section.

For a moment you aren’t sure you’re seeing correctly—it’s weird to see them in colors that aren’t their own—but the woman at the end of the row, purple-streaked hair pulled back into a bow, leaves no room for doubt. The Samurai are here. All of them.

Akari waves at you, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and yanks on Utahime’s sleeve until she notices and grins at you, too.

“Ready for this?” Ieiri asks, her med bag ready at her feet—just in case—and you shake your head.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

“Well,” Nobara says, taking her place between you and Ieiri, “we don’t have much of a choice.”

Twelve minutes feels shorter than it ever has. The first quarter passes in a blur, with Satoru winning the tip-off and both teams scoring well into the twenties within nine minutes flat. The visiting section is louder than it’s ever been, giving the home fans a run for their money—likely because of the Samurai, you think. Todo is hollering like it’s his last day on earth, and Haibara is as invested in this game as any one of his own.

Yaga lets Yuta and Toge on in the second quarter to work their magic, and they don’t disappoint, passing and scoring seamlessly before the Curses can ever hope to pick up on their silent signals.

Satoru is playing harder than you’ve ever seen him play. He’s lightning-quick, all reflexes and instinct, but Geto matches him in speed and strength and skill and strategy and god, it’s like they’re mirrors of each other. Halfway through the second, Hakari goes on to give Satoru a break, and the Heat follow suit with Ryu Ishigori.

You, Nobara, and Ieiri have given up saying anything, all of your attention on the court, rapt. At the start of the third, Kusakabe gives Junpei a long look, considering.

This right here is the highest the stakes can get. Nobody is expecting a rookie to come onto the court and score against a number one seed in the last game of the NBA season.

Maybe that’s why they do it.

Junpei is fresh off the bench, full of energy, and he’s small. He’s fast. He’s exactly what the Sorcerers need to get past Jogo and Mahito, while all of Geto’s attention is focused on Satoru.

The Curses make exactly the mistake they’re supposed to: they don’t take Junpei as a serious threat until it’s too late, and he’s already racked up the score by a solid nine points.

He comes off before the end of the third, after the Curses have caught on and ganged up on him on defense, but he’s grinning and exhausted and happy. You can’t help but catch his smile, let his enthusiasm send sparks of hope through you, too, as Ino goes back on in his place.

“They never stop underestimating,” Nobara muses, looking across the court at a tense Mei Mei.

“Good,” Ieiri says.

For the whole of the fourth quarter, the difference in score is never more than four. Back and forth, back and forth, squeaking shoes and high-pitched whistles and shouts and cheers and boos and the thudthudthud of the ball on the court, or maybe that’s just the noise your heart is making as it tries to break out of your ribcage.

They break the hundreds with a minute left in the game.

98-100, Curses.

You don’t know the last time you breathed.

101-100, Sorcerers.

Every muscle in your body is tense.

103-100, Sorcerers.

You feel detached from your own body, your own breathing loud in your ears.

103-103.

Geto has the ball and Satoru sprints, crossing the court to him in a few long strides, coming face-to-face with the man he’s known since they were teenagers in a high school gymnasium.

Geto’s dribbling, running, and then Satoru stretches out a hand and snags the ball in the blink of an eye and pivots on one foot, his whole body leaning in the direction of the basket, half-court.

Two seconds left on the clock.

There’s no way, someone in the stands is shouting. You want to tell them to shut up. You don’t have time.

You don’t know if it’s an accident, if it’s malicious, if Geto is really just trying to snatch the ball from Satoru’s hand—but you watch with your heart jumping into your throat as his fingers brush Satoru’s headband, dislodging it, pulling it down over his eyes. Like a blindfold.

He can’t see.

One second.

Satoru winds his arm back and throws the ball, blind, right over Geto’s outstretched arm, headband still covering both eyes. He wrenches it off in a flurry of movement and stumbles back, following the arc of the ball as Geto’s head turns to do the same—

Half a second.

Please, you pray to whatever fucking basketball god might be paying attention. You’re too scared to blink. .439 seconds. Time has never felt this slow, the whole of the stadium holding a collective, shocked breath. Orange numbers in your periphery, moving so rapidly you can’t keep up. .004, .003, .002, .001—

And then the world explodes.

“AN AMAZING BUZZER BEATER BY SATORU ‘SIX-EYES’ GOJO! ASTOUNDING SHOT, BLINDFOLDED, WELL PAST THE THREE-POINT LINE—”

“106-103 IN THE SORCERERS' FAVOR! ONE HAND, DID YOU SEE THAT, CHARLES? ONE HAND!”

You rip off the headset, maybe drop it to the floor, you’re not even sure, because the ball went through the net right as the buzzer sounded, and the screams are so deafening you can barely see, and Nobara is shaking you and Ieiri’s jaw is hanging open and the Sorcerers fucking won the NBA title.

Satoru’s surprised gaze finds you from across the court. He’s beaming, drunk on shock and skill and victory, and you are too, and maybe a little drunk on him.

Your feet are moving before you realize they are, pounding across the court like you’re the one playing, and then he’s sweeping you into his arms, his lips on yours, and you’re laughing into each other, and you don’t even care that he’s a sweaty mess because he made it and you beat them, you beat Geto and Mahito and Shigemo and Mei Mei and you won.

Yuji grabs you and Satoru both and drags you into the swarm. You catch Kento’s eye, and he nods at you, blond hair mussed and messy, and it might be the least put-together you’ve ever seen him with his playing goggles knocked half-off his face by the force of Ino’s hug, and he’s full-on smiling.

Megumi launches himself at Yuji and hugs him and it’s the most affection you’ve ever seen him show in public, and Nobara’s filming but not even looking at the screen as she jumps around, hooting and hollering and practically tripping over Junpei’s feet. Yuta has Toge on his shoulders and Hakari is suddenly standing next to Kirara, his secret-not-secret WNBA girlfriend—you didn’t even know she was here—and then the Samurai are jumping out of the stands and there are so many people and life could not get any better than this.

This was your home court, once. You feel like, somehow, you’ve taken part of it back.

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU? THAT’S MY FUCKING NEPHEW!”

You whip around to find Sukuna in the front row, and your jaw drops not because he’s here and yelling and cussing but because oh my god, did he make it the whole game without getting kicked out?

Two security guys abruptly look at each other in alarm and start picking their way through the crowd toward him. Never mind. You’re fairly certain he already got kicked out and somehow just… got back in.

Ieiri yanks you into a hug, then makes a disgusted expression at Satoru when he tries to do the same to her. “You are so sweaty!” she shouts over the din, and he gets that shit-eating grin on his face and runs after her, throwing her over his shoulder despite her protests. You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

—

When the celebration dies down and your cheeks hurt from smiling, the teams line up and shake hands, one by one like a bunch of high schoolers forced to mutter half-hearted good games to the assholes from the other side of town.

Satoru and Geto are the last ones in both lines. And you expect them to brush past each other, not stay in one another’s orbit for a second longer than they have to, but—their interaction is lasting a bit longer than it’s supposed to. Their lips are moving, words you can’t make out. You’re honestly surprised they’re shaking hands at all.

But neither of them seem tense. To your surprise, Satoru barks out a laugh—just once, like he’s surprised by it himself. Geto looks down at his feet, smiling, and when they part ways, it’s with a clap on the back. Like old friends, maybe—or at least, not like enemies.

Interesting.

As your boyfriend—your NBA champion boyfriend—makes his way back to you, your fingers twist in the fabric of the jersey you’re wearing, GOJO printed along the back in blocky white letters.

You raise a brow when he’s within range, looking pointedly between him and the cluster of the other team.

He shakes his head, a little disbelieving, hair falling into his face with his headband slack around his neck. “He, uh. He said good game. But I think it might have also been an apology?” Satoru says, looking a little puzzled. “And… I did too?”

“Good game is… an apology?”

“It just—the way he said it. I don’t know how to explain it. But there’s something there.” Satoru shrugs. “We both could have handled a lot of things better. I’m… I don’t know that we’ll ever go back to the way things were. But he said we don’t need to worry about Mei Mei’s scheming anymore, either.”

Skeptical, you ask, “He can actually talk Mei Mei down?”

Satoru shrugs. “I’m not sure, honestly. But I think she might respect you a little bit for how much she didn’t manage to pull one over on you this season.”

It’s like she knows you’re talking about her. She turns to look at you across the court just as you look at her, and when your eyes meet, the smallest smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Just for a second, and then she turns away.

But it’s enough for you. Enough for you to believe that things between the Sorcerers and the Curses—between Satoru and Suguru—might change for the better.

You find yourself thinking about shifting dynamics, the way the environment of the team will already be different next season—it always is, you suppose. Nothing in the NBA ever stays still for long. It’s not trading season, but there have been rumblings about Choso Kamo being traded to the Sorcerers. You can only imagine the havoc he and Yuji will create together on the court.

But you’re thinking about that, and you’re thinking about Riko, and you’re thinking about the WNBA and you and Satoru and all the ways this is going to work. You know it.

He must see it in your eyes, because he doesn’t ask what you’re thinking about. He just says, “It’s not a pay cut, and even if it was, you could take it.” He grins, ruffling your hair. “Your boyfriend is super rich, you know.”

“Hah, hah.” You swat his hand away from your hair, but lace your fingers through his, pulling him down toward you for a kiss. “Toru?”

“Mm.”

“I took it.”

Yuki was ecstatic when you called before the game, chattering about emails and paperwork and HR and meetings before cutting herself off and telling you to go enjoy the game. “I’m not a betting girl, but if I was,” she said, “I think things are looking good on your end of the court.”

“Oh my god.” Satoru’s smile could power whole galaxies. “Oh my god. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say back. “You just won the damn NBA Championship.” But he just smiles at you like the title means nothing to him, not when you’re standing right in front of him. “You know it means I won’t be traveling with you all the time. You’ll see me less.”

“And we’ll make it work,” he says without hesitation. “Because A, I made you a key to my place.” You blink, every word on your tongue suddenly falling away.

“You—what?”

He grins. “And B,” he says, tugging you closer, his voice getting softer as he leans down to whisper in the shell of your ear. “I love you.”

The world around you is still. You’re still, except for the slow, steady smile spreading across your lips. “I have loved you for a long time,” he tells you, “and I don’t plan on stopping.”

“Presumptuous,” you say eventually, and kiss him again. When you pull back he’s grinning, and so are you. “I love you, Toru.”

And the warmth in his eyes lights up the stadium more than the floodlights, more than the scoreboard, more than the camera flashes.

You thought the most electric you’d ever feel would be on the court, dunking, or on the sidelines, watching the ball soar through the air and slip through the net with a swish right as the buzzer went off. But you were wrong on both counts.

The most electric you’ve ever felt, the most yourself you’ve ever felt, is now, is here, is with Satoru Gojo and his hands around your waist and his lips against your lips and his heart beating against yours.

You’re just as proud of him as he is of you, and something deep in you knows this is what love is supposed to be, even footing on a basketball court, love and respect and pride in equal measure, bright eyes and warm hands and the feeling of the whole future at your fingertips.

Today, you watched the man you love score a one-handed three-pointer from half-court with a blindfold over his eyes. Score one for me, Six.

“Was that last one for me?” you ask, grinning up at him. “Some buzzer beater.”

“Oh, yeah.” The smirk his lips curl into makes you want to take the words back, wipe them away before Satoru can say whatever bullshit is on the tip of his tongue, but it’s too late.

“You can beat my—”

“Satoru!”

FIN.

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a/n: THE END!!! crazy. never written a tumblr fic before. or a jjk fic. or a x reader fic in general. it absolutely was not supposed to get this long, but oops! wild stuff. sad to see it end, but i’ve got something in the works for my man ino!! if there’s anything about the buzzer beater universe you want me to expand on/things you would like to know, flood the asks and i’ll answer. thanks for reading, friends :)

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silentscrying · 1 month ago

Text

🏀 buzzer beater | chapter SEVEN.

nba!gojo x manager!reader

warnings: language, so many character cameos, denial is a river in egypt, chaos. || sfw. 2.4k words.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE Utahime's not in this welcome party," Gojo grumbles as you descend the steps off the jet. You just snort, and then Yuji skips the last three steps and starts running across the tarmac. Nitta, despite your insistence that she didn't need to, has met you at the airport along with two of the Samurai players.

“Christ,” you say as Yuji drops his bag on the ground, leaving it unattended.

“Choso!” he shouts, practically leaping onto the player on Nitta’s right. The taller man has a mess of brown hair wrangled into space buns, and he ruffles Yuji’s hair when he sets him down.

“Good to see you before we beat your ass.”

The man beside Choso opens his arms expectantly. “No love for your brother?”

“Todo.” Choso crosses his arms. “I’m actually his brother.”

“Half,” Todo retorts.

“Half is more than you.”

“We’re bonded by the college oath,” Todo says solemnly, pulling Yuji into a hug.

“Kari!” you yell, and she grins and meets you halfway. “Oh my god. It’s been too long.”

Akari Nitta, your small forward in college and also your senior year roommate. “I missed you,” she says as she pulls you into a hug. “How’re the Sorcerers? You like it there, they treat you well?”

“Good, yeah. I’m happy,” you say, honestly. “You?”

Akari’s been with the Samurai for four consecutive seasons now, and you already know she has no intention of leaving. She loves it there, loves the team, and you can’t deny how excited you are for this round of the competition.

It’s the best kind of game, you think, when the teams are evenly matched and actually respect one another. But you’re still worried—the issue now isn’t that they’ll play dirty, like the Phantoms. It’s that they’re good. Really good.

“Nitta,” Kento greets, holding out a hand. “Good to see you.” He glances over her shoulder, at where Yuji is talking animatedly with Choso and Todo.

“You too, Nanami.” Nitta follows his gaze and chuckles. “Haibara’s wrangling the rest of them at practice. I said family only, and then Todo basically forced himself into the car. At some point it’s just easier not to fight him.” Kento chuckles and nods at Nitta before falling back in with the rest of the team.

Haibara played for the Sorcerers before getting traded a couple of years back. You don’t know him personally, but you know your team is very fond of him. Ieiri catches up with you and strikes up a conversation with Nitta, and the three of you follow the team through a wide hangar and to the line of vehicles waiting outside.

“Still think you should’ve stayed with me,” Akari tells you as you board the bus that’s taking you and the team to the hotel.

You grin. “It’d be preferable. But I have to babysit.” She laughs and squeezes you on the shoulder before pulling Choso and Todo away from Yuji, herding them back into the car to get back to their own team.

You watch the old city go by through the bus window, thankful you don’t have to try to navigate driving the streets of Savannah yourself during rush hour. The scattered horse-drawn carriages and swarms of warm-weather tourists punctuate every street corner, and though it’s nowhere near the same extent as the chaos of New York, you don’t envy the ones who have to focus on the roads instead of the river, running silvery-blue in the evening light.

Gojo briefly tries to sing again in the back of the bus, and he only gets as far as “concrete jung—” before somebody silences him with a thud that you assume is a backpack, if his offended squawk is anything to go by.

"What part of this place looks like concrete to you?" Megumi asks dryly.

Even the day before the game, you see Samurai jerseys and hats dotting the sidewalks, a few flags hung in the doorways of shops.

First seed, you think, staring out the window at the slowly darkening streets. You hope the team can pull through.

—

Iori Utahime is looking at Gojo like she’s going to castrate him on the spot.

“Utahiiiime!” he sings. “It’s been so long!”

“Not long enough,” she says, crossing her arms and turning up her chin. Long, purple-streaked hair falls past her shoulders, the back tied up in a bow you’ve never seen her without. “Any chance you’re less of a menace than you used to be?”

“No,” says a voice from behind you, and you’ve never seen a person’s entire countenance shift so quickly as Utahime catches sight of Ieiri and immediately breaks into a grin. She sprints toward her, launching into her arms.

“Shoko!” she shrieks, and Ieiri laughs and wraps her arms around her. “I missed you!”

“Utahime,” she says warmly. “How’ve you been?”

They launch into conversation—or, Utahime launches into conversation while Ieiri smiles pleasantly and nods along—and Gojo is forced to abandon his quest to annoy Utahime in favor of actually doing his job and playing basketball.

“She just doesn’t get me like you do,” he whispers on his way past.

“I don’t get you,” you retort, but he’s already gone.

The atmosphere in the Samurai stadium is entirely different than the rest of the games you’ve been to—this is a rivalry, sure, but a friendly one. Players greet each other across the court, the boys ecstatic to be reunited with Haibara, and the fans seem to be aware of the connections across the two teams. There’s significantly less hostility than you’ve gotten used to as the Sorcerers are introduced.

You catch a glimpse of blue hair in the front row of the home side and realize Kasumi Miwa is here. She’s already attracting quite a bit of attention, a massively successful WNBA player herself. You played with her in college, too, but you know she’s here for their point guard, Kokichi Muta.

Gojo stands at center court, ready to take the tip-off against Noritoshi, the other Kamo on the Samurai. You don’t remember quite how he’s related to Choso, but it’s amusing just how intertwined all the players on the court are right now.

For a second you think Kamo’s going to win the tip-off, but Gojo’s arm shoots up out of nowhere and then he’s running with the ball. He darts around Kamo and passes to Yuji, and the Sorcerers are 2-0 within the first thirty seconds of the game.

And then Haibara gets one in, and they’re tied. And then Gojo nails a three-pointer. And then Choso does, too.

Your neck is starting to hurt from how much you’re snapping it back and forth, both ends of the court in constant play as the advantage shifts every other minute. Megumi isn’t starting today, and you can feel his anxiety even from your place near the hall doors.

This game is insane.

Toward the end of the first quarter, Megumi subs in for Toge, and the second he hits the court he plays as if he never left. Kento lobs the ball his way and Megumi scores another three, and then Ino slips by Todo and leaps, fingers almost touching the hoop as the ball slams in.

It’s one of the tightest games you’ve seen in a long time. They’re always within five points of one another, back and forth, back and forth. The Sorcerers are leading at halftime by two, but it’s not a lead anyone is confident in.

While the team is back in the locker room, you slip over to the home side to talk to Kasumi. She grins and tugs you into a hug. “Alley-oop!”

You laugh, the stupid nickname so familiar falling from her lips. “Kasumi!” You pull back and smile. “How’re the Shadows? Do you love it? You fucking killed it this last season.”

She flushes a little, never having been big on accepting compliments. “Ah, I’ve got a great team.”

You arch a brow. “And they’re lucky to have you.” Taking mercy on her, you switch the subject. “So things with Kokichi are going well.”

She gets that dreamy look in her eyes, and you decide Kasumi and Muta are maybe the only couple you’ll accept being this fucking sappy all the time. They’ve been together since your senior year of college, and you’re pretty sure the basketball gods made them for each other.

“I think he’s gonna propose soon,” Kasumi whispers, and you have to clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a squeal.

“Kasumi,” you gasp.

She giggles. “Don’t say anything. He just can’t keep secrets from me. He’s not slick.”

You mime zipping your mouth and tossing the key, and she pretends to unzip it as she asks, “What about you? How are things in the Southeast?”

“Hot,” you say. “Humid. Busy. But good.”

“And Gojo?”

You blink. “Gojo?”

“Uh, y’know, star player, six three, easy on the eyes?” She raises her eyebrows like she knows something, and the implications hit you all at once.

“Oh my god, Kasumi.”

She blinks innocently. “Reunited after three long, long years. No romanticism in that?”

“We work together,” you hiss, which feels like a gross understatement. “And he’s…”

She raises a brow, waiting. You can feel the heat creeping to your cheeks. It’s such a ridiculous notion that you don’t even have a proper response.

“I honestly think he just became tolerable,” you say. “God, I wouldn’t date—”

“Oh, you say that now,” she says, a smug curve to her lips.

“What does that—”

“Oh, look at the time.” You follow Kasumi’s gaze to where the players have started filing back into the gym. “Back to your coworker, you.”

“Kasumi Miwa—”

“I love you too!” she beams. “Good to see you. Really.”

Rolling your eyes, you wave your left hand at her, pointing discreetly at your ring finger as you retreat across the gym. You watch as the bright red returns to her cheeks and return her smug grin from earlier.

God. Easy on the eyes.

It’s not like Gojo’s not attractive. Girls fawn over him and you can understand why, objectively. Tall, strong, all lean muscle, those stupidly bright blue eyes and whiter-than-white hair. But he’s one of those guys who’s just hot until he opens his mouth.

Even if he hasn’t been quite as annoying lately, the natural progression of a conversation about Kasumi’s soon-to-be-fiancé should not be to start talking about Satoru Gojo.

On the sidelines, he winks at you, and your roll your eyes but have to turn away before he sees the heat rising to your cheeks. Not helping right after Kasumi decided to put those thoughts in your head.

Fucking hell. What’s wrong with you?

You shake off the encounter as the game starts back up. You might’ve had the lead before the half, but the Samurai come back strong. Very strong. Todo is impossible to get around, he’s everywhere at once, and Muta is making shots from insane distances while Choso just keeps dunking. The disadvantage to having played with Haibara is that he knows the way the team plays, and he seems to have relayed whatever tips he can to his teammates.

But it goes both ways. Kento knows every shot Haibara will take before it happens, and Yuji and Todo are so tuned into each other’s movements that they can’t get the jump on the other.

It’s insane and it’s stressful but it’s damn good basketball. With damn good people, too. Yuta gets knocked down and Todo helps him back up. Choso keeps making faces at Yuji across the court. When Choso dunks right over Ino, you even hear Gojo let out a low whistle of appreciation for the shot.

When the buzzer signals the game’s end, the Sorcerers have lost by three. Muta scored the winning shot, and after the game is called he runs right off the court to sweep Kasumi up in a hug. Across the court, you see Gojo terrorizing Utahime again, Kento bumping fists with Haibara, Choso and Todo crowding Yuji as Megumi watches in amusement.

Nobara sighs as she looks up at the scoreboard. 81-78.

God, it was close. Really, really close.

It’s one game, you tell yourself. They can swing it. They’ve got time.

The mood after the game is a weird mixture of excited and tense—the guys knew they were walking into a match with a better ranked team, but now they’re feeling it. It’s the hardest they’ve had to play in a while, and Yaga and Kusakabe are talking strategy before they even hit the locker room.

You get back to your hotel room late, another night of emails and scheduling and a too-bright screen, and when you get back, Ieiri is smirking at you.

“What?”

She nods to your bed. “Had a visitor a while ago.”

You follow her gaze to a folded pile of blue and green fabric on the end of your bed, a note on top of it. “Oh my god.”

You know what that is. You’d know it from a mile away, because you wrote the renewal contract for it, because it’s been scattered throughout the stands at home games, because you’ve approved ads and worked on shoot screenings with Nobara.

The shirt is soft in your hands, and you pick up the note, scrawled on a piece of paper torn from the hotel notepad.

figured our star manager deserved free star merch, right? you’re welcome!!!!!!

His handwriting is messy and slanted, the line of exclamation points nearing horizontal toward the right edge of the page. It’s so incredibly boyish you have to stifle a laugh, and in place of a signature Gojo has doodled his own face in the corner: a little circle with spiked up hair and a black headband, tugged over his eyes like a blindfold. Probably because he didn’t want to deal with drawing eyes, you think.

The shirt’s in your size, a long-sleeve that starts out blue and washes into a light green in a vertical gradient. LIMITLESS is printed across it in a thin sans serif, a Nike swoosh twisted into an infinity sign above the T.

“Idiot,” you mutter. Star merch. Arrogant idiot who sneaks into hotel rooms to leave his own merch and assumes you want it. Actually, he probably knows you don’t. That’s why he didn’t give it to you in person. That makes it worse. He’s just taunting you in his typical Gojo way.

You toss the shirt into your bag and slide the note into your laptop case, not seeing a recycling bin. Ieiri chuckles, and you look up at sharply. “What?”

She holds her hands up, palms out in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

When you try to fall asleep, staring at the shadowed popcorn ceiling, you’re reeling. Kasumi’s words pinball around your skull like it’s an echo chamber. The Limitless shirt sits heavy in your bag against the wall. Gojo winks in your mind’s eye. You feel his hand curled over yours, pen in your fist.

You hope you don’t dream.

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