#THE LIGHTING FOR HALFTIME WAS SO GOOD???

[awallflowerdraws]

nae show nae show opera

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Slicked Back & Smitten

Rating: Mature Audiences

Warning: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, spicy, wlw smut, mirror sex, Paige's biceps, paige fucking you while having you in a headlock, !top paige, !bottom reader, light oral (fem reseving), !purple strap Paige, !slick back ponytail P (yes this deserves a warning), fluff

Paring: Paige Bueckers x fem reader

Fandom: Uconn's Women's basketbal

Summary: Slicked Back ponytail P... and she's swollen in the right places too... oh you're down bad baby

Tag: @elliesglock , @elalfywhore , @paxaz535

The morning of the UConn vs. Butler game was absolute chaos. With a 1 p.m. tip-off, I had been up at the ass crack of dawn, running errands before heading to the arena. Meanwhile, Paige was at home, usually getting her game day braids done by Kayla—her routine, her thing.

Except today, Kayla couldn’t do them she was getting over being sick, didn't wanna risk Paige getting sick.

And I? I was too busy being the responsible, errand-running girlfriend to even offer to do them myself.

So, Paige had to figure something out.

By the time I arrived at the arena, the team was already warming up. I greeted a few of the staff members before spotting Kayla on the sidelines, watching the girls get their final shots up before tip-off.

"Did you see what she did?" Kayla asked as I approached.

I was confused. "Who?"

Kayla gave me a look. "Your girlfriend."

I turned my head, scanning the court until my eyes landed on Paige in her love, Abby warm up. And, oh, did my jaw practically drop.

Instead of her signature game day braids, she had done a sleek middle-part ponytail. The gel, the clean parting, the way the ponytail laid so perfectly down her back—it was… different. It was… distracting.

I bit the inside of my cheek, shifting on my feet. "Yeah… I see her."

Kayla snickered, nudging me. "She look good, huh?"

I exhaled sharply, eyes still glued to Paige as she moved across the court, completely unaware of the effect she was having on me. The slick back? The way it emphasized her face, her jawline, her everything? Yeah, it was bad for me.

"Kayla," I started, voice low. "I don’t think you should do her braids next game either."

Kayla howled. "Oh, nah, you down bad!"

I rolled my eyes, pretending like I wasn’t already making plans to personally ensure Paige never wore braids again.

———

The first half of the game was a problem.

Paige was playing out of her mind. She was dropping dimes, hitting threes, getting to the basket with ease—and she looked damn good doing it.

I was trying to focus on the actual game, trying not to be the most obvious girlfriend ever, but every time she drove to the rim, her ponytail swung just right, her edges still perfectly laid despite how much she was sweating.

It was a crisis.

By halftime, I had reached my breaking point.

Sitting in the stands, I pulled my phone out, thumbs flying across the screen as I sent a text Paige wouldn’t see until later.

Me: You need to put me in a headlock when we get back home.

Me: And I need you to consider this slick back ponytail as your new game day hair. Like… permanently.

I hit send, exhaling as I locked my phone. Out of sight, out of mind. I just needed to get through the rest of the game without combusting.

———

Paige didn’t see the message until hours later.

After the game, she had her usual post-game press conference, with Kk and Azzii answering questions about UConn’s dominant win, her own performance, and how it felt playing without her signature braids.

Then came the locker room celebrations, the team hyping each other up, the post-game shower, and finally—finally—Paige was back at our shared off-campus apartment.

Freshly showered, she walked into the bedroom with a towel around her neck, only in her black Nike sports bra and grey boxers sitting perfectly on her waist line, scrolling through her phone finally checking all her notifications.

I was sitting on the bed, scrolling mindlessly myself, until I saw her pause.

Her head tilted. "What the hell?"

I tried to act innocent. "What?"

Paige turned her phone towards me, revealing my very suggestive text from earlier. "This," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Headlock? Really?"

I shrugged, unbothered. "You read it. You know what I said."

She huffed out a laugh, tossing her phone onto the nightstand before crawling onto the bed. She hovered over me, arms on either side of my head, that damn ponytail still sleek even after her shower.

"So," Paige mused, voice dropping slightly. "You liked the ponytail, huh?"

I reached up, running my fingers over the base of it where she had secured it with a black hair tie. "Liked? Understatement."

Paige smirked, dipping down to press a lingering kiss to my jaw. "Liked it enough to text me during halftime about puttin yo ass in a headlock?"

I exhaled sharply. "I was having a moment."

She kissed the corner of my mouth, teasing me. "Mhm. And what kind of headlock we talking about?"

I rolled my eyes, pushing her lightly. "Don’t play with me, Bueckers."

Paige chuckled, finally kissing me for real, slow and deep, before pulling back just enough to rest her forehead against mine. "So… ponytail again next game?"

I nodded immediately. "Absolutely, baby it’s your secret weapon."

She smirked, leaned closer, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispered, "Anything for you, baby. Especially when I get to have my way with you afterward."

I shivered at her words, my heart racing with anticipation. There was something intoxicating about the way she claimed me, the way she took charge. I loved every moment of it, even if it made me feel vulnerable.

Paige stood up suddenly, her playful demeanor shifting into something more commanding. “Come here,” she instructed, her voice firm yet sultry. I followed her, curiosity piqued, as she led me to the full-length mirror on the wall, right next to the bed.

“Look at yourself,” she murmured, her fingers brushing against my neck as she turned me to face the glass. I could see the reflection of us, a flush creeping across my cheeks. “You’re beautiful,” she said, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “But I want you to see what I see.”

Before I could respond, she slowly pulling my satan mini sleep dress, off revealing my body to herself as if she was claming a prize. My heart raced as I realized her intentions. “Paige…” I started, but her smirk silenced me.

“Shh,” she said, a playful glint in her eye. “Trust me, watch me the whole time, ma. ” She walked to the other bed side table to pull out the purple stap, taking the boxers off and expertly securing it around her waist.

I watched her through the Mirror not taking my eyes of her once.

“Now,” she said, walking back to me and now her breath warm against my neck, “I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and think about how good you can be for me.”

She wrapped her strong arms around me, pulling me back against her chest, and I found my breath catching in my throat as I felt her biceps flex around my head.

“Paige, I—”

“Good girls do what they’re told,” she interrupted playfully, flexing her biceps around my chin so I could look up see my own reflection. “Look at you. So pretty, so willing. You’re perfect just like this.”

I gazed into the mirror, my heart pounding as I saw the way she held me—her strength juxtaposed against my vulnerability. I felt a rush of heat surge through me.

“Tell me what you see,” Paige urged, her voice steady yet sultry. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I see…” I hesitated, caught between the thrill of her hold and the desire to please her. “I see… me. I see us.”

“Good girl,” she praised, her voice dripping with satisfaction. I could feel the tension in her body, the way she leaned into me, the heat radiating off her. “Now, tell me how much you want me.”

“I want you, Paige,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. The honesty of my desire sent a thrill through me, igniting a fire that burned deep within. “I want you to fuck me.”

“See? Was that so hard?” she teased, her lips brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “You’re learning.”

Paige turned me slightly, enough that I could see her in the mirror too. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she gazed down at me, and I felt a rush of exhilaration at being at her mercy. “Now, I want you to remember this moment. How it feels to be my good girl.”

With that, she pressed her lips against mine, capturing me in a kiss that was both sweet and demanding. I melted against her, surrendering fully to the sensation of her body against mine. Each kiss deepened my desire, igniting a passion that coursed through my veins.

“Look at us,” she murmured between kisses, her voice low and seductive. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. Together, we create magic.”

Once back on the bed she had me face down ass up, still facibg the mirror.

I gasped as she took her tongue and gave my much needy pussy attention, “You’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered, her breath warm against my thigh just before kissing and biting at it. “I want to make you feel everything.”

After a few mins of practically making out with my pussy, Paige, pulling me up by my hair before locking my head in her biceps again, her lips brushing against my ear as she trailed kisses along my jawline and neck. I could feel her warmth, her desire, and it sent waves of pleasure coursing through me. “Tell me how it feels, and don't be quiet about it either, baby” she instructed, her voice a tantalizing whisper.

“Good,” I breathed, my heart racing. “It feels so good.”

“Good girls deserve to be rewarded,” she replied, her lips curling into a smirk. “And you’ve been so very good, so keep watching in the mirror for me, yeah mamas”

She guided my gaze back to the mirror, forcing me to watch as she explored my body, her hands roaming, her kisses igniting every nerve. “Look at how much you crave this,” she teased, her voice a sultry melody. “You want to be my good girl, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped, the thrill of her words sending me spiraling deeper into desire.

“Then let’s make this a night to remember,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief and passion.

Before I could fully process her movements, she had me pinned, face down ass up into the satan sheets, every inch of my body electrified by her touch. The strap slid deeper, an intoxicating sensation that made my heart race and my mind spin.

I could feel every pulse, every inch of her as she filled me, her confidence radiating through the air. Letting out a groan as if she could actually feel me clenching around her. “Fuck, baby you takin my dick so good. Pussy just swallowin me whole, shit.”

“Paige…” I managed to whisper, but the words were swallowed by the thick tension that hung between us. My body was responding, every nerve ending alive with the thrill of the moment. She held me captive, and I was more than willing to surrender.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, guiding me as she thrust deeper, the rhythm slow at first but building in intensity. I could hear her breathing, a mix of pleasure and desire, and it sent a shiver down my spine. “You’re so perfect for me,” she murmured, a sultry smile playing on her lips. “I could do this forever.”

With every thrust, she drew me closer to a precipice I had only ever dreamed of. The world outside faded away; there was nothing but the two of us, lost in our own universe. I could feel the heat pooling within me, a delicious tension building that threatened to consume us both.

“God, you feel so good,” she breathed, her voice thick with desire. “I want you to look in the mirror when you cum f'me. Watch yourself fall apart on my shit, ma.”

I surrendered completely, allowing myself to be swept up in the waves of pleasure she was creating. The way she moved, the way she filled me—it was intoxicating. I could feel every inch of her, the connection between us palpable, electric. It was as if we were two bodies entwined in a dance as old as time, a rhythm that only we could hear.

“Paige, I…” My words faltered as she hit a spot that made my entire body quiver. I could feel the tension building, spiraling higher and higher until it felt like I might burst.

“Shh, just look in the mirror and feel,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear. “I’ve got you.”

Her words were like a spell, wrapping around me and pulling me deeper into the moment. I lost myself completely, every thought dissolving into a haze of pure ecstasy. Looking into the mirror watching with way she had my arms pinned behind my back, the determination on her face to make me feel so full. Watching the way my juices leaked on the bed, the way the base of the strap milky white from the way she was pounding me into the bed. The world outside ceased to exist; all that mattered was the connection between us, the way she moved, the way she touched me.

As she pushed deeper, I could feel the heat rising more and more, the pressure building within me. I was teetering on the edge, and I could sense that she was too. And as a last minute act she put me in a headlock again, hips still hitting all the right spot. “Yes, just like that, watch yourself f'me” she urged, her voice a low, sultry whisper. “Let go for me. Yeah ma, cum on my dick.”

With a final thrust, everything exploded, watching myself fall apart on the purple strap. I felt the world around me shatter into a million pieces, the sensation overwhelming and all-consuming. Waves of pleasure crashed over me, leaving me breathless and trembling.

“Just like that, baby. That’s it,” Paige encouraged, her voice a sultry murmur that was so encouraging that I could cum again. “You’re so beautiful when you cum, f'me baby.”

I could hardly respond, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure that coursed through me. I felt her slow down, her movements becoming gentle as she brought me back down from the high. My head resting back on her shoulder for a few seconds before I look at our sweat, cum dripping bodies, in awe

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern flickering in her eyes as they met mine through the mirror.

I nodded, still catching my breath. “More than okay,” I whispered, a smile breaking across my face. “That was incredible.”

Her lips curled into a playful grin, and I could see the satisfaction shining in her eyes. “I’m glad to hear that. But I’m not done with you yet.”

Before I could fully comprehend her words, she shifted her body, and mine her movements fluid and graceful. The strap was still there, a reminder of the connection we shared, and as she positioned herself above me, as I am now on my back, I felt the excitement build once more.

“Just relax and enjoy the ride,” she said, her voice low and enticing.

With that, she began to move again, her body rocking against mine in a way that sent shivers coursing through me. Every thrust was deliberate, every movement intentional, and I could feel myself responding, eager to meet her rhythm.

“God, you’re amazing,” she breathed, her eyes locked onto mine. The intensity of her gaze sent another wave of heat through me, igniting the fire that had only just begun to simmer.

“Paige, you have no idea…” I gasped, my hands finding their way to her hips, guiding her as I tried to keep up with her pace.

We were lost in each other, the world outside fading away once more. The tension built again, a delicious spiral that threatened to consume us both. I could feel the heat rising, the pressure coiling within me, and I knew we were nearing the edge once more.

“Just a little more,” she urged, her breath coming in quick gasps as she pushed herself closer, her voice laced with urgency. “I want to feel you again.”

With her words, I was gone, the tension breaking like a dam as the pleasure rushed over me once more. I could feel her reach her peak too, our bodies connected in a way that felt transcendent.

As we collapsed together, breathless and spent, I couldn’t help but smile. In that moment, everything felt right. We were two souls intertwined, lost in the heat of desire and the sweetness of connection.

“Wow,” I managed to say, a laugh escaping my lips. “What just happened?”

Paige chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. “Just a little magic,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And I think we should do it again.”

I grinned, my heart racing at the thought. “I’m all in.”

---

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-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[goldfades]

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 ☆ BUECKERS⁵ (ev's 6k celly!)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

CELLY MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | dating paige means learning to share her — with fans, cameras, the league. you’re used to being in the background: her pregame text, her airport pickup, the face she looks for in the crowd. but when she finally has a bad game — one that leaves her jaw tight and chest guarded, you’re the one she lets fall apart.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!! hurt to comfort, paige being a little mean, kinda stay at home vibe for reader but not really?? HAPPY ENDING!!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya!! day 3 of celly, i hope yall are enjoying so far. here's the angsty, hurt to comfort paige fic yall were promised. also i feel like i needed to add that im not trying to hate on the wings at all, this fic is more about the emotional side of things than any real commentary on the team.

also obviously i have no idea what paige is actually feeling or going through (obviously LOL), this is all just fictional and for fun. just wanted to explore a softer, more personal side of what that transition might feel like for someone carrying that much pressure. no harm intended, just feelings & vibes & sapphic yearning <3

You meet her in a grocery store just off of campus, which feels fake even as it’s happening.

She’s in a hoodie too big for her, hood up, cart half-full of protein bars and Smartwater, reading the back of a box like it's a scouting report. You’re standing in front of the oat milk. That’s it. That’s the origin story.

She asks if the oat milk is good. You say it depends on what she’s doing with it. She raises an eyebrow and says, drinking it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world . You tell her it’s fine but the vanilla one is better. And when she reaches for it, your fingers graze. You don’t look away first.

It starts there — two people in the milk aisle, pretending they don’t know who the other is or maybe pretending it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

Now it’s almost two years later. You know which pair of socks she has to wear on game days, how she retapes her fingers during halftime even if the wrap is fine, the way she likes her smoothies: blended twice, don’t ask why and that when she’s tired she gets clingy but insists she’s not.

You also know how to stay out of the frame.

You're the person who picks up her dry cleaning, triple checks her call sheet, drives her to the airport at 5AM with a thermos of coffee you’ll never get thanked for. Not because she’s ungrateful, but because she doesn’t realize she needs to. She’s Paige Bueckers. She gives pieces of herself away all day — photos, autographs, interviews, sideline hugs for kids she’s never met and by the time she gets to you, there’s not always much left.

But she always finds your hand. That counts for something.

You get used to watching her light up arenas from the shadows. You like it, actually. The background is quiet. Safe. You can watch her without worrying about being watched back.

You know she’s yours even if everyone else thinks she belongs to the world. And lately, the world’s been getting greedy.

The apartment still smells like new paint.

Not strong, not offensive, just that faint, chalky scent that clings to the corners of the rooms, reminding you that the place isn’t quite lived-in yet. Boxes line the hallway in uneven stacks, some open, some sealed, all of them with your handwriting scrawled across the sides. Kitchen stuff. Shoes, maybe?? PAIGE DON’T TOUCH.

She did, obviously.

You find the proof in the form of an empty protein bar wrapper tucked into the top of a box marked winter clothes and you roll your eyes as you toss it in the trash.

It’s quiet in the apartment, which is rare lately. For the past few months, everything’s been loud. Not just the literal noise, although there’s been plenty of that: roaring student sections, confetti cannons, draft night applause that rang in your chest like a second heartbeat but the kind of loud that lives under your skin. Constant motion. Constant attention. Eyes on her, hands on her, reporters leaning too close with too many questions, and her answering all of it with that same polished smile that means I’m good, I’m fine, keep moving.

You know what it costs.

Winning the natty should’ve felt like a finish line but it only cracked open another beginning. Draft week came less than a week later. There was barely time to breathe, let alone plan a move to a new city, a new team, a new life. You booked the flights. You signed the lease. You made sure the sheets were washed before she got here.

You haven’t unpacked fully. Neither of you has had time.

Right now, she’s at shootaround — early preseason workouts, a light day, though deemed light by Paige Bueckers standards still means running through plays like it’s the Final Four. You’re not there. She asked if you wanted to come and you said no. She didn’t push. She never does.

You like seeing her on the court but today you needed the silence. Needed to breathe in a room that didn’t buzz with her future. Needed to sit in the kitchen she hasn’t cooked in yet and just be.

You wash two mugs, even though you only used one. You start putting away silverware and get distracted organizing the drawer — forks facing one way, spoons the other, knives stacked like soldiers. You don’t know how long you’re standing there when you hear the door unlock.

“Babe?”

Her voice is hoarse. You glance up, startled by the way your heart still flinches at the sound.

“In the kitchen,” you call back.

She appears a second later, already halfway out of her sneakers, gym bag sliding off her shoulder. Her hair’s tied up in a bun, messy, a few strands stuck to her forehead. She looks tired, which means she probably went too hard, again.

She smiles when she sees you. It’s not a big smile, barely there, really but it’s the one she only gives you. The one that softens all the edges.

“Hey,” she says.

You lift an eyebrow. “Don’t ‘hey’ me. You went for an hour and a half.”

“Sixty-five minutes,” she corrects, coming over to press a kiss to your cheek. Her hand finds your waist without thinking. “I’m being good.”

“You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being prepared.” She grins like she knows you’re already over it and you are. Mostly.

You turn into her, letting her rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is damp. You don’t mind. For a second, neither of you says anything.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

You hum. “You saw me this morning.”

“Still.”

This is how it’s always been. Paige flies too close to the sun, and you make sure there’s a place for her to land. You’ve never tried to stop her. You just make sure the lights are on when she comes home.

She pulls away slowly, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorize it, even though she’s already got it memorized a hundred times over.

“I know I haven’t been around much lately,” she says, quieter.

You could say I know, or It’s okay, or You don’t have to explain.

But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

She blinks, then smiles again — wider this time. “You love bossing me around.”

You shrug, moving toward the fridge. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

She sits. Watches you. You can feel her eyes on your back while you crack eggs into a pan and mumble about how she better not leave her sweaty socks on the kitchen chair again. She laughs.

For a second, the rest of it fades. The expectations, the cameras, the pressure. The whole world outside this apartment.

She’s here. And she’s yours.

The season starts badly.

Not technically — their opener is a loss, narrow but clean. The kind of win that looks okay in a box score even if you know, just by watching, that something’s off. Like the rhythm is a beat behind. Like Paige’s shot is just a little too flat. Like the whole team is waiting for someone else to wake them up.

After that, it’s four straight losses. One at home, three on the road. All of them ugly.

The headlines stay polite at first. Young team still finding chemistry. Bueckers adjusting to WNBA pace. But the subtext is everywhere. In the photos they run — Paige midair, Paige scowling, Paige with her hands on her knees. In the clips they replay: missed threes, turnovers, turnovers, turnovers. Even in the way the commentators say her name, like it used to mean something magical and now they’re not sure what it means anymore.

You try not to read the comments. You still do.

At home, she says she’s fine.

Fine when she’s up at 1:30 in the morning watching film with the volume so low you can barely hear it. Fine when she forgets to eat until noon. Fine when she gets back from practice with red-rimmed eyes and blames it on the wind even though it hasn’t been breezy in days.

You don’t press. Not directly.

You just hover. The way you always do. Fold her laundry. Wrap her knee even when she says it doesn’t hurt. Order in from her favorite Thai place and pretend you were craving it too. Make sure the lamp by her side of the bed is always turned on when she walks in.

You wait for her to let you in.

She doesn’t.

The apartment feels different now.

You don’t realize it until you’re halfway through cleaning out the fridge one day and it hits you: this is what distance feels like. Not loud. Not obvious. Just space. Gaps where the closeness used to live. Little things.

She doesn’t hum when she showers anymore. She texts you from the gym less. She doesn’t ask you to braid her hair before games. She doesn’t lose her phone and call out for you in a half-panic only to find it under a throw pillow. She just… moves quieter.

Sometimes she looks at you like she wants to say something. Like it’s sitting on her tongue, one syllable away from shattering the whole dam. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and she says something like “Did we run out of toothpaste?”

And you nod, and say “Yeah, I’ll grab some tomorrow” and pretend you weren’t holding your breath.

They lose again. Badly.

You watch from the tunnel, same place you always stand. You’ve watched her from this spot more times than you can count but this feels different. Wrong.

The buzzer sounds. 78–61. Another loss. Fifth in a row. You stand in the tunnel like always, heart clenched in that familiar way that used to mean nerves but now mostly means dread.

You watch her shake hands, high-five a couple fans who lean over the railing. The towel around her neck looks like a surrender flag. Her face is set, eyes sharp and far away. You recognize that look - it’s the one she wears when she’s trying not to feel anything. When the disappointment is too deep and too sharp to acknowledge in public.

She doesn’t look up at you.

Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say your name like she usually does, even in passing maybe half a smile, quick reach for your hand if you’re close enough.

She walks straight past.

You wait for her anyway. You text her: I’m in the tunnel, I’ll be at the car.

No response.

She gets home almost an hour later. Drops her bag by the door and kicks her shoes off with more force than necessary. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending to watch a rerun of something, volume too low to actually follow.

You glance over. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter like she’s trying to miss on purpose. “God, what a night. I mean at least I only turned it over, what, six times? That’s practically an improvement.”

You pause. “Seven.”

“Oof.” She winces, exaggerated. “Even better.”

You don’t laugh.

She notices. She walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stands there like it's a portal to another dimension.

“You hungry?” she asks. “I could burn some toast or reheat something and pretend I made it from scratch.”

“Paige.”

She doesn’t look over. “Or we could do popcorn and call it dinner. Real athlete shit.”

“Paige.”

That lands. She shuts the fridge, too loud and finally turns to face you.

“What?” she says. Light, teasing. Like she already knows what you’re about to say and wants to joke her way out of it. “Don’t tell me you’re mad at me for that disaster.”

You sit up. “I’m not mad at you for losing. I’m upset that you won’t talk to me.”

She blinks. “I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re deflecting. You’ve been doing it for days. You came home last night and made a joke about retiring to become a barista.”

“Hey, that’s a solid fallback plan.”

“Paige.”

She lifts her hands. “Okay. What do you want me to say? That I suck right now? That I’m letting everybody down? That I feel like I made a huge mistake coming here? Would that make you feel better?”

The words cut sharper than they should. Not because she means to hurt you -- Paige never means to hurt you but because you recognize the panic underneath them. The way her voice spikes, too high, too fast. The way she’s trying to outrun the truth before it catches up.

You step into the kitchen, across from her now. Arms folded. Quiet.

“I want you to be honest with me,” you say, low and even. “Not perfect. Not funny. Not brave. Just… honest.”

She leans back against the counter like it might hold her up better than you can. Her arms cross over her chest.

“I can’t do that right now,” she says.

You nod but it’s not agreement. More like acknowledgment.

“Okay.” You back away slowly. “Then I’m gonna go for a drive.”

She frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because if I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”

She doesn’t try to stop you. That hurts more than it should.

The silence stretches.

A day passes. Then another. The fight doesn’t explode: it simmers. You still talk, technically. You ask if she wants anything when you go to the store. She tells you she refilled your prescription when she picked up her own. You switch the laundry she started. She rewinds the show you missed.

But you don’t touch. You don’t look too long. And she doesn’t say your name like it’s a question anymore.

It feels like standing on a frozen lake, the ice too thin and the water too black and freezing underneath. And you're the only one hearing the cracks.

You find yourself spiraling in stupid ways.

You start overthinking texts that don’t need to be overthought. You stare at her Instagram comments longer than you should. You don’t mean to but you do. All the hearts, all the compliments, all the people who don’t know her but think they do. Who think they love her.

And maybe they do, in that empty, worshipful, social-media way.

But they don’t fold her socks. They don’t know how her voice sounds when she’s half-asleep. They don’t press a cold washcloth to her forehead when she’s sick. They don’t know she triple-knots her laces and tucks the ends in because she’s paranoid about tripping. They don’t know she cries at commercials but hides it by blaming dust.

You do.

And it’s not jealousy, not really. It’s more like… fear. Like maybe all this silence is the beginning of her forgetting that she needs you.

And the worst part? You get it.

You know what she’s feeling even if she won’t say it. You know she’s disappointed, overwhelmed. You know she thinks showing you that will make her seem weak. You know it’s not about you.

But it still feels like it is.

You lie awake beside her that night, staring at the ceiling. You can hear her breathing, slow and even. Either asleep or pretending to be. You don't reach for her. Not this time.

And she doesn't reach for you.

The arena feels different tonight. Not louder. Not quieter. Just heavier. Like even the air is bracing for something it can’t name.

You’re in the tunnel again, where you always are. That same spot, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, the lanyard around your neck sticking to your skin with the sweat you won’t admit to. You watch the players file in, coaches in tow, heads bowed slightly in that ritual of unspoken hope.

Paige doesn’t look at you when she runs out for warmups. Hasn’t, not since the fight.

Her face is unreadable under the lights, jaw set and mouth tight in that way that means she’s focused, or maybe pretending to be. You’ve seen that look a hundred times before. In college stadiums, back at UConn. But never like this. Never this brittle.

You watch her miss three shots in a row during shootaround. Not by much but by enough. No one else seems to notice or maybe they’ve gotten used to it. You haven’t.

When the game starts, you try to focus on it like you usually do. Not in a fan way but in a quiet way. You keep your eyes on her. Always on her. Not the scoreboard. Not the other players. Just Paige.

She’s off. Again. And this time it’s not the usual, not just missed shots or a slow start or teammates who don’t read her cuts. It’s everything. Her rhythm is gone. Her body’s tight. Her passes are rushed. Her confidence, usually such a steady undercurrent in the way she moves is nowhere to be found.

She fouls early. A dumb reach-in that she wouldn’t normally commit. Then another, chasing a fast break she had no hope of catching. By halftime, she’s on the bench, staring at the floor with a towel over her head and a stat line you know she won’t be able to look at later.

2 points. 1 assist. 4 turnovers.

The team is down by 15.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You keep rubbing your thumb over your ring finger, a nervous habit you picked up somewhere along the way and never broke. You watch her jog into the tunnel at the half, shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a thin line.

She doesn’t look up.

The second half is worse.

The game slips away before the fourth quarter even starts. Paige goes scoreless the entire third then gets pulled halfway through the fourth when it becomes clear the coaches are calling it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks to the bench, plops down, elbows on her knees, eyes ahead like she’s watching something only she can see.

By the time the buzzer sounds, the final score doesn’t matter.

They lose by 22.

You wait for her in the same spot you always do. Tunnel. Left side. Just past the security guard who now knows your name.

The team walks by slowly. A few nods, a couple brief waves from familiar faces. But Paige isn’t with them.

She comes last.

No towel. No eye contact. Just her, walking like every step hurts.

She sees you — she has to, you’re right in her line of sight but she walks past without a word.

You follow.

The car ride is silent.

She doesn’t play music. Doesn’t reach for your hand at the red light like she usually does. Just keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. She’s still in her jersey, sweats pulled over her shorts, hair damp from the shower and curled behind her ears.

You want to say something. Anything. But you’ve learned not to touch the wound while it’s still bleeding.

She unlocks the apartment, tosses her keys on the counter and moves straight to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Closes it. Opens it again. Then just stands there with her hand on the handle, breathing like she’s trying to remember how.

You step inside, gently, quietly like someone trying not to startle a cornered animal.

“Paige,” you say.

She doesn’t move.

“Hey.” You reach out, touch her back lightly, right between the shoulder blades.

She flinches. Not from pain. From everything else.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

You don’t ask what she means.

Instead, you guide her hand off the fridge door and turn her to face you.

Her face crumples.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like a wall finally giving way after weeks of rain. Her mouth twitches. Her eyes glass over. Her breath catches in her throat.

“I’m trying so hard,” she says, barely audible. “I’m doing everything I can and it’s still not enough.”

You move closer, carefully, and she doesn’t pull away this time.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you are.”

She shakes her head, eyes rimmed red. “I’m not who they thought I’d be.”

You feel that like a knife. Because you know what she means. Not just the media. Not just the fans. She means everyone. The people who waited for her. The ones who wanted her to be a savior.

“They all thought I’d come in and just… fix it. Like I was some kind of answer.”

You reach up, thumb brushing under her eye. “You were never supposed to fix it all, P.”

She exhales and it sounds like a sob even though there are no tears yet.

“You don’t get it,” she says. “I used to love this. I used to be good at this. And now all I do is mess up and get benched and watch them lose and try not to cry in front of the cameras. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I don’t even feel like me anymore.”

That last part cracks something in you. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? She’s not afraid of losing. She’s afraid of losing herself.

You don’t say anything right away. You just take her face in your hands and hold her like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“I miss you,” you say.

She blinks. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks and I didn’t know how to reach you.” Your voice shakes a little. “But I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. You can fall apart with me. You have to fall apart with me. That’s the deal.”

And finally, finally, she breaks.

The tears come fast and silent, her body folding into yours like she’s collapsing under her own weight. You hold her through it, arms around her waist, her forehead pressed into your shoulder. You feel every tremble. Every shudder. Every breath she takes like she’s trying to relearn how.

“I don’t want to be strong right now,” she mumbles against your collarbone. “I’m so tired of being strong.”

“You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

So she lets go. And for the first time in weeks, so do you.

Later, when the storm inside her has quieted, when her eyes are puffy and red and her breathing has slowed to something human again, you lead her to the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before. Like it’s ritual.

She lets you.

Still silent. Still raw. But softer now, like the sharp edges have dulled. Her hand lingers in yours longer than it has in weeks. She curls into you without asking, tucks her knees up under her and presses her cheek to your chest like she did during last year at UConn, after that Final Four game where she swore she’d never play that badly again.

You’d found her in her dorm that night, still in her travel sweats, hoodie pulled up like armor. She hadn’t said anything, just climbed into your lap, quiet and bruised and seventeen kinds of exhausted.

You held her then like you’re holding her now. Careful, steady, for as long as she needed.

You grab the fuzzy blanket from the arm of the couch, the one she pretends she hates because it’s “obnoxiously pink” but always ends up buried under after tough nights. You drape it over the two of you, then kiss her hair once, gently, where it parts at her crown.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence.

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

“I’ve been such a dick.”

You smile faintly into her hair. “Maybe. But you’re my dick.”

That gets the tiniest huff of a laugh out of her, muffled against your collarbone. It’s the first real sound of her in days.

You reach for the remote and scroll mindlessly until you land on the dumb baking show you always used to put on after her bad games. She pretends to hate it: “They’re just cakes, babe, why are they all crying?” but you know it makes her feel safe. Like the world is a little slower and a little sweeter.

You set the volume low, just enough to fill the room with chatter and clinking bowls and the gentle pressure of lives that have nothing to do with yours.

“I forgot how good this show is,” she mumbles after a few minutes.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers drift through her hair, light and rhythmic. Her breathing evens out, one hand fisting lightly in your hoodie.

This is the version of her you’ve missed. Not perfect. Not polished. Just herself. Soft, sleepy, safe.

“You remember that night in Hartford,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “when you missed that game-winner and locked yourself in the locker room for an hour?”

She groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“You wouldn’t come out. I had to sneak in with that nasty gas station hot chocolate.”

She shifts a little, her smile pressing into your skin. “You bribed me.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

She hums. “Barely. I only opened the door ‘cause I thought you were gonna start sobbing outside it.”

You feign offense. “I was being dramatic for effect.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You let the silence settle again. It’s warm this time. Companionable.

“I used to think you only loved me when I was winning,” she says quietly, like it’s something she’s only just realized she believed.

You tilt your head down. “Do you still think that?”

She shrugs against you. “I don’t know. I think I forgot how to be loved when I wasn’t.”

You exhale slowly and tip her chin up with two fingers, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are tired, but clear.

“Paige,” you say, soft but sure, “you are loved when you lose. When you miss. When you fall apart. When you’re stubborn and snappy and full of doubt. There is no version of you I wouldn’t love.”

Her throat works around the lump there, eyes glistening again, but the tears don’t fall this time. She just nods.

Then she pulls you in and kisses you.

Not desperate. Not needy. Just real. Quiet and slow and full of apology and promise.

When she pulls back, she leans her forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”

You shake your head. “I’ll always be here. Even when you’re not ready. Even when you push. I’ll wait. That’s the job.”

She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. It’s not big. Not flashy. But it’s real.

“You’re too good to me,” she says.

“Mm. Probably,” you tease, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “But I like the work.”

She laughs, and it bubbles out of her like it’s the first time she’s remembered how. The tension breaks. The ache loosens.

The couch holds you both.

Outside, Dallas hums on — noisier than it should be, traffic always loud and lights always spilling in through the windows. But the room you’re in is soft. Dim. Full of the kind of peace that only comes after a storm.

She nestles back into your chest, tugs the blanket up to her chin.

And you think; this is enough.

Not the win streak. Not the headlines. Not the perfect stat lines.

Just this.

Her body folded into yours. Her heart safe in your hands. Her breath warm on your neck. The worst of it behind you.

Finally, finally — home.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[caitified]

Hello! I absolutely love your family series so much. I love Caitlin’s family but can you please do Paige next?

Can it be like Paige introduces their baby to Geno and CD after Paige’s game (she’s in Dallas already) and idk just cute interactions and fans are eating it up. I hope you give this a shot. Thank you!

INTRODUCTION

PAIGE BUECKERS X FAMILY READER

notes: finally…after literally 100 requests i’m properly starting my paige family series. enjoy! (p.s i think i changed this a bit from the req, sry)

requests are open for this.

packing for any trip with a baby was always a process. no matter how much you tried to pack light, you always ended up with more than you needed.

“paige, we’re not moving to connecticut.” you glanced at her over your shoulder as you zipped up one of eva’s bags. “why does she have like four different pairs of sneakers in here?”

paige, sitting on the floor with eva in her lap, looked up sheepishly. “because she’s gotta look fresh?”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile. “she’s not even walking yet.”

paige turned eva toward her, gently bouncing her. “tell mama you need options, baby.”

eva, six months old with bright blue eyes just like her mom’s, blew a spit bubble.

paige gasped dramatically. “see? she agrees.”

you laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed the last of your things. “fine. whatever. let’s just go before we miss the flight.”

—

the flight from dallas to connecticut wasn’t too bad.

eva, thankfully, was a pretty easy baby. after some snacks, a few rounds of peekaboo with paige, and a little bit of fighting sleep, she finally passed out in your arms.

paige, sitting next to you, smiled down at her before looking at you. “this is so weird,” she murmured.

you shifted slightly to look at her. “what is?”

her lips curled slightly. “going back to uconn. with you. with eva.”

your heart softened. “you’re excited, though, right?”

she nodded. “of course. but, like…” she exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “when i left, i never thought i’d be coming back like this, y’know? like, yeah, i knew i’d visit, but—” she looked down at eva again, voice dropping slightly. “now i have a family.”

you reached for her hand, squeezing gently. “it’s a full-circle moment.”

she nodded, exhaling. “yeah. it really is.”

—

the game itself was electric.

stepping into gampel pavilion again felt like stepping into a time capsule. the energy, the fans, the love—it was all still there.

but this time, instead of sitting courtside just as paige’s girlfriend, you had eva in your lap.

instead of fangirling over paige as the uconn superstar, you were watching her experience the game as a wnba player, an alumni, a legend in her own right.

and, of course, you were just trying to keep eva from throwing her pacifier onto the court.

“baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her head as she wiggled. “no throwing things.”

she cooed back at you, completely ignoring your request.

the fans ate her up.

anytime she clapped her little hands? cheers.

every time she got excited when the crowd got loud? adorable gasps.

by halftime, there were already tweets circulating about how paige’s baby was a uconn legend in the making.

you glanced at paige, who was beaming, filming eva on her phone.

“she’s gonna steal your thunder,” you teased.

paige smirked. “i’d let her.”

—

after the game, it was time for introductions.

geno and cd were already waiting in the tunnel, and the moment paige stepped forward with eva, their faces lit up.

“there’s the real superstar,” geno said, grinning as he looked at eva.

cd, beside him, immediately reached for her. “oh, let me see her!”

eva blinked at them, big blue eyes full of curiosity, before reaching her arms out for cd.

paige gasped, placing a hand over her heart. “i can’t believe this. my own daughter is betraying me.”

you laughed, nudging her. “relax, babe. she just knows good people.”

cd beamed, adjusting eva in her arms. “she’s beautiful, paige.” she glanced at you, smiling warmly. “you two did good.”

geno crossed his arms, tilting his head. “i dunno… she kinda looks too much like paige. are we sure she’s not already stubborn?”

paige gasped. “coach!”

you smirked, shrugging. “i mean, she is kind of a diva.”

geno nodded knowingly. “oh, she definitely got that from her mom.”

eva babbled happily in cd’s arms, clearly enjoying the attention.

paige sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead. “i can’t believe i came back here to get roasted.”

geno clapped a hand on her shoulder. “it’s what we do, kid.”

she rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile.

you squeezed her hand, grinning.

back home. but better.

i’m in now. keep the paige family requests coming

[reimaybe]

🎧: cherry flavoured — the neighbourhood

in all honesty, rin didn’t even really like cherries.

cherry keychains, cherry-flavored drinks, cherry lip balms, cherry-red lips… what? he blinked at the thought, his face now dusted with a light cherry-red hue.

the only reason a person as aloof and reclusive as him was dealing with something so ‘lukewarm’ was because you insisted on it. for instance, when he mentioned that his bangs were getting in the way while playing soccer, you were quick to offer a cherry hair clip as a solution.

to say the least, the school’s populace of girls were dismayed to see the introverted, aloof, and good-looking itoshi rin playing soccer with a cute cherry-red clip, a stark contrast to the way he destructively played the sport.

by halftime, rin approached you, all sulky.

“can i take this off now?” he grumbled.

you laughed. “no. you look cute.”

from the corner of your eye, you noticed a good number of girls sighing in defeat as they looked at you two. what could that be about?

rin rolled his eyes playfully. “okay, whatever. you’re lucky i like you.”

“...what?”

“what?” and with that, rin hurriedly ran away to join his team huddle.

you could have sworn his ears were tinged with a hint of red. your hand covered your mouth as you held back a smile, your cheeks flushing a soft cherry color.

[pitchsidestories]

No Hard Feelings II Fridolina Rolfö x Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | previous fanfic I word count: 1556

summary: Fridolina initially acts cold and dismissive toward Reader. But is her aloofness rooted in genuine disdain, or is there something deeper behind her behavior? requested

author's note: Hi readers, we hope you enjoy the fanfic. Your feedback is always appreciated. 💙💙

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

It happened again. Fridolina’s blue eyes never sought yours. Her glances were always directed at your other teammates, never at you. As she animatedly spoke to Kika and Ellie, you were left ignored, feeling invisible to her.

When Fridolina finally left - it was the official end of training after all, you couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “See? She did it again!”

“Did what?” The blonde goalkeeper frowned, clearly confused. The hurt was evident in your voice as you replied, “Whenever I said something, she didn’t respond.”

Fridolina’s dismissive behaviour reminded you too much of what you’d experienced at your former club, ugly memories resurfacing, ones you’d tried so hard to leave behind.

“Kika’s right. Frido probably didn’t mean to do it on purpose, y/n,” Kika said, trying to comfort you.

Smiling, Ellie added, “Kika’s right. She’s really a nice person. You’ll see that once you’re here longer.”

“What? You two don’t see how Frido’s always ignoring me?” you protested, knowing full well how childish it must sound to your friends.

The Portuguese striker observed in a matter-of-fact tone, “You’re serious.”

“Yes.” Seeing the doubtful expressions on both of their faces, you added, your voice sounding defeated, “You don’t even believe me.”

“No, next time, we’ll focus on this,” Kika promised.

You let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, good.”

The goalkeeper gave you a sympathetic look. “You’re safe here. This isn’t your old club, remember?”

“I… I know that.”, you replied. In theory, it was true, you were aware of it, but had your heart caught up with your brain yet? Apparently not. You wanted honesty and truth from Fridolina, not a cold shoulder.

Light-heartedly, Ellie asked, attempting to distract you, “So, what about you two? Are you starving like I am?”

“Yes!” the brunette exclaimed, grinning.

A little chuckle escaped your lips as you replied, “It’s not even a question. Let’s grab some food.”

“Please,” the goalkeeper pleaded, before wrapping her arms around Kika and your shoulders as you walked out into the late afternoon, the sun casting a golden glow on your faces.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out alright in Barcelona. Even with Fridolina. A small spark of hope grew inside you while you laughed with your friends.

A few days later, that hopeful feeling was shattered. The game was filled with intensity, and your team was trailing behind, something it wasn’t used to. Tempers flared as the minutes ticked by, and the opponent’s tackles made things especially difficult.

At first, you couldn’t believe it, but then you saw an opening in the defence, a perfect position to shoot the ball into the goalkeeper’s net. “Frido, give me the ball!” you shouted.

The Swede had more than enough time to make a decision. You never received the ball. Instead she passed the ball to Patri behind you who launched the ball over the goal.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the Swede even had the audacity to turn towards you, all innocence: “What?”

The halftime whistle blew, but you barely registered it.

You couldn’t hold back. You stomped towards her, growing angrier with every step: “Didn’t you hear me? Why do you keep avoiding me like the plague?!”

Fridolina took a step back, her gaze locked onto your face, wary.

“I don’t!”, she protested.

“Yes, you do! This was our chance to turn this game around!”, you continued.

Your teammate shook her head and turned away to walk towards the dressing rooms. But not without defending herself.

“You weren’t in a position to receive the ball.”, she said calmly over her shoulder.

“That’s a lie!”, you shouted after her.

That made her pause and turn back towards you. She scoffed with frustration: “God, that’s pretty illusory for someone with the talent you have.”

You opened your mouth, ready to reply when Alexia stepped between the two of you. You didn’t even have to look at her, you could feel the anger radiate off of her.

“Both of you, go in that room and get this sorted during the halftime break.”, she ordered, pointing towards what appeared to be a broom closet. You had no doubt that if you protested, she would drag you inside there without hesitation.

“Alexia, you can’t be serious.”, Fridolina groaned.

“Do I look like I’m joking? It’s time for you two to talk it out.”

Even the stubborn Swede had to accept that arguing was useless: “Ugh.”

Wordlessly, you both entered the tiny, dimly lit room. As you closed the door behind yourself, you muttered to yourself: “I’ve never seen her that mad before.”

To your surprise, Fridolina actually responded: “She hates nothing more than when someone doesn’t put the team above everything else.”

You weren’t sure if there was a hint of guilt in her voice but whatever it was, you chose to ignore it. Instead, you studied her face in the low light. The single bulb above you cast shadows over her face.

“Me too.”, you said. “So? Will you tell me why you hate me now? It’s okay, I can take the truth much better than this silent treatment you’ve been giving me.”

Nothing. Just silence. You half expected that Fridolina went back to ignoring you, when she suddenly sighed heavily.

“I don’t hate you.”

"Wait, you don’t?", you blinked at her, surprised.

She rambled, clearly struggling to find the right words. "No... I just..."

"You...?" You looked at her expectantly.

Fridolina nervously ran a hand through her messy blonde ponytail, looking a little frazzled. "I wasn’t sure how to talk to you."

"It would’ve been less confusing if you’d just talked to me like you do with the other teammates," you told her.

"That’s different."

"Why? Because I’m the new girl?", you frowned.

Slowly, Fridolina shook her head, then clarified, "No."

"What’s your problem?”, you raised an eyebrow.

Both of you flinched when you heard your captain’s voice through the closed door: "Hurry up, only two more minutes."

The blonde didn’t address whatever issue she had with you. Instead, she referred to the incident on the pitch earlier, which had left your blood boiling. "I have no problem. There was an opponent behind you, so I couldn’t pass you the ball. That’s all."

You both sensed there was more to it, but the full truth remained elusive. "Okay. But why is talking to me different from talking to the others?" you asked, holding your breath without thinking.

You were so close to seeing the human behind her snow queen-esque façade, until Fridolina reminded you in a frosty tone

"Fridolina...", you began, trying to hide your disappointment.

Unmoved, she opened the door where Alexia was waiting for you. "Let’s go."

"You’d better get this right on the pitch now," the captain demanded, her hands on her hips, looking as determined as ever to secure the win.

There were only a few minutes left to play when Kika jumped on you, cheering as you scored the late winning goal. "What a strike!"

"Not bad, huh? I couldn’t have done it without Frido’s assist," you grinned proudly.

Kika’s eyes immediately shifted to the Swede before returning to you with a mischievous wink. "Looks like she’s not ignoring you anymore."

Satisfied, Alexia embraced you:"That’s what I wanted to see all along."

"We’ve got that," Fridolina reassured the captain as they shared a quick hug.

The victory had lifted everyone’s spirits. Each player was still buzzing, long after the final whistle. Loud chatter and laughter filled the changing room. Some wins just tasted sweeter, and this was definitely one of them.

Later, freshly showered, you waved to your teammates—who had become your friends. "Bye, everyone."

"Frido, now," Ingrid hissed, giving her friend a small but firm push in your direction.

You heard your name slip from the Swede's lips. Turning to her, you waited: 'Yeah?' “I...”

With raised eyebrows, you waited for her to continue. But when it became clear that she wouldn’t continue, you sighed, frustration slipping through.

“Just say it.”, you urged her impatiently, adjusting the strap of your sports bag on your shoulder.

Fridolina took a deep breath as if bracing herself for what she was coming next.

“The reason I talked to the others but not you is because… I’m not attracted to them.”

The words tumbled out of her mouth and you needed a moment to gather them, one by one.

“You find me attractive?”, you echoed, your brain still trying to piece it all together.

Fridolina nodded shyly: “I… do.”

You hesitated a second but once realisation settled in, you quickly found your footing.

“How about a date where we can get to know each other then?”, you suggested, smiling.

Before Fridolina could respond, Ingrid chimed in with a delighted: “Sounds perfect.”

You looked at the Swede, still waiting for a reaction from her.

“I think I would like that.”, she finally said, her eyes gleaming.

“Maybe at a café on our free day?”

Fridolina nodded: “That sounds great.”

“We’ve a date.” You gave her one last smile before you left the dressing room, exhilarated by what had just happened.

As you walked away, you heard Ingrid’s voice behind you. “See, Frido? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Fridolina let out a small laugh.

“It wasn’t,” she admitted, her gaze following you out with the tiniest smile on her lips.

image sources: pinterest

[demie90s]

UConn x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Halftime Unleashed

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:At halftime of a heated UConn game, the big screen surprises everyone by cutting to locker room footage of the women bonding.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:Sports drama, character revelation, team bonding, fan reaction

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:Locker room footage, mild suggestive dancing, revealing clothing, fan frenzy, emotional overwhelm

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~1.2k

ᴠɪʙᴇ:Wait, that’s her? Push-ups with teammates clinging on. Mini-skirt twerking and wine-on

The arena lights dim just enough to draw attention to the jumbo screen. UConn is down by four with 1:02 left in the second quarter—halftime looming. The crowd’s restless, ready for a break in play. Suddenly, instead of the usual “Top Plays” montage, the screen flashes “UConn Locker Room Live.” Cut to a narrow hallway. You catch glimpses of the locker room door opening, the low hum of laughter. Then—

Video 1: “Push-Up Party”

The camera pans to reader in full UConn practice gear: tank top, shorts, pristine sneakers. She’s on all fours in plank position, face determined. On her lower back: Nika and KK perched like acrobats, holding onto each other’s arms to balance. Nika’s giggling, rubbery ponytail swinging; KK’s barking laughter muffled as she tries to stabilize. You see her shoulders shake with the effort. She lowers her chest nearly to the floor, then pushes up, lifting the two of them with ease. The scoreboard graphic in the corner counts reps—“15…16…17…” The announcer’s voice crackles through the speakers: “Did you see that? #17 just elevated our entire bench—literally.”

The camera zooms in on her face: intense, focused, not a hint of strain showing. Nika throws an arm around KK’s shoulders, trying to steady, and calls out, “More weight!” KK shouts, “You got two UConn benchwarmers on your back—no sweat?” She gives a quick grin to the camera, then dips down, pushing Nika and KK up one more time. The screen freezes on her mid-push-up ledge: jaw set, eyes burning with mischief and pride. The crowd gasps, then cheers, as if they just witnessed a highlight dunk. Teammates in the hallway clap, high-fiving. Then the video cuts.

Video 2: “Mini-Skirt Takeover”

Next: She in a tiny black mini skirt and a white crop top—completely out of uniform. She’s got full makeup: sultry winged eyeliner, red gloss, eyelashes glued long and fluttery. The locker room music is pumping. Paige stands in front of her, filming on her phone, smirking. KK stands just behind reader, arms crossed, trying but failing to look annoyed. The camera switches to angle where you see her hips sway from side to side. She’s twerking, low and hypnotic. Her skirt lifts just enough to show lace-trimmed boy shorts. Paige egges her on, shouting, “Drop it, baby, drop it!” She synchronizes her movement with the beat, eyes flashing at the camera. KK sashays in front of her to “win”, and reader’s expression shifts: she cups her hand around her ear like she can’t believe how good KK is at it. Then she turns back to Paige, dropping it again, all the while making direct eye contact with the camera—black lace choker bouncing.

Paige laughs so hard she stumbles back. KK, still wining, flicks a strand of hair over reader’s shoulder, smirking. She reaches out, grabs KK’s wrist, and pulls her onto her hips for a joined expansion of movement—KK tries to resist, but reader’s core strength holds her up. The bathroom stalls behind them tremble to the beat.

The announcer’s voice: “Ladies and gentlemen, #17 is not playing tonight, she’s hosting a dance party.” The screen pulses to the rim of the frame with a neon outline, mimicking a nightclub vibe.

Comments scroll across the bottom—“Who IS this girl?!” / “She’s taming UConn’s bench. Baddest one here.” Aaliyah from USC is shown on the big screen, jaw dropped, hands over mouth, as if she just saw a ghost.

Video 3: “Whistle Note Showdown”

Cut to: the locker room bench area. Ice, Azzi, and her stand in a loose circle. The trio holds karaoke mics—low-grade, borrowed from a frat party. The song playing is an a cappella instrumental of Ariana Grande’s “No Tears Left To Cry.” Ice is mid-melody, voice sultry but wavering; Azzi is next, belting her verse with fierce confidence.

Pause. The camera swings to reader: she steps forward, chest lifted, one hand on her hip, the other holding the mic at perfect angle. She inhales deeply, tilting her head back. When the track reaches the whistle note climax, her voice slices through: clean, piercing, effortless. It lingers.

You can see Ice’s wide-eyed surprise. Azzi’s fist pumping, stunned. A trainer who wandered in to refill water bottles. with bucket and brush in hand. The announcer’s voice roars through the PA, shimmying up the hallways: “Did you hear that? #17 just broke our sound system… Didn’t know she could… SING!”

The screen splits with live reaction shots: the audience at Gampel standing, stunned, wiping tears—some mouths forming an “O” shape in disbelief. (Dramatic I know)

⸻

Back in the arena, the crowd’s collective heartbeat thumps. The lights flicker back up. UConn players re-enter the court for the second half. She is stoic as ever: game face, no smudged mascara, breathing steady. But you can see the corner of her lips twitch as her teammates shoot her knowing grins.

The opposing coach—let’s say it’s Villanova tonight—tries to keep his squad composed at the break. They watch reader cross midcourt, ball tucked under arm. Some still have their jaws open. The Villanova players shoot sidelong glances as reader does a quick petition sign, “✌️,” to Ice and Azzi on the other side. Ice gives a half-bow, Azzi does a finger heart. Reader smirks, then zips off to the bench.

On her way, KK elbows her in the ribs, whispers, “Way to rock halftime, mom.” She rolls her eyes as Paige smacks her backside. Nika high-fives her. The energy on the bench is electric, like a secret language. The crowd? They’re still in shock, buzzing.

In the stands, the “Stoic Queen” posters get shredded. New signs appear: “She’s EVERYTHING” and “Give. Us. More. #17.” Fans chant her name before the ball is even in play. On the broadcast, the color commentator stumbles: “Folks, if you thought this was a simple college game—think again. We just witnessed a completely new dimension of #17. She’s a warrior, a dancer, a singer… and now the crowd is eating it up.”

⸻

Second Half Gameplay

She starts the second half. She’s locked in. But every time she touches the ball, the chant “Seventeen! Seventeen!” ripples around Gampel like a shockwave. Villanova’s guards stay glued to her, but you can see the distraction in their eyes. They flash back to that whistle note, that twerk video, that absurd push-up flex.

Midway through the third quarter, she rebounds a missed three, spins, and float-shoots—bank shot in. She turns to the rim as if daring it to reject her. The crowd erupts. She jogs back, chest up, a hint of a grin. In the opposite corner, you see the Villanova forward pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to recalibrate.

On the sidelines, Paige fist-bumps reader’s thigh as she subs out. She gives her the tiniest of nods, and then does a quick shimmy for the bench—an inside callback to that mini skirt dance. KK snorts, barely suppressing a laugh. Nika shoves her, “Stop showing off if you wanna play defense.” She winks at the camera, and the stadium breaks into raucous cheers.

⸻

Closing Moments and Crowd Reaction

Game ends—UConn wins by ten. But everyone knows the second half was just a sideshow to the halftime spectacle. Fans file out buzzing: “Did you see that twerking video?” “I’m never looking at #17 the same.” “She could drop a mixtape tomorrow.” Some clutch their heads in disbelief, others replay highlights on their phones, wildly texting friends, “She’s a whole mood.”

On the broadcast, they replay the three videos in quick succession—push-ups, twerk, whistle note—intercut with shots of the crowd losing their minds. The color commentator stammers, “I cannot believe what I’m seeing. This is not just a basketball game… it’s a performance art piece. Hashtag #17 is rewriting the rulebook.”

In the postgame interview tunnel, a young reporter hustles up to reader, microphone in hand: “Um, #17, first of all—those videos were insane. When did you pick up push-up horsepower, dance moves, and that—um—vocal range?”

She shrugs, hair still damp, face composed. “I do what I want. On court, I’m focused. Off court… we gotta have fun. UConn’s family. We bond how we wanna bond.”

The reporter blinks. “So… people might say you’re multi-talented?”

“Multi-talented and not sorry. And now, back to winning.” She turns and walks off, leaving the reporter gaping.

⸻

Aftermath in Locker Room

Back in the locker room, the energy shifts from high-octane to giddy. Ice grabs reader’s arm and drags her to a bench by the water cooler. “You saw their faces?” she laughs. “You broke them!”

Azzi is flipping through her phone, showing everyone video clips. “Look at the replay of your whistle note!” She hits play: her crystal-clear high register shattering silence. “I died.”

Nika approaches with two energy drinks. “Thought you were quiet,” she teases, handing one to reader. “Turns out you’re just hiding the receipts.”

KK flops beside reader. “I swear, if you don’t slow down with this, half these girls will de-commit by next week.”

She cracks open the drink, sipping. “Let ‘em try. I play for us.”

Paige appears with a roll of duct tape covered in scribbles: “Here. Sign this. It’s a new contract—mandatory halftime show.” She laughs. “Make it legal,” she says, scrawling her signature across the tape.

Coach Geno strides in, smoothing his polo. He looks at reader, musters half a grin. “We going to the finals because of your push-ups or because you can sing like a queen? Help me figure this out.”

“Coach, I’m a package deal. You can’t have one without the other.”

Geno just shakes his head, a fond exasperation on his face. “Alright then. Let’s get back to work—before you make us lose our minds.”

⸻

Fan Social Media Frenzy

Later that night, the hashtag #HalftimeUnleashed is trending. Videos of her push-up feat are compiled side by side with clips of her twerking and belting. Twitter explodes: “She’s the entire WNBA MVP in disguise!” “UConn’s secret weapon is a killer DJ lineup.” Instagram fans comment, “Stop hiding this queen!” TikTok collages surface: one user superimposes the whistle note over a viral cat meme, another remixes the twerk video with trap beats. The campus is alive—students heading to a late-night watch party replay, cappuccinos and popcorn in hand, still cheering when that whistle note hits.

⸻

Final Beat: Teammate Reflections

Back in the dorms, #17 returns to her room, peeling off her gear. Late-night texts flood from teammates:

Azzi: Yo, your voice… never knew you had it in you.

Ice: Stop. I can’t breathe.

KK: I need you to accept my hug requests for the next month.

Nika: Don’t make me have to carry you around every practice.

Paige: We should charge admission for that halftime show.

Family, remember: I’m always full-package. Goodnight.

She sets her phone down, sits on the edge of her bed, and stares at the ceiling with a slow smile. For once, being more than just “the stoic one” feels exactly right.

————————————————————————————————

@draculara-vonvamp

[bleulikedaylight]

I Was Hoping You'd Say That

pairing: basketball captain! natasha romanoff x cheerleader captain! reader

synopsis: it always starts the same way — the squeak of rubber soles, the bounce of a ball, and your hopeless crush on basketball captain natasha romanoff. as AAU’s cheer captain, you swear it’s all “professional observation.” but when natasha starts noticing your disappearing act every time she’s near, she calls you out — and maybe, just maybe, calls you in.

warnings: none !! <3 | wc: 1.4k | genre: fluff >_<

note: this is my first time posting a fic here, so hi !! :) i've literally been simping so hard for basketball player! natasha romanoff — it’s embarrassing. like, i saw her in a loose jersey once (in my mind), and i haven’t known peace since.

It always started the same way — the squeak of rubber soles, the bounce of a ball, the swish of a clean shot.

Y/N L/N sat with her legs crossed on the bleachers, red-and-white pom poms resting beside her. The cheerleaders were taking a quick break from their routine, but Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes away from the court — from her.

Every practice, Y/N swore she wouldn’t look. And yet, there she was again — legs curled up on the bleachers, pom poms forgotten at her side, eyes trained on the girl shooting hoops like the world wasn't watching.

Natasha Romanoff.

AAU's pride. Number 13. Basketball captain. And, unfortunately for Y/N, Yelena's older sister.

"You're drooling," Yelena deadpans beside you, sipping her soda.

You tear your eyes away from the court like you’d been caught committing a crime. "Excuse me? I’m just watching the game.”

“It’s practice.”

“I’m… analyzing her technique.” You sniff. “As a cheer captain.”

Yelena raises a brow. “Her technique?”

"Yes," you say, face heating. “Totally professional. Very strategic. Normal.”

Across the court, Natasha does a clean crossover, spins, and scores. Her ponytail bounces as she jogs backward, laughing with her teammates.

You sigh quietly.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “You always look at her like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re one Taylor Swift song away from writing her name in your wedding journal.”

You open your mouth to deny it. Then close it again. “...Shut up, Yelena.”

It’s been like this for months.

Crushes are supposed to fade — at least, that’s what your mom said when she caught you sighing at your phone for the fifth time during dinner.

But this? This isn’t fading.

This is sitting through every basketball game just to watch her sweat in slow mo level.

This is replaying every time Natasha calls you sweetheart like it didn’t shatter your brain chemistry.

This is slow, unbearable pining — made worse by the fact that Natasha is so effortlessly kind.

“Nice routine today,” Natasha would say, walking past the cheer squad.

Or, “You always do that little hair flip before you jump — it’s cute.”

Or, the worst one — the actual heartbreaker — “Your ribbon matches your eyes.”

Your ribbon matches your eyes.

You had written that down in the notes app under “Things That Made Me Float.”

One afternoon, after a long game and even longer practice, you stayed behind to help clean up the confetti from your halftime routine.

Everyone else had already left. Except—

"Need help?" Natasha’s voice makes you jump. She’s holding a broom and a water bottle, her jersey hanging loosely off one shoulder.

“Oh,” you squeak. “N-no. I’m good. I mean—yes? If you want? You don’t have to, but like—if you want to—”

Natasha laughs. “Breathe, cheerleader.”

You turn pink. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting—um. Thanks.”

You sweep in silence for a bit, just the two of you under the dim gym lights.

Then Natasha asks quietly, “Can I ask you something?”

You look up. “Yeah?”

“Why do you always avoid me?”

You freeze. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Natasha says, still gentle. “You’re always laughing with Yelena, but the second I show up, you go quiet. You stop making eye contact. You run off.”

You bite your lip. “I—I didn’t mean to. It’s not that I don’t like you, I just—”

You stop.

Natasha steps closer. “You just?”

You take a deep breath. “You’re Yelena’s sister. And you’re like, intimidatingly cool. And I didn’t want to make things weird. Or obvious.”

Natasha tilts her head. “Obvious?”

“I’ve kind of… liked you. For a while,” you whisper, cheeks on fire. “But you probably knew that already.”

There’s a pause.

Then Natasha smiles — slow, and soft, and heart-meltingly real.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

You blink. “What?”

“I like you too,” Natasha says simply. “Always have.”

You stare. “You’re joking.”

Natasha grins. “Nope. But I am going to ask if I can take you out. Like, for real.”

You nod too quickly. “Yes. I mean—yes. Like, absolutely. Just let me scream into my pillow first.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head fondly. “You’re adorable.”

And as you stand under the gym lights, brooms forgotten, hearts louder than ever — it’s official.

You are no longer just the cheerleader with a crush.

You are the cheerleader who finally got the girl.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Mic’d Up Mayhem

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x !USC girlfriend Reader

Rating: General (Fluff, Light Angst, Competitive Banter)

Fandom: Women’s College Basketball (USC & UConn)

Summary: In a highly anticipated USC vs. UConn matchup, you and Juju are mic’d up alongside Paige and Jana. Only to be mic’d up for both games against each other.... and everyone is enjoying the show

“Alright, y’all,” Juju grinned, adjusting her mic pack as we stretched at midcourt. “Let’s give the people a show.”

“Oh, I plan to.” I smirked, shooting a look across the court where Paige was going through layup drills.

Paige caught my stare, smirking right back before launching a perfect three-pointer. She didn’t even watch it go in. Show-off.

“You always do when she’s around,” Juju teased under her breath.

I nudged her. “Shut up.”

Jana jogged by, adjusting her mic. “Y’all are disgusting already. Game hasn’t even started.”

“Jealous, El Alfy?” I teased.

Jana rolled her eyes. “Let’s see if you’re still talking when I send your shot into the stands.”

“Try it.”

Paige, apparently always listening even if mid conversation with Ice, called from across the court, “Babe, you’re not getting past Jana.”

I gasped. “You’re supposed to support me!”

“I do—just not when you’re lying to yourself, or going against me and fam.”

Juju cackled. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

From the second the game started, Paige and I couldn’t shut up.

“Nice pass, baby,” Paige taunted after I barely got the ball past her defense.

I grinned, catching the ball again. “You want an assist? I can pass you my number.”

Paige snorted. “I have your number, loser. And you text me every five minutes.”

Juju cut in. “She’s not lying.”

I whipped my head around. “Girl, whose side are you on?”

“The side that wins,” Juju shot back, sinking a jumper, sending a wink at me as we moved back to being defense.

Jana jogged past, clapping. “But not for long.”

By halftime, it was a battle.

Paige hit a smooth pull-up jumper over me, then winked. “Too slow, babe.”

I exhaled sharply. “You want me to start playing for real, huh?”

Paige just grinned. “Try it.”

So, I did.

The next time Paige drove to the basket, I bodied her up. Legal contact—barely—but she stumbled.

“Damn,” Paige laughed, catching her balance. “Didn’t know my girl was this aggressive.”

Juju clapped beside me. “Oh, we love it.”

“Don’t hype her up,” Paige groaned.

Jana called, out just before trying to set up a screen for Paige. “She doesn’t need hype. She’s cooking us already, P.”

Paige raised a brow at me. “Oh, word ? Do less talking and more defense Jana.”

I winked. “Love you, baby”

She smirked. “Love you more, I guess.”

Juju fake gagged. “GOD, we get it. You’re in love.”

The game was tight—UConn and USC trading buckets down to the final minutes.

I had the ball at the top of the key, trying to shake Jana off me. She was locked in, waiting for me to drive.

I hesitated, then went for it—big mistake.

Jana timed it perfectly, swatting my shot into the stands. But my momentum was off, and as I landed, my foot twisted awkwardly.

Pain shot through my ankle. “Shit.”

Before I could even process it, Paige was there.

She dropped down beside me, pushing past the trainers. “Baby, you okay?”

I hissed, clutching my ankle. “I—I think so.”

Juju kneeled beside me, concern all over her face. “That looked rough, man.”

Jana hovered behind her, guilt flashing in her eyes. “I—I, you good.”

I shook my head quickly. “It was clean, Jana. Just bad luck.”

Paige, however, was not focused on the play. She was brushing sweaty strands of hair from my forehead, scanning my face like I’d just been shot.

“Babe, you’re scaring me,” I muttered, as she and Juju helped me stand.

Paige exhaled. “Sorry, sorry. Just—you good?”

I nodded. “I’ll live.”

And then, as I fix my semi untucked jersey, my mic pack fall out, the realization hit all of us.

Juju’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

Jana cursed. “Shit, we’re mic’d up.”

I froze.

Paige paled.

The entire arena had just heard us being disgustingly in love.

I covered my face. “Oh my God.”

I managed to play the final minute—adrenaline doing most of the work. With two seconds left, I sank a cold-blooded three, sealing USC’s 80-78 win.

The crowd exploded.

Paige was visibly annoyed, but she still smiled as I limped toward her in the handshake line.

“Good game,” I teased, taking her hand.

She smirked. “You owe me.”

I shrugged. “How about a kiss?”

Paige blinked. “Right here, ma ya sure?”

I grinned, tugging her forward. “Why not? Everybody already heard us acting like lovesick idiots.”

And with that, I kissed her.

It wasn’t long—just enough for the cameras to catch it, for the crowd to roar, for our teammates to lose their minds.

Paige pulled back, dazed. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

She chuckled. “Yeah… I do.”

Before I even got to the locker room good, my phone was blowing up.

Juju ran up beside me, showing me her screen. “Bro, look.”

Twitter (X, whatever) was exploding:

@NCAAWNation: Paige Bueckers & Y/N mic’d up while trash talking/flirting is everything I didn’t know I needed

@USChoops: NOT THEM FORGETTING THEY HAD MICS ON LMAO

@WNBAFuture: Juju’s reaction when she realized they were mic’d up is sending me

And then, TikTok.

Clips of our mic’d-up moments were everywhere. Paige saying love you more, me calling her a flirty menace, her full-on panic when I got hurt—TikTok was eating it up.

And, of course, the kiss.

Jana walked by, shaking her head. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

Paige just grinned, wrapping an arm around me. “Jealous, El Alfy?”

Jana groaned. “so glad she kicked your ass not gonna lie,”

Paige smirked down at me. “Eh. I got the real win right here, plus she kicked OUR ass by two points.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re so corny.”

She kissed my temple. “And..”

I barely had time to shower before Paige was waiting outside my locker room, arms crossed, smug as hell.

“You’re taking me to dinner,” she declared, leaning against the doorframe.

I scoffed, finishing the knot on my hoodie. “I’m taking you?”

She smirked. “You kissed me in front of an entire arena, babe. Least you can do is buy me a burger.”

Juju appeared at my side, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “I vote we all go. Y/N paying.”

I groaned. “Why am I paying?”

Jana, walking by, answered without stopping. “’Cause, it'll be pitty dinner to the looser, name Paige.”

Paige cackled. “ouch, but she’s got a point.”

So, somehow, I ended up at a late-night diner with Paige, Juju, and half of our teammates from both teams. The game had been electric, but the real fun? Watching Paige smugly take sips of her milkshake while everyone talked about the mic’d-up chaos.

“You really forgot?” Aubey grinned, nudging Paige.

Paige didn’t even blink. “I was focused on my girl.”

Juju fake gagged into her fries. “I want a refund on my ears.”

I rolled my eyes, flicking a fry at Paige. “You were focused on trash-talking me.”

“And look where it got me,” she smirked. “victory in trash talking milkshake.”

Jana cut in. “Barely. If Juju had missed that shot, it was OT.”

Juju lifted her fork like a mic. “I never miss.”

Paige side-eyed her. “I’ll remember that.”

She was already plotting her revenge for our next match up in two weeks.

The people wanted more, so here we were. UConn vs. USC, round two. Except this time, Paige was locked in. Less flirting. More trash talk.

“I hope you stretched, babe,” I teased, adjusting my mic pack.

Paige grinned. “I hope you practiced your jump shot.”

Juju and Jana exchanged looks. “Here we go again, just dont forget we're mic’d up y'all.”

Paige was relentless.

Every time I touched the ball, she was in my space. I barely got off a shot before she smacked it away.

“Not today, mamas,” she taunted, wagging a finger.

I groaned. “You’re so annoying.”

Juju, running past, laughed. “Says the one who spent the last game flirting.”

Paige just smirked. “I can do both.”

She proved it by stealing the ball from me, driving downcourt, and sinking a three.

I put my hands on my hips, before doing a quick check ball with Juju. “Show-off.”

Paige jogged backward, smirking. “I know.”

Once down the court and getting reader to take the shot for a 2, Paige blocked me again. I swear, she was on a mission.

“That’s three.” She held up fingers. “You good, babe?”

I groaned. “I will be when I get past you.”

“Manifesting, huh?”

Juju clapped beside me. “She needs something, cause gurl you could have made that way before her block.”

I deadpanned. “Y’all suck.”

Jana shouted from the paint, “You still haven’t scored on her, by the way.”

Paige grinned. “Thank you, Jana.”

I glared at them both, Juju snorted. “She’s salty.”

I managed to shake Paige on a screen and hit a floater over Jana.

Paige sighed dramatically. “Congrats, babe. You’re on the board.”

I flipped my hair. “You’re just mad I scored, and it wasn'tagainst you.”

Paige grinned. “Nah, I’ll just drop a three on you next possession.”

And she did.

The game was tight, but UConn pulled ahead. Paige hit back-to-back threes, then turned to me with the smuggest grin.

I rolled my eyes. “Alright, Steph Curry.”

Paige shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

Desperate, I went for my own three. I followed my form, watched the ball arc—and bricked.

Paige cackled. “Babe.”

I groaned. “Don’t.”

She jogged past, patting my shoulder. “What did I tell you about following your shot?”

Juju, chimed in. “Hate to agree, but Bueckers is right, gotta stick the form and follow ya shot girly”

I roll my eyes , “Judea, who's side are you on bro.”

We fought hard as we could, but it's wasn’t enough. UConn won by six, 90-84 and I was annoyed. Paige, however, was thriving.

She found me in the handshake line, tilting her head. “Dinner’s on me, ma.”

I groaned, softly. “Yeah your turn to get me pitty dinner.”

She grinned. “Love you too, baby.”

I sighed. “You’re so obnoxious.”

Paige leaned in, voice low. “Yeah, but you keep coming back for more.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Another night, another viral moment. This time, Twitter was roasting me.

@NCAAWNation: Paige blocking Y/N three times in a row and then hitting a three on her is top-tier entertainment.

@USChoops: NOT Y/N BRICKING A THREE RIGHT AFTER PAIGE HIT ONE

@WNBAFuture: I need these two mic’d up forever.

@lil_paigey.p: hope no trouble in paradise for those two later...

And, of course, Paige had zero sympathy.

She FaceTimed me that night, grinning. “Had fun?”

I groaned. “I’m blocking your number.”

She smirked. “No, you’re not.”

And, of course, she was right. “But no, good game, P. You did an amazing job”

Looking in the camera with a soft smile, “You fought, hard baby and I'm proud of you for that.” she said as she propped her phone up as she entered the fortnite lobby, with Juju.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[yeagerprincess]

Drum Major Onyankopon x Majorette Reader

this is fluff! no smut, just a lil meetcute 🩷 i been seeing a lot of HBCU marching bands on tiktok and... yeah 😅

There he was, prancing to the center of the football field like a rambunctious, rogueish stallion. The marching band stands alert and proud as Onyankopon gallops to the field, the Majorettes poised in the bleachers with their glittering, form fitting costumes.

Drumroll.

Onyankopon begins his performance, dancing salaciously with his gold and blue rhinestone baton. Those gyrating hips, rolling abs, and flexible, limber legs easily captivate the crowd, sending them into a frenzy before he could even finish his little show.

Finally, he places both hands at the top of his baton and firmly plants it into the turf, right between his large, bulky thighs. He twists his body to the left, moving the baton in the same direction, and giving a suggestive thrust of his hips, his whistle sounding when his groin meets with the baton. Then, he repeats the motion to the opposite direction, rolling those powerful hips, punctuating them with a voracious thrust and sounding his whistle upon impact.

The crowd erupts with cheers and whistles and catcalls, just hootin' and hollerin' at Onyankopon's sensual performance. He always had this kind of effect on his crowd. When he enters the room, you feel it. When he talks, you feel it. When he moves, you can feel it. Commanding a crowd was nothing for him, not even an ounce of stage fright behind those eyes. Charismatic doesn't even begin to describe the way he works his crowd.

He takes his whistle in between his lips and blows 3 times, queuing the band to begin their show. The marching band plays for what feels like hours: What You Know by Paul Wall, Grillz by Nelly, One In A Million by Aaliyah, hit after hit after hit, Onyankopon allows the marching band to take him with their music. The Majorettes are just as energetic too, swaying your hips and posing and moving your bodies right along with him. There's no halftime show like Onyankopon's Show.

When the game is over, you and all the other Majorettes decide to get all dolled up and show up at the afterparty. Your baby blue dress clings to your waist, hugging your curves and complimenting your complexion, long goddess braids down your back with golden clips glistening under the strobe lights.

"You looked good out there."

Your hair whips around as you turn to find the source of the compliment: Your Drum Major. It's Onyankon.

Girl, he's even sexier up close. That dark brown, sunblessed skin just does something to you. He's so handsome in his lil outfit too, dark maroon button down with black floral accents, gold rings, and a gold grill. His button down isn't really buttoned at all, showing his chest and abs and the tattoos on them.

"Boy stop, you know we just feed off your energy," you chirp, desperately trying to avoid staring at his exposed chest for too long.

He tries to do the same, hyperfocused on your lips to keep from staring down at your perfectly lotioned and perfumed boobs.

"I'm tryna get a feel for your energy this time," he muses, voice deep and drenched in honey. A smile spreads its way across Onyankopon's lips as he watches your reaction, loving the way your eyes light up with mischief. "I knew I felt somebody staring at me earlier."

"What, you mean the whole stadium? The spotlight ain't big enough for both of us." Your laughter is contagious, cute and kind of loud. "What you tryna say, Major? I'm in your way or something? Somebody sound jealous."

This time, it's Onyankopon's turn to laugh, the sound of his deep chested chuckled makes your heart flutter. "You cute. Keep doing yo thang, girl." With that, he disappears into the crowded dance floor, leaving you speechless.

Damn, you shoulda got that man's number.

[woso-story]

Better Boyfriend Than Him - Part Twenty-Three

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

Two days before the Champions League final in Lisbon, the apartment is quiet.

The golden light of the late afternoon filters through the windows, casting a warm glow across the living room. You’re curled up on the couch with Alexia behind you, her arm wrapped tightly around your waist, your fingers intertwined. Your back rests gently against her front, her steady breath brushing your hair with each exhale.

It’s peaceful—but you can feel the tension in her body.

Her fingers keep twitching slightly in yours. Her jaw is tight, and even though her gaze is locked on the TV, you know her mind is somewhere else entirely.

She’s been like this for days—lost in her thoughts, her nerves gradually rising. You understand why, of course. It’s the Champions League final. Against Lyon. A match that carries weight. History. Pressure.

Still, you don’t like seeing her like this. You tilt your head slightly and press a soft kiss against the underside of her chin. That always gets her.

And it does.

Alexia blinks and looks down at you, her eyes softening immediately. You smile gently, stroking your thumb across the back of her hand.

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” you say quietly. “Barcelona is the best team in the world. And you are the best player in the world.”

A smile pulls at the corner of her mouth, a small huff of breath escaping as if she’s surprised how quickly your words can find their way into her heart. Her chin rests on your head.

“I know… but Lyon’s good. They’re smart, and experienced. And this is one of those games where anything can happen.”

You shift, just enough to look at her. “I know. But I believe in you. In all of you. You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again.”

She kisses the top of your head—long, slow, full of gratitude.

“You’re my calm,” she murmurs. “Always.”

Later that evening, the clock ticking down toward her departure, you walk her to the door, suitcase waiting just outside. She looks at you like she doesn’t want to go—but she has to. The job calls. Greatness calls.

You kiss her slowly, lingering, wishing you had more time. “I’ll see you soon,” you whisper. “I’ll be there. Cheering for you, always.”

She smiles. “I’m looking forward to it.”

And then, just like that, she’s gone.

Tomorrow, you’ll fly to Lisbon with Eli and Alba. You would never miss this.

---

Two days later, the big day is here.

Estádio José Alvalade is buzzing, alive with the hum of thousands of fans. You’re in the stands, Barcelona jersey on—of course with Putellas across the back and the number 11. Eli is beside you, holding a scarf, and Alba’s already yelling chants with the fans around you.

When the teams walk out from the tunnel, the roar is deafening. But your eyes are only on one person.

Alexia walks out with her head high, the captain’s armband snug around her bicep. She scans the stands—and then her eyes find you.

That smile.

That big, shiny, Alexia smile that only ever shows up when she sees something—someone—she loves.

You blow her a kiss. She catches it in the air, like always.

The first half is intense. Every player is giving their all. Opportunities come and go on both sides, the tension thick with every near miss. At halftime, the scoreboard still reads 0–0.

As she walks off the pitch, you see it in her eyes—that familiar flicker of frustration. That feeling that she has to do more. You hate it. She always gives everything. Always. It’s never just on her.

When the team comes back after the break, she looks up again. Searching.

You meet her eyes and raise your hands, gesturing for her to breathe, to calm down. You mouth, You’ve got this. Alexia nods, lips pressed together, and runs to her position.

And then… magic.

The second half is Barcelona at their absolute best.

In the 64th minute, the first goal finally comes—a stunning build-up ending with Vicky slotting the ball perfectly into the net. The crowd erupts. Alexia is one of the first to reach her, ruffling the youngster’s hair, hugging her like a proud big sister.

Fifteen minutes later, Mapi scores.

A free kick, curled so perfectly into the top corner it could be framed. You lose your voice screaming.

And then, as if it couldn’t get better, it happens.

89th minute.

Alexia gets the ball just outside the box. One move, two defenders gone, and then—boom.

The net ripples.

She rips off her jersey, twirling it over her head, running toward the Barca corner before dropping into a playful bow. Yellow card or not, no one cares. The fans are in a frenzy.

She turns, finds you in the stands again, and blows you a kiss.

Your heart nearly bursts.

Moments later, it’s over.

Barcelona: Champions League winners. Again. Three in a row. Four in total. History made.

The ceremony flashes by in a blur of glitter and noise. You’re almost dizzy with pride and emotion when they lift the trophy.

Then come the moments you love most—the barrier opens. Families and friends are let onto the field.

Alexia is already waiting.

First Eli runs into her arms, then Alba. You’re next. She sees you climbing over and meets you halfway, arms already out.

You crash into her, both laughing, both nearly crying.

“You were amazing,” you breathe, holding her face between your hands. “I’m so proud of you.”

Her arms lock around your waist, her forehead pressed against yours.

“Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The celebration spills on for over an hour. You dance around, talk with Ingrid, with the players who’ve become your friends too. You watch Mapi as she runs along the sideline, arms wide, flag flying behind her. Kika, Vicky, and Esmee chase after her like a squad of overexcited puppies. Everything is joy.

Later, the team disappears to shower and change.

And then the party.

The club’s rented out an incredible venue. Music is blasting, drinks are flowing, and the Champions League trophy sits on a pedestal in the center of the room, glowing under the lights.

You dance with Mapi, Esmee, Ingrid, even a reluctant Frido who finally cracks a smile. You're laughing so hard you nearly fall over when Mapi pulls out the worst dance move you've ever seen.

Alexia left a few minutes ago and you look around for her.

You spot her watching you from across the room, a soft smile on her face, arms crossed, eyes full of love.

She just won another Champions League title.

But all she can think about is how she already won something more. Someone more.

You slip away from the crowd and join her, sitting beside her, cheeks flushed from dancing, smile never fading.

You take her hand in yours and lean your head against her shoulder. “You’re incredible,” you whisper. “I’m so endlessly proud of you.”

She blushes a little—Alexia Putellas, the woman who faced down Lyon and led her team to glory, blushing at your words.

You kiss her cheek.

The night stretches on—laughter, stories, champagne-soaked memories—and through it all, you stay by her side.

Together.

Because trophies will be won, and games will be played, and history will continue to be written—but this?

This is the real victory.

------------------------------------------------------------

The last part will be posted on Sunday!

[looooochie]

champion time — [lamine yamal]

a/n: feeding ya’ll a small fic to initiate my tumblr return!! (i published this during school lol 😪)

wc: 1.1k

warnings: fluff, lamine being lamine, cursing, getting caught?

— today was the day, the copa del rey final.

your boyfriend of about 9-10 months, also known as, the one and only lamine yamal, has worked a bunch and played his all to make it here, and you were with him every step of this journey.

and you can still remember the events of 2 days ago when lamine decided to fully go blonde and damn, that was quite the day.

and obviously, it got pretty messy, you were even sceptical of the fact that he wanted to bleach his hair.

AND you remember those once beautiful, frizzy curls he had about 2 years ago. but where are they? they vanished.

ANYWAY.. back to the now. you sat alongside with lamine’s mother and keyne, also next to you. wearing his number 19 with a sense of pride.

you knew exactly how hard lamine has worked to make it to where he is now, and you were proud of him for that.

you looked down to the barca crest and gave it a kiss, you had faith in this team as a whole, they’ve been on a winning streak for weeks now and you’ll be damned if barca break it now.

and so kickoff. barca were doing well and you can admit, madrid were playing kinda good, but not as well as them.

mostly, your focus was on lamine and his bright blonde head. then, the unspeakable happened.

something had escalated and lucas vasques ended up hitting lamine somewhat in the face which made him fall.

you were pissed. so you gently covered keyne’s eyes and did a middle finger towards the madrid player.

“fuck you.” you muttered under your breath as you took your hand away from the toddler’s eyes.

god this was stressful. madrid were ahead by 2-1 and the suspense was killing you. you were so stressed to the point you started praying during halftime, to yourself of course.

but then, after a while, barca came in clutch again and finally got the upper hand. they re-locked in and scored another goal, making it tied.

although they were tied, your faith for barca never dimmed like the light it was. all they needed was one more goal, and that trophy was yours.

finally, after about 10 prayers, jules finally scored the ending goal, you were so happy to the point that you stood up from your seat and back down.

at that point, the match was over.

after a bit more playing, the final whistle had finally blown. barcelona had won the copa del rey.

cheers and shouts filled the stadium and you and sheila hugged each other tightly, keyne also, duh.

“come, let’s go down,” sheila told you and you nodded, damn you were excited to see lamine.

and you were pretty fast at that. you ran down the stairs, jumped over the railing and your eyes began to try locate lamine.

to your surprise, he was expecting you. you ran to your boyfriend and immediately jumped into his strong arms.

“oh my god, you guys won,” you cried as you continued having your arms around lamine’s neck.

“we sure did, damn i feel like i’m on top of the world right now,” lamine replied as put you down.

you looked into his eyes with near tears in yours and his eyes, “i can’t physically put into words how proud i am of you right now.”

lamine smiled. “really?”

“really.”

eventually, his mom and little brother came down too and got their fair share of attention too, but all yours was on lamine.

after the medal ceremony and stuff, you looked at your champion boyfriend with his wrong sided shirt with his double pair of shades.

suddenly, one of his teammates were blasting music and lamine took this as an opportunity to show you off to his friends.

you felt a hand grab your arm and pull you closer to them, as expected it was lamine and he looked at you with that iconic bracey smile.

“what are you planning this time?” you asked the slightly taller boy with a disapproving smile.

“this.” he replied and put a pair of shades on your eyes.

“and now? what’s this?” lamine just smiled and one of his teammates blasted one of his current favourite songs, “y que fue”.

“ahh, this is my song,” lamine said in a hype mood, then he gently grabbed your hand.

“cmon, lemme show you off?” he asked and you knew, there was no saying no to lamine so you just went for it.

now, you found the pair of you and the spaniard dancing along to the music that played on the speaker as you celebrated along with the other men and women around you.

alex does not know what she’s missing out on right now.

damn, how lucky you are to be where you are right now, you loved lamine, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

— the morning sun soon hit your eyelids as you felt them slowly begin to open.

your vision became more and more clearer and you soon realised where you were right now.

your back was up against lamine’s chest as his arm was around you, and the other on top, keeping you close to him.

your eyes began to travel around the room and what you could see was: clothes sprawled around the room, your hair in a mess, lamine and yours phone right next to you on the dresser, and lastly… all you could feel yourself wearing was lamine’s shirt.

last night felt like a fever dream, so you could barely remember anything or how you got here in the first place.

but all you can remember was that, it felt good and other things.

after looking around the room on more time, pink spread across your cheeks as you realised what had happened the night barca won.

“d-did we..” you silently muttered, not believing yourself right now.

lamine had heard you and chuckled before lifting himself up and looking down at you before giving you a kiss on your temple.

“morning,” he began to which you replied “morning, champ.”

you rolled around in the bed so you could face lamine directly to look at that pretty, champion face.

“how’d my champ sleep?” you asked as you swung an arm around him and your fingers brushed over the back of his neck.

lamine shivered but smiled. “pretty good. how’s my princess doing?”

“good.”

sheila was unaware of what happened between the two teens and was not prepared for what she was about to see.

not expecting anything, his mom opened the door, (shit. we forgot to lock the door.) “lamine, you forgot your hoodie in the ca-“ the older woman began but soon paused the moment she saw what was going on.

you and lamine instantly sprang up as you used the blanked to cover your chest as both your faces were covered with blush.

lamine scratched the back on his neck as he nervously laughed, “uhh so.. here’s the thing, mama..”

[favefandomimagines]

Delta Dawn (j.b)

Summary: Joe and his girlfriend going through the motions of a season apart OR when Joe is dating a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader

AN: I hope this is what you were looking for!! No angst, just fluff! @evasmlp

Sunday mornings always felt bittersweet. For Joe, it meant game day—a day he had been preparing for all week. For Y/N, it was another chance to step onto the field at AT&T Stadium, perform with the Cowboys Cheerleaders, and soak in the electric energy of a packed stadium.

But it also meant another day apart.

Joe woke up early, his routine down to a science—breakfast, team meetings, treatment, mental preparation. Yet, no matter how focused he was, Y/N was always on his mind.

Some mornings, if he had a quiet moment before heading to the stadium, he’d send her a simple text:

Game day. Go be great.

And without fail, her reply would come moments later.

You too, 9. I’ll be cheering extra loud for you.

Sometimes, if their schedules aligned just right, they’d sneak in a quick call.

“Are you nervous?” Y/N asked one Sunday morning, sitting in front of her locker. It was a home game for the Cowboys and Y/N was in Dallas for Sunday Night Football, while Joe was in Cincinnati, gearing up for his own matchup at 2pm.

Joe chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t really get nervous anymore.”

She smirked. “Must be nice. I still get butterflies before every game.”

“I think that’s a good thing,” he said. “Means you care.”

“Then I must care a lot,” she teased, making him laugh.

They didn’t have long before they both had to go, but these little moments—these stolen minutes before the chaos of game day—meant everything.

By the time Y/N finished her pregame appearances and got ready for kickoff, Joe was already on the field, locked in. But she always found a moment to check the scoreboard in the tunnels, looking for updates on the Bengals game.

Her teammates knew the drill.

“How’s your boy doing?” one of them, Natalie, asked during a timeout.

Y/N glanced at her phone, a small smile spreading across her lips. “Bengals are up. He just threw a touchdown.”

Natalie nudged her playfully. “You know, they only show the Bengals games in the tunnels for you.”

She wasn’t wrong. Y/N was the only one who cared.

Meanwhile, Joe’s game wrapped up a couple hours before the Cowboys’ Sunday Night Football matchup, giving him a rare chance to unwind—and to do his favorite postgame ritual.

Watch her.

He sat in the locker room, still sweaty from the game, as the Cowboys broadcast played on his phone. His teammates were filing out, heading home, but he stayed put, waiting.

And then, there she was.

Dressed in the iconic Cowboys uniform, pom-poms in hand, moving with the kind of effortless grace that left him completely mesmerized.

He couldn’t hear the music, but it didn’t matter. He’d watched her practice enough times to know exactly what was happening.

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he sent her a text:

You kill it out there every time. I’m so damn proud of you.

Y/N checked her phone during halftime, her breath hitching when she saw his message.

Coming from my favorite quarterback? That means the world.

It wasn’t the same as being there in person, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

No matter where they were—whether he was leading a team into battle or she was performing under stadium lights—they were always cheering for each other.

||

The hardest part wasn’t Sundays. It was the in-between.

The days when neither of them had a game, but they still couldn’t see each other. The nights when Joe was watching film in Cincinnati while Y/N was perfecting routines in Dallas. The mornings when they woke up in different cities, different time zones, with nothing but a phone call to close the gap between them.

There were weeks when their schedules barely aligned. If Joe had a Thursday night game, his entire week shifted. If the Cowboys had an away game, it always seemed to be when the Bengals had an away game and Y/N couldn’t get on a plane to see him.

They had been together long enough to know how to handle the distance, but that didn’t mean it was easy.

They learned to appreciate the small moments—the voice notes sent between meetings, the texts exchanged between workouts, the blurry photos of pregame rituals that made them feel like they were still part of each other’s lives, even from miles away.

Some nights, when the loneliness crept in, Joe would send Y/N a simple text.

Miss you. ❤️

And her response was always immediate.

Miss you more. ❤️

If they were lucky, they’d squeeze in a Facetime call.

One night, Joe propped his phone against the nightstand, his hair still damp from a post-practice shower, exhaustion heavy in his voice. “Tell me something good.”

Y/N flopped onto her bed, arms sprawled out, her propping her phone up against a pillow. “I got to work with some of the rookies today. It was fun seeing them fall in love with this, you know?”

Joe smiled. He knew that feeling well—watching new teammates experience their first taste of the NFL, the way it lit a fire in them. “I bet they love you.”

“I don’t know about that,” she laughed, “but I think they’re getting used to me bossing them around.”

He chuckled. “Sounds about right. I know I got used to it pretty fast.”

Y/N laughed at his words and rolled her eyes playfully. “Yeah, well, you’re a quick learner.”

They talked until their eyes grew heavy, until the only sound was the quiet rhythm of their breathing through the phone.

Some nights, they fell asleep that way, their screens still glowing in the dark, neither willing to hang up first.

But sometimes, the distance hurt.

Like the time Y/N had a minor injury during practice—nothing serious, just a bad fall into a jump split that left her knee swollen. Joe was in the middle of a grueling week of preparation and couldn’t fly out to see her.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him over the phone, her voice tired but trying to be strong.

“I should be there,” he muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“You can’t. And that’s okay.”

He exhaled. “I just hate not being able to take care of you.”

“You do,” she promised. “Even from miles away.”

And then there were the moments when Joe had a rough game—when he was sacked five times, when the Bengals lost in overtime, when the weight of an entire city’s expectations sat heavy on his shoulders.

Y/N couldn’t be there to wrap her arms around him, to tell him that he was still the best quarterback she’d ever seen. Instead, she sent a text.

I love you. No bad game changes that.

Joe didn’t respond right away. But later that night, she got a voice memo.

"I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

And that was all she needed to hear.

Some people thought their relationship wouldn’t last. The schedules were too demanding. The time apart was too much.

But Joe and Y/N knew better.

They didn’t measure their love by how many days they spent together. They measured it by how hard they fought for each other, even when they were apart.

Because even with the distance, they had never been closer.

||

Joe's bye week couldn’t have come at a better time. After weeks of grueling games, brutal hits, and endless preparation, he finally had a weekend off—and there was only one place he wanted to be.

Dallas.

His flight landed late Friday night, and by the time he stepped off the plane, exhaustion clung to him. But the second he saw Y/N waiting for him just past security, all of that melted away.

She was standing there in one of his Bengals hoodies, her hair a little messy from the long day she’d had. But to him, she had never looked more beautiful.

As soon as he was close enough, she launched herself into his arms, and he caught her effortlessly, wrapping her up tight.

“I missed you,” she murmured against his neck.

Joe pressed a kiss to her temple, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. “Not as much as I missed you.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands sliding down to frame his face. “You look tired.”

He smirked. “And you look perfect.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

They only had 48 hours together before he had to return to Cincinnati, but neither of them wanted to think about that.

The next morning, Joe woke up to the smell of coffee and something sweet drifting from the kitchen. He groggily pulled himself out of bed, padding down the hallway to find Y/N standing at the stove, flipping pancakes.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her.

“You making me breakfast?”

She turned, smirking. “Figured I’d keep my boyfriend well-fed while I’ve got him here.”

He walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “I could get used to this.”

Her hands rested over his, squeezing gently. “Me too.”

The rest of the morning was slow and easy—just the way they liked it. Breakfast turned into lounging on the couch, watching whatever was on TV, legs tangled together under a blanket.

No alarms. No schedules. Just them.

Saturday night, Joe had one request.

“I want to see you dance,” he told her as they sat on her balcony, sipping wine, the Dallas skyline glittering in the distance.

She raised a brow. “You’ve seen me dance.”

“Not like this,” he said, setting his glass down. “Not in person. I’ve seen you perform in front of hundreds of thousands of people, and for auditions. Not just for me. You told me so much about that lyrical routine you did but you never showed me. I want to see it.”

Her heart melted at the sincerity in his voice. He always watched her on TV, always made time to see her perform from afar—but she knew what he meant.

So, she stood up, holding a hand out to him. “Come on, then.”

Joe let her lead him into the living room, where she grabbed her speaker and scrolled through her playlist.

When the familiar beat of a song she loved started playing, she didn’t hesitate.

She danced. The lyrical routine that quickly went viral on social media from her last round of auditions.

And Joe?

Joe just watched, completely entranced.

No cameras. No stadium. No roaring crowd. Just her, moving effortlessly, doing what she loved.

And damn, he loved her for it.

When the song ended, he shook his head, still in awe. “I don’t know how I got lucky enough to have you.”

Y/N walked over, looping her arms around his neck. “I ask myself the same thing every day.”

He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips.

“I don’t want to leave,” he admitted softly.

She rested her forehead against his. “I don’t want you to.”

But they both knew the reality of their lives. The goodbyes were inevitable.

Sunday evening came too fast.

Y/N drove Joe to the airport, their fingers laced together over the console the entire ride. When they pulled up to the terminal, she parked but didn’t move to let him go just yet.

Instead, she turned to him, her eyes holding a softness he always found himself getting lost in.

“You gonna win next week?” she teased, trying to keep things light, even as the sadness of their goodbye loomed over them.

Joe smirked. “Of course. I’ve got you to impress.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You don’t have to impress me, Burrow. You already won me over.”

He reached for her, pulling her into one last kiss—slow and deep, like he was trying to make it last.

When they finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead against hers. “I love you.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into his hoodie, as if holding onto him could make him stay just a little longer. “I love you more.”

He kissed her one last time before grabbing his bag and stepping out of the car.

She watched him walk inside, waiting until he disappeared through the doors before finally driving away, already counting down the days until the next time she could hold him again.

||

The moment the NFL season ended, a familiar weight lifted off Joe’s shoulders. The intensity, the pressure, the long nights of film study and game prep—it all faded, at least for a little while. The offseason was a time to reset, to recover. But most importantly? It was their time.

For months, they had been living in separate worlds, their schedules only allowing for those stolen weekends and FaceTime calls. But now, for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N could actually be with him—really be with him.

And this year, she had made a decision: she was spending most of the offseason in Cincinnati.

Joe didn’t try to hide his excitement when she told him.

"Seriously?" he had asked, gripping her waist as she straddled his lap on his couch, fresh off a plane from Dallas.

She nodded, running her fingers through his hair. "Seriously. I cleared it with my coaches, and I’ll fly back when I need to for practices, but other than that…" She leaned in, brushing her lips against his. "I’m all yours, Burrow."

Joe groaned, wrapping his arms around her and flipping them so she was pinned beneath him. "Best news I’ve heard all year."

She laughed, tugging him down into another kiss.

It wasn’t just the fact that they’d be together—it was that they’d finally get to live like a normal couple, without the constant countdown to their next goodbye.

Y/N had her own place in Dallas, but in Cincinnati, she stayed with Joe. His house felt too big when he was alone, and having her there made it feel like home.

Mornings were slow and easy. She loved waking up to the scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen, padding downstairs in one of his oversized hoodies to find Joe already up, flipping through ESPN on the couch.

“Morning, superstar,” she teased, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before curling up beside him.

He hummed, wrapping an arm around her. “Morning, baby.”

Some days, they stayed in, binge-watching shows they never had time for during the season. Other days, they went out—grabbing brunch, walking around the city, just enjoying the fact that, for once, they had nowhere else to be.

And of course, Joe still had workouts. Just because it was the offseason didn’t mean he stopped training. But now, instead of heading off to practice alone, he had Y/N there to keep him company.

She’d sit on the sidelines while he threw passes to his receivers, dressed in leggings and a Bengals hoodie, her hair in a messy bun.

Sometimes, he’d jog over during water breaks, tapping her knee with his gloved hand. “You enjoying the show?”

She smirked. “Depends. You gonna throw a touchdown, or should I start looking for a new favorite quarterback?”

Joe scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

She just winked. “I call it motivation.”

And it worked.

After practice, he’d find her waiting outside the facility, arms crossed, a playful glint in her eye.

“You looked good out there, Burrow,” she admitted, looping her arms around his neck.

He smirked. “Yeah? Good enough to be your favorite?”

She leaned in, lips brushing against his ear. “Always.”

Even though the NFL season was over, Y/N’s work never really stopped. As a Cowboys Cheerleader, she still had appearances, community events, and—most importantly—auditions for the next season.

Joe knew how much it meant to her.

“You nervous?” he asked one night, as she stretched on the floor of his living room, getting ready for another round of training before flying back to Dallas for auditions.

Y/N sighed, lying back on the rug. “Always. It doesn’t matter how many times I do it, I still feel like I have to prove myself all over again.”

Joe slid off the couch, lying down beside her, their heads almost touching. “You’re gonna kill it.”

She turned her head, meeting his gaze. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He reached over, lacing his fingers with hers. “You’ve been working your ass off. And even if they don’t see it—which they will—you’ll always be my favorite.”

She squeezed his hand. “You really are my biggest fan, huh?”

He grinned. “Damn right.”

When she flew back to Dallas for auditions, Joe made sure she knew he was thinking about her.

The morning of the final round, she woke up to a text.

Go show them why you belong out there. No one does it better than you. Love you.

She smiled, clutching her phone to her chest before getting out of bed.

After her audition, she FaceTimed him from her hotel room, bouncing on her heels.

“I made it,” she squealed.

Joe let out a relieved breath, grinning. “Of course you did.”

“I wish you were here,” she admitted, her voice softer now.

He sighed. “Me too. But I’m taking you to dinner as soon as you get back to celebrate.”

She smirked. “You cooking for me?”

Joe chuckled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, babe.”

With no games and fewer obligations, they finally had time to just be a couple.

They took trips together—spending a few days in Montana, escaping to a quiet cabin in the mountains where no one recognized them. Joe taught Y/N how to fish (she was terrible), and she taught him how to two-step in the living room (he was worse).

They went to the beach, Joe watching in amusement as Y/N tried (and failed) to teach him how to surf.

“I think I’ll stick to football,” he decided, spitting out a mouthful of salt water.

Y/N laughed, helping him up. “Probably a good idea, baby.”

But some of their favorite moments were the simple ones.

Like late-night drives with the windows down, singing along to country music. Or lazy Sunday mornings, tangled up in bed with no alarms to wake them.

For once, there was no rush. No looming deadline. Just them, soaking in every moment.

Because they both knew it wouldn’t last forever.

Soon, training camp would start back up. Soon, they’d be back to their whirlwind schedules, the countdown to football Sundays beginning all over again.

But for now?

For now, they had each other.

And that was all they needed.

[csuzlipofa]

The cheerleader effect

Footballplayer!Megan x Cheerleader!reader

Warnings: honestly just Megan being a cute loser

Fluff

a/n: guys this is my first post, I hope you’ll enjoy it:)

Megan adjusted her football jersey, her palms clammy despite the cool breeze that whipped through the school field. She glanced toward the cheerleaders practicing their routine near the bleachers, her eyes immediately landing on you. You were in the middle of a perfect toe-touch, your bright smile lighting up the field. Megan’s heart did a little somersault, and she nearly tripped over her cleats.

“Smooth,” Daniela teased, jogging up to Megan with her helmet tucked under her arm. Her curly hair peeked out from underneath her practice cap, and her signature smirk was firmly in place.

“Shut up,” Megan muttered, her face flushing bright red.

“Seriously, Meg. When are you gonna talk to her?” Sophia, the team captain, chimed in as she walked by. Her commanding presence was impossible to ignore, even when she was being playful.

“I—uh—soon?” Megan stammered.

Manon, who had been stretching nearby, looked up and rolled her eyes. “You’ve been saying ‘soon’ for weeks. At this point, she’s gonna graduate before you even say hi.”

“I have talked to her,” Megan protested weakly, knowing full well that asking to borrow a pencil in history class didn’t count as meaningful conversation.

“Barely,” Lara said as she plopped onto the grass beside Megan, pulling out her water bottle. “You’ve got game on the field, but when it comes to her? Zero.”

Even Yoonchae, who was usually the quietest, couldn’t help but chuckle as she passed by. “Just don’t trip over your words again like last time.”

Megan groaned, burying her face in her hands. The last time she’d tried to talk to you, she’d managed to spill Gatorade all over herself and then nearly fell down the bleachers. She was convinced she’d never recover from the embarrassment.

Later that day as you were packing up your cheer gear you noticed Megan lingering near the lockers. Her broad shoulders seemed to shrink as she fidgeted with her helmet strap, her usual confident demeanor nowhere in sight.

“Hey, Megan!” you called out, waving.

Megan froze, her eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. She turned to you slowly, her brain scrambling to come up with something—anything—to say.

“H-hi! Uh, hey! How’s…cheering?” she blurted out, internally cringing at her awkwardness.

You smiled, amused by her nervous energy. “It’s good! We’re working on the halftime routine for Friday’s game. You’ll be there, right?

Megan nodded so vigorously she nearly dropped her helmet. “Yeah! Of course! I mean, I have to. I’m on the team.”

You giggled, and Megan felt her heart melt. “True. Well, I’m looking forward to seeing you play.”

Megan opened her mouth to respond, but her words got tangled somewhere between her brain and her tongue. Instead, she managed a thumbs-up before awkwardly walking into the locker room door.

Behind you, the rest of the football team had been watching the entire exchange from a distance. Daniela burst out laughing, while Sophia smirked and shook her head. “She’s hopeless.”

Manon leaned against the bleachers, a knowing look in her eye. “Or maybe she just needs a little push.”

Game Night

The stands were packed, the air electric with excitement. You led the cheerleaders in their opening routine, your voice loud and confident as you hyped up the crowd. Megan couldn’t take her eyes off you, even as Sophia barked instructions at the team in the huddle.

“Focus, Megan,” Sophia warned, though her tone was more amused than stern.

“Right. Focus,” Megan muttered, tearing her gaze away.

But it was easier said than done. Every time you smiled or cheered, Megan’s heart raced. During one particularly tense play, she glanced at you again—and promptly fumbled the ball.

“Seriously, Megan?” Daniela groaned as the opposing team recovered the fumble.

“Sorry!” Megan called, her face burning with embarrassment.

After the Game

Despite Megan’s mishap, the team managed to pull off a narrow victory. As the crowd cheered and players celebrated, you approached Megan, holding a bottle of water.

“Good game,” you said, handing it to her.

Megan took it, her hand brushing against yours. “Thanks. And, uh, sorry about the fumble.”

You tilted your head, giving her a curious look. “Why are you apologizing to me?”

“I just…got distracted,” Megan admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Before you could respond the others appeared behind Megan, grinning like a pack of mischievous wolves.

“She got distracted by you,” Daniela said bluntly, earning a chorus of laughter from the group.

Megan groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Oh my God, you guys—”

You laughed, stepping closer to Megan. “Is that true?”

Megan peeked at you from behind her hands, her cheeks bright red. “Maybe?”

Your smile widened, and you gently tugged her hands down. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I think it’s kinda cute.”

Megan’s jaw dropped, and her friends erupted in cheers and teasing remarks. Sophia gave Megan a pat on the back. “Looks like you finally scored, Meg.”

As the night went on, Megan couldn’t stop smiling—and neither could you.

[howlettsangel]

—sunday nights

tags/warnings: 18+ mdni dbf!logan howlett x f!reader, sunday night fb, reader in college, big big age gap, established relationship, mostly fluff with mini smut, dry humping if you squint, clothes stay ON, risky touching

a/n: super duper short but im sooooo obsessed with dbf!logan...

wc: 1.1k

The TV was loud downstairs, so loud it cut through the music blaring in your headphones. Logan had stayed after dinner to watch the game, him and your father fussing at the screen for the past hour. Their voices mixed with the bustle of commentary and advertisements eventually drew you out of your bedroom.

You had driven in for fall break to visit with your father and catch up with a few missed faces from childhood. It felt good to be home, somewhere familiar outside of university. And maybe, it felt sort of nice to see Logan again.

Your father had worked with Logan since before you could remember. He had definitely become a regular face in your house, from birthday parties to family events. He tagged along whenever invited.

The feelings that developed over time seemed trivial, like a simple teenage crush. But, oh, it was more than a crush. For both parties. Logan spent days at a time trying to figure out when he would see you next. When was your next break? What holidays were coming up? No matter how many times he swore he didn't, he always found his mind wandering back to those questions.

⋆୨୧

You padded down the carpeted stairs, the soft thuds of your footsteps causing the pair of men to turn their heads towards you. You watched as a smile settled on your dad's face for the brief moments his attention wasn't on the screen.

"Look who it is," he teased, "I thought you would've gone to bed by now, sweet pea. Long drive yesterday."

"You think I can sleep with the two of you screaming down here?" you shot right back, your tired eyes drifting over to Logan in the other arm chair. He gave you a small scoff, half laughing, half annoyed by your comment. His eyes stayed on the screen as he let you and your father talk, but he felt you looking at him.

"Hey, ain't our fault they've played like shit lately," your dad shrugged back at you.

You moved into the kitchen to get a glass of milk, maybe some juice to sip on while you lingered around in the living area. It felt like you were being a bother from time to time, but having the liberty to stare at Logan from afar was far better than any stuffed animal up in your bedroom.

By the time you were finished up with the glass in your hand, the halftime ads were coming on. You knew your dad never cared much for whatever new brand he was gonna be convinced into buying from, so it wasn't surprising when he announced his plans to get more beer.

"M' gonna head out and fetch some more beer before the second half," he grumbled as he stood from his recliner. The wood floor creaked as he moved towards the front door and took his keys off the hook. "Keep an eye on her, yeah Logan?"

Of course he was just being a tease, glancing over at you with a smirk and then back to his friend. "I'm not a baby, he doesn't have to 'keep an eye on me,'" you protested, but the thoughts that came to your mind when you imagined the two of you alone betrayed your words.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll be fine," Logan huffed. The two of you watched your father leave with excitement bubbling in your chests, and it wasn't long before you were in the living room again.

You discarded your glass on the coffee table beside the couch, shifting closer with a smile on your face so that you could sit down right next to Logan. He didn't argue one bit with your company and simply let his arm fall across your shoulders. The scent of your perfume was light and faded from a long day, and he could still tell what shampoo you had used last night. It felt like a drug.

"Why're you sitting so far away?" he grumbled, the smallest hint of a smirk on his face. He tugged you a bit closer, an invitation for you to sit on his lap.

Like him, you weren't arguing. You rolled your eyes just to play up the sass, but inevitably shifted on top of his lap. It felt like ages since the two of you had a chance to be alone. It was always a risk, and it still was now. Your dad was never one to waste time when it came to football, but the back fridge was a bit of a walk from the main house.

"You're trouble," you breathed out, your voice soft as you leaned in to brush your lips against Logan's. Smiling back at you, Logan shook his head.

"Says you."

Kissing was usually the furthest risk you two would take especially on nights like these where getting caught was just a disaster waiting to occur. The longer your little make-out sesh went on, the lower Logan's hands went on your body. His palm slipped between your bodies that were flush against one another, reaching underneath the nightgown you wore.

You knew exactly what he was trying to do, yet Logan would just blame it on all the beer he had in his system (which was only two bottles). His fingertips brushed against the thin cloth of your panties, and even though you had definitely worn them for him, that didn't mean you could just throw your dignity out the window.

"Lo," you whined softly. Your hips were moving on their own accord as they bucked into his touch: squirming because you wanted more and because you wanted him to cut it out. "He's gonna see us."

"No he ain't," Logan couldn't care less about getting caught by your father. He continued coaxing each and every little whine from your lips. Your words weren't driven into his brain until you both heard the front steps creak.

His hand stilled for a moment as if thinking what to do, but you quickly moved away. You brushed off your dress to compose yourself and cleared your throat as an extra effort. It was only seconds before your dad came back, a second case of beer in his hand and an excited smile on his face.

"I didn't miss anything, huh?" he asked. You were still sitting on the couch, a bit closer to Logan than what seemed appropriate, but it didn't take long for you to scoot away. You were trying desperately not to laugh.

Your dad fell back into his armchair, barely paying any mind to where you were. You made eye contact with Logan across the couch, mouthing a small 'sorry' through your attempts to hide a chuckle.

He knew he would just have to wait until next sunday night.

tags: @blah-blah-bee @ellaynaonsaturn @ellaynahowlett @sweetverine @nymphoniah @cruel-as-sin @lostinlovingrevery @mcrdvcks @manipulatour @kvntonq

[cool-fancier]

Full Court Heart

Park Chaeyoung(Rosé) x Female reader

Synopsis: When WNBA star battles self-doubt after a brutal injury, her girlfriend, K-pop idol Rosé, surprises her courtside, igniting a love-filled comeback both on and off the court.

Word Count:2.2K

The Barclays Center was alive with the hum of thousands of voices, their collective energy buzzing like static in the air. As you stood in the tunnel, waiting for the team to run out onto the court, you closed your eyes and tried to steady your breathing. It was your first game back after the injury—an injury that had felt like it could end everything you'd worked so hard for. Months of rehab, endless days of doubt, of wondering if you'd ever play the same way again, had led to this moment.

The bright lights, the sound of sneakers on polished hardwood, the unmistakable thrum of anticipation in the stands—it was all familiar, but this time it was different. You weren't just fighting the Lynx today. You were fighting the version of yourself that had been benched for months, who had wondered if you'd lost your edge. This was personal.

But even with the pressure building in your chest, there was something missing. You had been scanning the stands all morning, hoping to spot that one face—Rosie, your girlfriend. Rosé, the voice that had gotten you through the worst nights, her whispered encouragement through the phone when your knee ached, when the thought of getting back on the court seemed impossible. You hadn't seen her in weeks, not since she had flown to Los Angeles to work on her solo album.

It wasn't like she could drop everything to come to New York—she was busy, you both were. But you'd be lying if you said you didn't want her here, even just for a few hours.

"Yo, you good?" Sabrina Ionescu, your teammate and close friend, nudged you with her elbow, snapping you out of your thoughts. You nodded quickly, forcing a small smile.

"Yeah. Just... ready to get back out there."

She eyed you knowingly but didn't push further. "You'll be fine. You've been killing it in practice. Don't overthink it."

You appreciated her words, but there was still a pit of anxiety in your stomach. Not just because of the game, but because of the absence of that one person you wanted most in the stands, cheering for you. Rosie.

— — — — —

The first quarter was brutal. Every time you moved, you could feel the eyes of the crowd on you, the pressure thick in the air. Your knee felt fine, but your instincts were off. You hesitated on passes, overthought your shots, and the Lynx were capitalizing on every mistake. By the time the first quarter ended, you felt like you were drowning in frustration.

You sat on the bench, trying to block out the noise, the voices of the coaches and teammates blurring into background static. You couldn't seem to find your rhythm. The more you tried to settle in, the more out of sync you felt.

Your eyes drifted over the crowd again, scanning faces you didn't recognize, but hoping, irrationally, that maybe... just maybe... Rosie would be there. You knew she wasn't. She had told you she was in L.A. for her album, buried in studio sessions. But you missed her presence, missed the way she could calm you with just a look, a smile.

— — — — —

By halftime, things hadn't gotten any better. The Liberty was down by ten, and you had barely made an impact. You were the star player, the one expected to turn things around, but all you could think about was how much you were letting everyone down. The crowd was roaring, but it felt distant, hollow.

As you headed toward the locker room, Sabrina caught up with you, her eyes glinting with something you couldn't quite place. "Come on, don't look so down. It's your first game back. You're allowed to shake off the rust."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "I just... I don't know. I feel off. Like I'm not all here, you know?"

Sabrina smiled knowingly, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes that you barely noticed. "You might be surprised. Just take a breather. Trust us."

Confused, you walked into the locker room, trying to shrug off the weight of the first half. The room was filled with the usual halftime buzz—coaches giving instructions, players catching their breath. But something felt different. There was a strange energy in the air, something you couldn't quite put your finger on.

"Hey," came a soft voice from behind you. The voice you knew better than your own.

You froze, your heart leaping into your throat.

There, standing by the lockers with a wide, almost bashful smile, was Rosie. Rosé, your Rosie. But not just standing there—she was wearing a Liberty jersey, your Liberty jersey. Your last name was emblazoned across her back in bold letters, and beneath it, the number 26, your number, was stitched proudly. The oversized jersey hung loosely on her small frame, but she wore it like it was made for her.

You blinked, still not fully registering that she was actually there, right in front of you. "R-Rosie?" Your voice cracked with disbelief, the breath catching in your throat.

She grinned, stepping toward you, her hand reaching out to touch your arm. "Surprise."

Your body reacted before your brain caught up, your arms pulling her into a tight embrace. The familiar warmth of her body against yours, the soft scent of her perfume—it was all so overwhelming, so perfect. You had been without her for weeks, her voice through a phone screen the only comfort. And now here she was, in New York, in your locker room, wearing your jersey.

You pulled back just enough to look at her, your hands still on her waist, as you whispered, "I thought you were in L.A.? You didn't tell me you were coming."

She shrugged, her smile soft but her eyes sparkling with affection. "I wanted to surprise you. I knew this game was important, your first one back. I couldn't miss it, baby. Not after everything you've been through."

Your heart swelled, the frustration and doubt of the first half melting away in her presence. "You... you have no idea how much I needed this," you admitted quietly, your forehead resting against hers.

Rosie tilted her head slightly, her fingers brushing lightly across your jawline. "I think I do," she whispered, her voice filled with warmth. "You've been through so much, and I'm so proud of you. Just seeing you back out there, doing what you love... it's everything."

You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too," she said, her thumb brushing your cheek. "But I'm here now. And I'll be out there, watching you kill it in the second half."

You chuckled softly, the weight on your shoulders lifting just a little. "I don't know if I'll be killing it, but I'll do my best."

Rosie gave you a soft, playful push. "You always do your best. And now, you've got a little extra motivation."

You looked down at her jersey, at your name across her back, and smiled. "You look better in my jersey than I do."

She laughed, a bright sound that lit up the dim locker room. "I've been told I make it look good."

Before you could respond, Betnijah Laney and Sabrina walked by, both smirking like they were in on the surprise all along. Betnijah raised an eyebrow. "Guess you got your motivation back, huh?"

Sabrina snickered. "Rosie here planned this all week. Just wait till you see her out there in the stands."

Rosé gave you a quick kiss on the cheek, her eyes sparkling with mischief now too. "I'll be the one yelling the loudest," she said with a wink, before turning and heading out toward the court, her jersey swaying lightly as she disappeared.

You stood there for a moment, still in disbelief, a wide grin spreading across your face. Your mind had been clouded with doubt and frustration, but now it was clear—Rosie had done more than just surprise you. She'd reminded you of why you loved this game, why you fought so hard to come back.

— — — — —

When you stepped back onto the court for the second half, something was different. The weight that had been pressing down on you was gone, replaced by a warmth that seemed to fill every inch of your body. You glanced up at the stands, and there she was—Rosie, standing near the front row, her blonde hair catching the light, her eyes fixed on you. She wore your jersey with pride, her smile wide as she waved, a small gesture that sent a surge of confidence through your veins.

The game resumed, the Lynx pushing hard, but this time you were ready. With every dribble, every pass, every cut, you felt like you were finally back in sync. Your body moved without hesitation, your instincts sharp and sure. You drove to the basket, took the hits, and still managed to land shot after shot.

— — — — —

The minutes ticked down, the scoreboard inching closer to a tie as the game intensified. You were fully locked in now, every movement fueled by a new sense of purpose. The crowd roared as you stole the ball, sprinting down the court in a fast break, adrenaline surging through your veins. With a sharp pass from Sabrina, the ball was in your hands, and you took the shot.

A three-pointer.

The swish of the net seemed to echo through the arena, a moment of perfect clarity. The Liberty fans exploded into cheers, and as you glanced at the stands, you saw Rosie—your Rosie—on her feet, clapping wildly, her face lit up with pride and joy. That image of her, wrapped in your jersey with your name and number across her back, sent a warmth through you that made every painful day of rehab, every night of doubt, feel worth it.

The Lynx tried to push back, but it wasn't enough. The final buzzer sounded, and the scoreboard flashed the victory. The Liberty had won, and you'd been an essential part of that comeback. Your chest heaved with exhaustion, but there was a weightlessness to your steps as you high-fived your teammates, laughter and cheers filling the court.

But your eyes kept drifting to the stands, to Rosie, who was beaming as she watched you.

— — — — —

Back in the locker room, the energy was high, your teammates buzzing with excitement over the hard-fought win. You leaned against the lockers, still catching your breath, your muscles burning with that good kind of fatigue—the kind that came after a win that felt well-earned.

Before long, you felt a familiar presence beside you. You didn't need to look to know it was her.

"Hey, superstar," Rosé's voice was soft, teasing. "Not bad for your first game back."

You turned to face her, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips. "Not bad? I thought I was pretty damn great."

She laughed, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Okay, okay... you were amazing. But I had a feeling you'd show up like that." Her voice dropped lower, her gaze flickering with something more. "I'll admit, though... seeing my name and number out there might have given me a little extra boost."

Rosie smirked and stepped closer, her fingers trailing up your arm, her touch light but electric. "You were incredible, baby. I'm so proud of you." Her voice was a whisper now, her lips just inches from yours, her breath warm against your skin. "And I think you deserve a little reward for all your hard work."

Before you could say anything, she closed the gap between you, her lips pressing against yours in a deep, slow kiss. Everything around you seemed to disappear in that moment—the noise of the locker room, the exhaustion in your limbs—until there was only her. The softness of her lips, the way her body leaned into yours, the taste of her that you'd missed for weeks.

You kissed her back with an intensity you hadn't realized you were holding in, your hands sliding to her waist, pulling her closer, wanting more. She responded with a soft, pleased sigh against your lips, her fingers tangling in the fabric of your jersey as if anchoring herself to you.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were dark with promise, her voice low and suggestive. "I've got something planned for later," she whispered, her lips brushing your ear. "A little something for you... to celebrate properly."

Heat flushed through your body, her words stirring something deep inside you. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but the way she looked at you—like she had all the time in the world, like she couldn't wait to be alone with you—made it hard to think straight.

Rosie gave you a playful smile, stepping back just enough to leave you wanting more. "But for now..." She trailed her fingers down your arm before walking away toward the door, leaving you standing there, watching her with a mix of anticipation and desire. As she reached the door, she glanced back over her shoulder, her voice carrying just loud enough for you to hear. "Later, baby."

And just like that, she was gone, leaving you with a racing heart and a cliffhanger that you couldn't wait to see play out. You leaned back against the locker, grinning to yourself, the promise of what was to come hanging in the air, thick with tension.

You weren't sure what Rosie had planned, but one thing was clear—tonight was going to be unforgettable.