I’m So Sick, The Tears Wont Stop Omg

oh this ATE.

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

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MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you never got the chance to be anything else.

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

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

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

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

But still—there was no denying it.

You were that girl.

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

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

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

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

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

Because when decision day came, you chose USC.

And the world? Imploded.

Headlines hit within seconds.

“TAURASI’S DAUGHTER SHOCKS BASKETBALL WORLD.”

“NUMBER ONE PROSPECT SNUBS UCONN.”

“PRINCESS TURNS REBEL.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s here.”

“It’s over for the rest of the NCAA.”

“UConn fumbled the bag.”

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

But none of the buzz fazed you.

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

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

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

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

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

She was the map.

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

And she worked for it. Every inch.

No one handed her anything.

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

Not when you were coming.

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

You picked USC.

And everything shifted.

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

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

Then she threw her phone across the bed and laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there weren’t any.

You were that good.

And that was the worst part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It made her stomach twist.

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

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

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

She wasn’t going to let that happen.

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

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

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

She saw a mirror. A threat. A spark.

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

--

You told them over dinner.

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

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

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

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

“I’m committing to USC.”

Diana blinked.

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

Diana still hadn’t moved.

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

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

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

It was quiet.

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

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

You shrugged. “It’s not what I want.”

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

“I know.”

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

“Di—” Penny warned gently.

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

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

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

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

“Then what do you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Exactly.”

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

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

“She’s not thinking it through.”

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

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

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

You blinked. “Fine?”

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

You held her gaze.

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

There was a pause.

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

“Okay,” you said. “Deal.”

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

“I won’t complain,” you said.

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

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

Neither of you denied it.

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

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

It thrilled you.

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

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

It was a promise.

--

There’s something about first impressions.

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

And yours?

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

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

You stepped onto that court like it was already yours.

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

You were the moment.

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

You didn’t smile.

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

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

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

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

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

And you were. You meant it.

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

You were used to it.

You’d been molded in the spotlight.

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

That heat. That edge.

That silent resistance.

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

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

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

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

Juju didn’t flinch.

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

Her energy was solid. Grounded. Unimpressed.

And God, you liked it.

It fed something in you. Pulled the thread tighter.

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

But not Juju.

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

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

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

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

You extended your hand, polite. Calm.

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

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

“I’ve seen yours too,” you replied.

“You’re good.”

“So are you.”

Another pause. Neither of you smiled.

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

Because it had.

Right there, in that subtle, loaded exchange.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t bend.

And you loved that.

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

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

“I came here to win.”

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

“Then I hope you can handle the heat.”

You smiled then. Not big. Just enough.

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

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

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

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

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

Not to catch up. But to compete.

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

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

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

It had started off civil.

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

But then things shifted.

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

And Juju’s mouth opened.

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

You blinked.

That was… new.

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

But now? Now she wouldn’t shut up.

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

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

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

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

It was that she was good. Really good.

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

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

She was fast.

You were faster.

She was sharp.

You were sharper.

But she was playing dirty. And you liked it.

You didn’t back down.

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

You felt her frustration ripple like heat off her body.

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

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

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

You were not bored. Not even close.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

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

And now she was being overshadowed in her own house.

By you.

Diana Taurasi’s daughter. The golden child.

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

You didn’t even look tired.

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

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

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

And worst of all?

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

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

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

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

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

Swish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two stars burning too close. Too fast.

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

She was reading yours, too.

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

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

But so was your heart.

Because that tension? That unspoken current between you?

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

--

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

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

It was her.

Juju.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had to be taken.

And that kind of pressure? It cracked things open.

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

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

And then—impact.

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

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

Whistles blew, and the gym fell into a hush.

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

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

Your jaw clenched.

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

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

“Bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

You felt something crack.

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

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

You took another step forward.

“Say that again.”

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

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

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

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

“Then guard me better,” you spit.

“Then play better.”

The gym was deadly silent.

No one moved. No one breathed.

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

And then Coach’s voice cut through like thunder.

“HEY!”

Both your heads snapped toward her.

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

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

Neither of you said anything.

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

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

“You want to fight? Fight fatigue.”

She pointed to the baseline.

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

For a second, neither of you moved.

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

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

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

The whistle blew.

You ran.

Back and forth. Over and over.

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

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

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

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

And she was right beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom.”

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

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

“That’s because you’re a threat.”

You froze.

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

“A threat?” you repeated.

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

You huffed, dragging your fingers through your hair.

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

Diana didn’t respond right away.

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

Instead, what you got was: “So what?”

You blinked. “What?”

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

You sat there, stunned.

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

A beat of silence.

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

“Mom—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared down at your phone, your throat dry.

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

You didn’t respond. Not right away.

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

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

You remembered who you were.

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

You were you.

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

You didn’t have to be liked.

You just had to win.

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

Good.

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

They’d all see.

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

“Thanks,” you muttered finally.

Diana chuckled. “You done crying now?”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“Sure.”

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

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

“I know,” she said.

And she meant it.

She didn’t say ‘if.’ She said when.

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

And it started here.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

But she knows. You both do.

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

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

The gym stills. Every movement ceases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw clenches tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

And then something unexpected happens.

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

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

Nothing but net.

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

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

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

Swish.

And then it clicks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she doesn't hate it.

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

But facts are undeniable.

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

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

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

Cocky. Effortless. Of course.

You don't say anything either.

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

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

You can't deny it. You need her.

And maybe, just maybe, Juju needs you too.

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

Everyone freezes mid-motion.

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

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

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

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

Another pause hangs in the air.

"We're making a deep run."

Your heart thuds in your chest.

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

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

It's about legacy.

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

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

↳ 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 ♡

hold on my shows on.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 2/3)

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

MASTERLIST | PART ONE

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11k

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

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited, lots of word vomit, SLOOOOW burn, sapphic yearning, enemies to lovers themes, juju being obsessed w reader and implications of mommy issues.

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | part two!! yaya!! i actually love this series sm. also would u guys fw a paige/uconn spin off of this? lmk!

The gym clears out slower than usual.

No one’s rushing to the locker room today. Not after what they just witnessed. Some of the freshmen linger by the Gatorade cooler, whispering to each other. A few upperclassmen give you and Juju side-eyes as they gather their bags, as if trying to process what just happened.

You’re not sure what just happened either. All you know is your chest is still heaving and your limbs are electric, like your blood’s been rewired.

And Juju… Juju didn’t look at you once after that final whistle. Not when Coach gave her praise, not even when you brushed past her on the way to the tunnel.

She’s avoiding it. You can feel it.

You’re not sure whether that pisses you off or makes you want to chase her down and force her to talk about it.

Instead, you do what you always do after an intense practice. You head straight to the training room. Your muscles are screaming, sweat still dripping down your back as you strip your hoodie and toss it in the bin.

The tub’s already half full when you get there — the water cloudy with ice, cold fog rolling over the edge like mist.

You grab a towel to wrap around your sports bra, slide off your shorts, and sink into the water with a hiss.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, legs disappearing into the freezing depths. Your jaw clenches on instinct.

The cold doesn’t scare you. You grew up in the Midwest. You’ve played through worse.

But still — the first few seconds are like needles.

You’re halfway through mentally counting down from ninety when the door creaks open.

You glance up.

And of course.

It’s her.

Juju Watkins. In a fitted black sports bra, her high ponytail loosened and clinging to her neck from sweat. She’s holding a water bottle, chewing on the edge of the cap like she doesn’t care who’s watching.

You do.

You wish you didn’t — but suddenly, you really, really do.

She pauses in the doorway when she sees you. Her eyebrows lift slightly. Her lips twitch — not quite a smile, but something like recognition.

You look away, dunking your shoulders a little deeper into the tub, letting the ice bite your collarbones.

“I didn’t know someone already claimed the tub,” Juju says, voice neutral, but her eyes stay locked on you.

“You can share,” you say flatly, not looking at her. “Unless you’re scared.”

That gets her. You hear the small scoff under her breath.

Juju tosses her water bottle on the bench and steps out of her slides. “Scared of you?”

You don’t respond. You keep your eyes straight ahead as she strips off her compression shorts, revealing strong, sculpted legs and black spandex underneath. She's tall, toned, and still somehow graceful even as she lowers herself into the tub beside you.

The water shifts violently. Ice sloshes against your thighs.

“Damn,” she mutters, teeth gritting. “Every time I forget how cold it is.”

You glance sideways. Just for a second.

Her legs are fully submerged, knees bumping yours under the water. You shift slightly, but there’s nowhere to go. The tub’s only meant for one.

Your shoulders brush.

Neither of you speak.

You stare ahead, trying to focus on your breathing.

But the tension — that buzzing, electric thread between you — is back, thick enough to taste.

Juju lets out a slow breath. “Practice was different today.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A pause.

You study her face. There’s a quietness there, something you haven’t seen before. Less pride, more calculation. Like she’s trying to make sense of you — this new version of you who knows exactly where she’s going to be on the court, who doesn’t flinch when she barks a command mid-possession.

“You always this intense?” she asks suddenly, her eyes scanning your profile.

You raise a brow. “Look who’s talking.”

“No, I mean…” She hesitates, biting her bottom lip for a second. “You play like it’s personal.”

You meet her gaze. “It is personal.”

That hangs in the air for a moment too long.

You watch her blink. Her expression shifts, softens, just barely.

“I used to hate that,” she admits, voice quiet. “When people brought emotion into the game. I thought it made them sloppy.”

“And now?”

Juju looks at you. Really looks.

And something passes between you — a current too sharp to ignore. Her mouth parts slightly, and for once, she doesn’t have a quick comeback.

The air between you turns thick. Hot, despite the freezing water. You can feel the heat radiating off her skin where your arms are brushing, a line of contact that neither of you dares to break.

You glance down for a second — a mistake.

Her thighs under the water, muscles flexed from tension. The way her stomach rises and falls, breath controlled but shallow. The way a single drop of water clings to the curve of her jaw before trailing down her neck.

You look away fast, heart hammering.

But she saw it. You know she did.

And for the first time, you feel the shift in her — in her posture, her energy. The smallest ripple of awareness.

You don’t have to say anything. Juju leans back against the tub wall, her shoulders tensing.

And then she mutters, low and almost annoyed, “This is stupid.”

You frown. “What is?”

“This,” she says, gesturing between you without meeting your eyes. “You. Me. Whatever this is.”

You laugh under your breath. “Then get out.”

She doesn’t move.

Instead, Juju’s jaw ticks. “It’s just… you’re annoying as hell, and arrogant, and you talk too much.”

You tilt your head. “But?”

“But you make me better,” she snaps. “And I don’t know how to deal with that.”

It’s the closest thing to a confession you’ve ever heard from her.

Your mouth curls at the corner. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes narrow — but there's no venom behind it.

Just frustration. And something else.

She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s seeing you clearly for the first time. And maybe she is. Maybe the adrenaline from practice hasn’t worn off. Maybe it’s the shared silence, the vulnerability of cold water and aching muscles and the way your knees are still touching under the surface.

But Juju Watkins is looking at you like you’re dangerous.

Not because of your game.

But because you’re starting to feel good.

Comfortable. Familiar.

Like something she could get used to.

And that, more than anything, terrifies her.

She leans back again, closing her eyes, trying to will the feeling away.

But it’s already there.

Planted. Blooming. Buried under frustration and rivalry and pride, but unmistakably real.

Juju Watkins doesn’t like you. Not really.

But she’s attracted to you.

And now that she’s seen it — seen the sweat on your skin, the heat in your eyes, the control in your voice when you told her it is personal — she knows she’s not going to be able to unsee it.

Not now.

Not ever.

--

After that, everything became different. At least, in Juju's head.

You're on the sideline, sweat still clinging to your skin, jersey riding up on your waist as you strip off your shooting shirt and tug your hair down from its braids. You're still catching your breath, chest heaving slightly, neck glistening in the early morning light filtering through the windows. You know how you look—have to know. Custom socks rolled to just the right length, diamond-studded studs peeking through your second holes, lashes curled, nails short but perfect.

You weren’t trying to serve. You just… exist like this.

Across the gym, Juju notices. She’s mid-laugh with one of the guards, towel slung over her shoulders, and you swear—swear—her eyes catch on your bare stomach for a half-second longer than necessary. Her laughter falters, just slightly. You pretend not to notice.

She looks away fast, muttering something under her breath and tossing her towel in the bin. But her jaw’s tight. Like she's annoyed at something.

Like she's annoyed at you.

“You good?” Kiki asks, eyebrow raised as she follows Juju toward the locker room.

Juju shrugs, but there’s a strange stiffness to her. Her usual loose, relaxed walk has a little more tension today. And even though her face is neutral, Kiki doesn't let it go.

“I saw the way you were lookin’.”

Juju stops mid-step. “Huh?”

“You stared, girl. Hard.”

Juju scoffs. “Please.”

“Please what? She’s literally fine as hell and you know it.”

Kiki’s teasing, but it hits a little too close to home. Juju spins around like she’s trying to shake something off, like just saying it out loud is enough to ruin her day.

“She’s too polished,” Juju says quickly, like that explains it. “Too clean. Probably dated half the damn football team before she got here.”

Kiki laughs. “You jealous?”

Juju’s head snaps toward her. “Hell no.”

You don’t hear this, of course. You're still on the court, talking to one of the assistant coaches about film study, sipping your water, stretching your hamstring. But you feel something shift.

Because that whole practice? Juju hadn’t been barking at you like usual. Hadn’t shoved you with quite as much bite. She’d still been Juju—hard screens, tight defense, trash talk under her breath—but it was different. Focused. Calculated. Like she was studying you, not just guarding you.

Like she was curious.

And for the first time, her mouth ran quieter than her eyes.

Because there was heat in her stare. You caught it during the second scrimmage, right after you hit a step-back three over the zone. You saw her watching you jog back, chewing the inside of her cheek, like she hated that she respected it. Like she didn’t know where the line was between irritation and something else.

And you?

You knew.

You’d been around enough to recognize when admiration turned sour in someone’s throat. You could feel her sizing you up—your game, your presence, your effect. You weren’t cocky about it, but you didn’t shrink either.

You weren’t gonna play down the boys who’d tried to claim you, or the cameras that followed your high school career, or the fact that you came to USC with a personal trainer and a highlight reel longer than the team’s media day video.

You weren’t gonna get smaller just to make someone else comfortable. Not even her.

So when you walk into the locker room ten minutes later, shoulders squared, skin still flushed from the workout, you know something's shifted. The team is already half-dressed, music playing low through someone’s speaker, but Juju doesn’t look up when you pass her locker.

That’s how you really know.

Because Juju always had something to say. A glare. A grunt. A rolled-eye comment under her breath. But now, she’s completely still—laces undone, head down, pretending to focus on her socks like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And you feel it.

You feel the burn of her eyes when you sit down across from her. Feel the tension zip across the room when your knees almost brush. You can practically hear her trying not to look.

Kiki raises her brows from the side, clocking all of it, lips curling like she’s just waiting for this to explode.

“You good?” you ask her casually, twisting open your protein drink. Not to be petty—just to say it. Just to remind her she doesn’t intimidate you.

Juju finally glances up, her expression blank.

“Peachy,” she says.

But her ears are red.

You smirk, turning away.

She hates it.

Hates that she looked. Hates that she liked what she saw.

Hates that the idea of you—so perfectly curated, so crisp and camera-ready—makes her jaw clench and her thoughts stutter. That there’s something in you that reminds her of everything she’s tried to push away: attention, spotlight, control.

And still, she can’t help but wonder what your lip gloss tastes like.

But she swallows it down, lets it simmer into something else—annoyance, distance, denial.

She goes back to hating you before her next thought can form.

Because if she doesn't, if she lets it sit too long in her chest, she might admit the truth to herself.

That you're fire. Blinding. Sharp. And she's already a little burned.

It starts later that afternoon.

Not with another game. Not in a moment of glory, when the adrenaline’s pumping and your instincts have the wheel. No—it hits Juju when she’s already stripped of the day. No hoodie, no lashes, no performance. Just her. Just her aching body, a protein bar in hand, dragging herself toward the locker room ice baths like it’s the gates of hell.

She’s sore in a good way. The kind of sore that means something got unlocked. The kind of sore you only get when you really go there. And she did today—because of you.

You. God, you.

The way you moved beside her today like it was nothing. The way you didn’t flinch when she pushed the tempo, when she cut hard, when she barked a command under her breath—you just followed. Or led. Or matched, somehow.

It was addicting.

But that’s not what’s really pissing her off.

It’s not the way you played. It’s what came after.

That smirk.

That effortless, smug little curve of your lips when she drained that last jumper off your no-look dime.

Like you knew. Like you always know.

And maybe you do. Maybe you see things before they happen. Maybe that’s why Coach won’t shut up about you, why the team is slowly starting to look at you the way they used to look at her.

Or maybe it's just that you’re hot.

She thinks that thought quickly, disgustedly, like it’s a roach she just crushed with her shoe. She tells herself it doesn’t count if it’s involuntary. If it bubbles up from somewhere dark and inconvenient. If she swats it down fast enough.

She steps into the locker room and peels off her shirt with a wince. Her body’s worked to the limit, muscles tight, breath a little uneven. She tosses the shirt into her locker and sighs. It's quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the thrum in her chest she’s trying not to name.

The ice bath sits there like a challenge.

She mutters under her breath and steps into the cold, hissing as it eats up her calves, thighs, hips. Her abs seize at the shock, but she exhales, settling.

And then the door opens.

She doesn’t have to look. She knows it’s you.

The footsteps are cocky. Not loud. But present. Like you’re announcing yourself without saying a word.

You walk in like it’s your locker room and everyone else is lucky to be renting space.

You have a towel slung over your shoulder, sports bra on, little black spandex shorts hugging you like they were tailored. You're not doing anything special—just existing—and Juju wants to punch a wall.

Because now she gets it.

Why people flock to you. Why the freshmen whisper when you walk past. Why Coach watches you with the kind of expression she used to reserve for her.

It's not just the game. It’s the way you carry yourself.

Like the world is already yours, and you’re just waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

You say nothing as you grab the other tub. You don’t even look at her. Just strip your hoodie, kick off your slides, and sink into the ice like it’s a pool at the Ritz.

Juju hates the way her stomach flips when your abs contract. When your hair drip into the water. When you lean back, resting your arms on the edge, eyes closed, jaw flexing as the cold settles in.

You're annoying. You’re arrogant. You’ve been a thorn in her side since the second you walked into training camp and refused to shrink in her shadow.

And now Juju can’t stop looking at your mouth.

She bites the inside of her cheek, turning her gaze away, but not fast enough. You catch her.

Of course you do.

Your eyes flick open and you glance over, and for a second—a dangerous second—your gaze drops to her shoulders, then back to her face. Your mouth twitches.

Juju rolls her eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“Stare harder,” you murmur, voice lazy and low. “Might see something you like.”

She scoffs, heat flashing in her chest. “Please.”

You close your eyes again. “Didn’t say it was me looking.”

And that—that—makes her want to scream.

Because she was staring. Because you know it. Because you're not even smug about it, not really—you're just calm. Settled in your skin in a way she used to be.

Now you’re the one who walks around like you’ve got nothing to prove.

And it pisses her off because you’re right. You’re good. You’re better than she expected. You make her play harder. Think faster. Reach deeper.

You make her feel—

Nope.

No.

Absolutely not.

She closes her eyes, leans her head back, and tells herself it’s just hormones. Or proximity. Or the adrenaline from practice that hasn’t worn off yet.

It’s not you. It can’t be you.

You're too much. Too loud, too smooth, too sexy in that careless way that people like Juju have to work twice as hard to fake.

You don’t fake anything.

You just are.

And worst of all—you made her enjoy today. Made her want to pass the ball, to share the spotlight, to laugh internally when you bumped shoulders on a fast break and didn’t even apologize, just grinned like you knew she wouldn’t mind.

She shouldn’t be thinking about that moment. The shoulder graze. The split-second warmth. The way you felt solid. Like someone who could take a hit. Like someone who could give it back.

She breathes in deep through her nose and exhales, hoping the cold will kill whatever this is growing in her.

It doesn’t.

It lingers. Quietly. In the silence between the two of you. In the way her body buzzes even in the ice. In the fact that you haven’t spoken again, haven’t pushed, haven’t smirked—because you don’t have to.

And that’s the real problem.

Because Juju doesn’t know how to play this game.

The one where wanting someone makes you worse. Or better. Or both.

The one where she has to be near you every day, and pretend like her pulse isn’t skipping when you tie your shorts tighter. When you towel off sweat with a twist of your torso. When you bite the straw of your protein shake and say something filthy without trying.

She hates you.

She hates you.

But now it's not because you're annoying.

Now it's because she understands the pull—and she resents the hell out of it.

She opens her eyes again. You're still reclined, a single drop of water trailing down your collarbone.

Juju looks away immediately, muscles locking, lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line.

And she tells herself this is just a phase.

Just tension.

Just adrenaline.

Not desire.

Definitely not that.

Because if it is, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s going to do about it.

And that’s the scariest part of all.

--

You felt it the second you stepped out of the tunnel.

The buzz. The flash of cameras. The sold-out crowd packed into the Galen Center like it was March already—like this wasn’t just a preseason game, but the championship itself. Phones up, kids in replica jerseys with your name and Juju’s scribbled in Sharpie across the backs, media crammed into the corners trying to get the best shot of the warmups.

You hadn’t even touched the ball yet and it already felt like a legacy night.

“Jesus,” Kiki muttered beside you, craning her neck to take in the stands. “It’s not even conference season.”

And it wasn’t. It was Stanford—ranked first, favored by every analyst, projected to steamroll every Pac-12 team on their way to the Final Four. But this wasn’t about rankings anymore. This was about you. You and Juju.

The monsters Coach had built.

Your name alone sold tickets. But together? You were mythology in the making.

The noise was deafening, even during layup lines. Your stomach flipped as you stepped onto the court, a little more aware of every movement, every camera flash that followed your stepback into a midrange pull-up.

You caught sight of Stanford on the other side—stoic, composed, polished like always. But there was a flicker in their eyes. Not nerves exactly. Uncertainty. Like they weren’t sure what to expect. Like they’d seen the clips, read the headlines, felt the weight of the whispers.

That USC had the two most dangerous players in the country.

And no one knew what would happen when they finally shared a real court.

The week leading up to the game had been hell, in the best way.

Coach had doubled practice time—film in the mornings, drills until sunset. Sprints. Trap reads. Zone breaks. You barely had time to breathe, let alone think about how this was your first college game. Your legs were heavy, muscles burning, but you felt sharper than ever. More dialed in. Like every rep was feeding something ancient in you. Something you hadn’t accessed since high school playoffs.

Juju hadn’t been any easier.

She was locked in. Mouth quieter, eyes meaner. If she wasn’t shooting, she was watching film. If she wasn’t lifting, she was in the gym, perfecting footwork until her socks tore. She didn’t talk to you much—barely acknowledged you except when you passed each other on the court—but when she did?

It was all heat.

Not rage anymore. Not hatred. Just friction. Electric. Wordless.

One afternoon, she hip-checked you going for a loose ball during a scrimmage, and you shoved her right back, both of you grinning before you realized it.

No one else could match you. No one else made you feel like that.

And maybe you hated that you loved it.

Game day came fast.

You were up early. Too early.

Hair was fresh—tight and clean, the way you liked it when it was a big night. Lashes curled, lips glossed, Jordan warmups on. Everything intentional. Everything curated for the cameras you knew would be watching. But underneath it all, your heart was beating fast. That old familiar rhythm of prove it, prove it, prove it.

You didn’t eat much at breakfast. Couldn’t.

Juju sat a few chairs down at the team meal, headphones in, hoodie up, stirring her oatmeal like she was somewhere else entirely. But you could tell she wasn’t.

She was right here with you. Vibing on the same adrenaline.

By the time you got to the gym, the team bus couldn’t even pull in the normal way. Fans were already crowding the back lot. Students. Kids. Parents. News crews. Signs waving, camera flashes going off, chants echoing before you even stepped out the door.

“What the fuck,” Avery whispered from the back of the bus.

You felt your pulse spike again.

They weren’t here for just any game. They were here for you and Juju.

Coach wasn’t even surprised.

She smiled the way a lion does before it eats.

“I told you,” she said, arms crossed as she stood by the locker room door. “You wanted smoke, we gave it to you.”

She waited until everyone was seated before she spoke again.

Her voice was low. Calm.

“You two.” She looked at you. Then Juju. “You’re the show. They came to see monsters. Give them hell.”

Warmups felt like a movie.

The DJ was blasting Rihanna, the student section was unhinged, and you couldn’t even pretend not to feel the energy vibrating through your sneakers. Every stretch, every form shot, every pass to Juju felt like choreography.

You didn’t speak to her. Not really.

But your eyes met more than once.

A nod. A look. An understanding.

We go. We take them apart. Together.

Coach called final huddle fifteen minutes before tip.

The whole team was sweating already, breathing hard, amped beyond belief. Some of the girls had never played in front of a crowd this big. Not even in high school state finals. It felt like a championship atmosphere—but Coach reminded you, steady as ever, that it was just the start.

“Don’t get caught up in the lights,” she warned, pacing slowly, voice even. “We’ve got a season to win. Not a moment. So stay sharp, stay fast, and for the love of God—pass the ball.”

That last part was directed at you and Juju.

Kiki snorted.

Coach rolled her eyes. “You two play nice or I’ll sit you both.”

You and Juju shared a glance. Just the ghost of a smirk.

You weren’t gonna play nice. You were gonna play lethal.

And tonight?

The world was gonna watch.

--

You could tell they were playing scared. Stanford wasn’t folding—not yet.

But they were rattled.

You saw it in the way their passes started to hesitate, in the way their eyes kept tracking Juju like she was a lit match and they were soaked in gasoline. You saw it in the way their star guard flinched every time you drove, like she didn’t want to get dunked on in a highlight that would run on Sportscenter before breakfast.

They hadn’t expected this. They thought you’d be green. Untested. All hype, no chemistry. They didn’t think you and Juju would actually work.

But you did. God, you did.

You didn’t even talk. You didn’t need to. The first half, it was all muscle memory and instinct, the invisible thread between you two pulling tighter and tighter until you moved like limbs on the same beast. One minute, she was taking the double team and dishing to you on the wing—the next, you were threading the bounce pass between two defenders like you knew exactly where she’d be cutting.

She finished it with a reverse lay-up that had the crowd losing its damn mind.

And still—still—it wasn’t enough.

Your team was flat. You and Juju were carrying. Carrying so hard your legs felt like bricks, chest already burning, jersey sticking to your back. And it was preseason. The first half wasn’t even over. They were all winded. Unsure. Eyes bouncing between you two like they didn’t know whether to follow or stay back.

You hit a buzzer-beating three to give USC the lead by three going into halftime, and when you jogged off the court, the crowd was standing.

You should’ve felt electric. But all you felt was pissed off.

The locker room was way too quiet. Coach was talking—whiteboard in hand, breaking down zone defense and rotations and shot selection—but you weren’t listening. You were pacing, chewing at the inside of your cheek, sweat dripping down your temple, jersey already tugged out of your shorts. You kept looking around, waiting for someone to be as fired up as you were.

Juju was slouched against the wall, sipping Gatorade, breathing hard but calm, her long legs stretched out in front of her. When your eyes met, she gave you the tiniest headshake.

Don’t lose it, it said.

You broke anyway.

“Okay, nah,” you snapped, stepping into the middle of the circle. “We’re not doing this.”

Some girls looked up. Coach raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop you. You didn’t care.

“This is our house,” you said, voice shaking but loud. “And we’re playing like we don’t belong here.”

No one said anything. You kept going.

“I don’t care if it’s preseason. I don’t care that it’s Stanford. I didn’t come here to almost win games. I came here to dominate.”

The silence stretched. Your hands were clenched.

“And if you don’t think we can do that, if you don’t think we can finish this game the way we started it, then sit the hell down and let the rest of us cook.”

Juju barked out a laugh. A real one. Low and surprised. You turned your head—and she was already nodding, eyes locked on yours.

“Say it louder,” she said, voice hoarse.

“This is our house,” you repeated, jaw tight. “And we don’t lose our first game on our own court.”

The second half?

Was legendary.

You opened with a steal and fast break, euro-stepping past their center for a clean finish off the glass. The crowd went feral. And from there, it was chaos. Electric, perfect chaos.

Juju caught fire—hit three straight jumpers from the top of the key like she was possessed. Every time you passed her the ball, she made it count. Her handles were disgusting, footwork elite, and the two of you ran that court like you’d been teammates since birth.

She’d look at you, and without saying a word, you knew what she wanted. Screen left. Backdoor cut. High-low action. It didn’t matter.

You gave it to her. And she gave it right back.

You fed off each other. Rebounded for each other. Trusted each other.

And somewhere around the 4th quarter, when you stripped the ball at half court and flung it ahead without even looking—Juju was already there. Caught it mid-air. Laid it in with a clean finger roll.

And the entire stadium exploded. Cameras were shaking. The student section was roaring. And the Stanford coach? She was pacing like she didn’t know what universe she’d landed in.

Because her girls were trying. And they were still down.

The final buzzer sounded. And for a second, you just stood there. Hands on your knees, chest heaving, jersey soaked, throat raw from calling switches. Your legs were jelly. Your arms heavy.

But you’d done it. You’d won. First game. Against Stanford. By six.

A narrow win on paper. But it meant everything.

You looked up through the chaos—confetti flying, fans jumping over rails, your teammates screaming and hugging and whooping—and caught sight of Juju across the court.

She was already looking at you. Just a nod. Just a smirk.

Like, we did that shit.

And for once—you didn’t hate her. You felt like you were staring at the other half of something unstoppable.

--

You were still trying to catch your breath when the door to the tunnel cracked open.

Your shoes squeaked as you slowed, wiping at your face with the hem of your jersey, skin flushed, hairline damp. The noise from the arena was still pulsing, echoing through the walls like a heartbeat—fans yelling, music thumping, lights strobing. You thought you’d imagined it at first. The creak. The shuffle.

Then you heard the voice.

“Well,” Penny said, her smile bright as ever. “That was one hell of a debut.”

You stopped short. Blinked. Swore your heart dropped into your shoes.

Standing just outside the tunnel, framed in the dim light like they’d stepped out of some fever dream, were Diana Taurasi and Penny Taylor—your moms. Not just legends, not just former pros, not just the ghosts of greatness past. But your ghosts. Your family.

And they were here.

You froze. “Wait—what—what the hell are you doing here?”

Penny beamed and stepped forward first, arms already outstretched. “You think we were gonna miss your first game? Please.”

You let her wrap you up, even though you were sticky and exhausted and probably smelled like a gym sock. You buried your face into her shoulder for just a second, trying not to crumple.

Because you hadn’t expected them. You’d told them not to come. Said it was just preseason, no big deal, you didn’t want the pressure, you didn’t want the noise. Diana had grunted something noncommittal on the phone earlier that week, and Penny had sounded like she was holding back tears.

You figured they were respecting your space.

You should’ve known better.

When Penny pulled back, she smoothed your jersey like she used to when you were twelve and playing AAU ball in oversized shorts. “You looked amazing, sweetheart. I mean it.”

Diana, of course, didn’t move. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, one brow cocked. Classic.

“Don’t get a big head,” she said. “Stanford played like crap.”

You scoffed. “Nice to see you too.”

She gave a slow shrug. “You had, what—twenty points?”

“Twenty-three,” you corrected.

“And how many turnovers?”

You opened your mouth and shut it again.

Penny gave Diana a light slap to the arm. “Di.”

“What? You want me to lie? She wants to play at this level, she better be ready for the feedback.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your chest wasn’t anger. It was something messier. Softer. The kind of love that sounded like criticism and felt like pride when you learned how to read between the lines.

Diana pushed off the wall and finally walked over, stopping just in front of you. She was quiet for a moment. Really looked at you. Like she was trying to decide what to say.

Then: “You ran that floor like you were born on it.”

Your throat went tight.

“…Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just reached up, smacked the back of your head lightly, and muttered, “Don’t let it go to your head, superstar.”

Then Penny leaned in, grinning like she couldn’t help it. “And that chemistry with Juju? Chef’s kiss.”

You groaned immediately, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh my god. Don’t start.”

Diana’s smirk was practically evil. “No, no, I want to hear about this. Because last week, you were crying on the phone about how that girl hated you.”

“She did hate me!”

“Did she?” Penny teased. “Because it didn’t look that way tonight. Looked more like mind reading. Or something intimate.”

“Gross,” you muttered, cheeks burning.

Diana made a fake gagging sound. “God, you’re soft.”

Penny bumped her gently. “Let her be soft. It’s a big night.”

You tried not to smile, but your face was betraying you. Your chest was still heaving. Your legs still ached. But they were here. Your moms were here. And no matter how many points you scored or games you won, that? That was the part you’d remember.

Even if they wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

Diana slung an arm over your shoulder, guiding you toward the locker room.

“You did good, kid,” she said quietly. “Real good.”

Penny followed behind, practically glowing.

“And Juju’s cute, by the way.”

You groaned again.

--

Juju couldn’t sleep that night.

It wasn’t the win. It wasn’t the noise. It wasn’t even the ESPN alerts lighting up her phone like a Christmas tree, headlines calling them the “duo to watch.”

It was you.

And the way you moved with her—like it was natural. Like it wasn’t supposed to work and yet it did, over and over again. She could still see the exact way your fingers flicked the ball ahead of you, the blind pass that somehow landed perfectly in her path. She could still feel the phantom echo of your palm slapping hers in celebration, still hear your voice cutting through the huddle like a blade.

You were the one who lit the match. She just followed the smoke.

And now?

Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

God, no. No no no. She rolled onto her stomach, muffled a groan into her pillow.

She hated this. Hated that she noticed your mouth when you talked, hated that she was aware of how your jersey clung to you when you were drenched in sweat, hated that she’d laughed in the locker room when you went off like that—because she liked it.

She liked your fire. Your chaos. Your shameless hunger to win.

She liked you, and that was a problem.

Because Juju Watkins didn’t like people like you. She didn’t trust them. You were everything she usually steered clear of—loud, confident, annoyingly talented, pretty in a way that made people go stupid. The kind of person people watched when they walked in a room.

She’d spent the last month trying to pin it on ego. Told herself she hated your vibe, your attitude, the way you always had something to say. That you were too much, too fast, too everything.

But now?

Now she got it. She understood why people liked you so much. You were magnetic.

Juju clenched her jaw, turned over again, and pulled her hoodie over her head like it could suffocate the thought away.

She didn’t want to want you. She wanted to outplay you. Wanted to win despite you. Wanted to keep pretending that you were an obstacle, not an obsession in the making.

But you kept making it harder. You kept showing up, matching her step for step. Glaring at her in practice, not flinching when she got in your face, feeding her passes so clean they made her jaw go slack.

You weren’t her enemy anymore. And maybe that was worse.

Because now she wasn’t mad because you were annoying. She was mad because she didn’t know what to do with this. With you. With the way you made her feel like maybe—just maybe—you were the one person who could match her.

Or worse… undo her.

And that? That scared the hell out of her.

--

You’ve always moved like that with her, ever since the moment you stepped on the same court as her.

It wasn’t something you talked about or even really noticed at first—not until people started bringing it up. But even in preseason, even in the mess of two-a-days and team meetings and learning a whole new system, you and Juju were in step.

You’d drift left on the break, and she’d already be launching the outlet pass. She’d cut hard baseline, and you’d know to hit the pocket before she even turned her head. You weren’t trying to prove anything to her then. It wasn’t about chemistry or connection. It was just instinct. Ease. Like your games knew each other before either of you had the chance to catch up.

But it didn’t look like much at the time—not to anyone outside those closed practices. Reporters wrote about you like a time bomb. “Two alphas, one ball.” “Fire meets fire.” “Can the Trojans survive the clash?”

You heard it all. Sometimes laughed about it under your breath in the locker room. Sometimes let it get under your skin. Not because they doubted you—but because they didn’t see it. What was already there. What had always been there.

But you didn’t care enough to make them see it. Not until Stanford.

That game changed everything.

Suddenly, the spacing was perfect. The tempo? Yours. Every screen she set gave you daylight. Every double team they threw at her, you punished. The two of you ran transition like a dance. You hit her in stride off a spin—no-look, no hesitation. She tossed you a half-court bounce pass with two defenders chasing her blindside, and it landed in your hands like magic.

The ESPN clip went viral within hours. Someone edited it to Beyoncé. “These two aren’t teammates, they’re telepathic,” the caption read.

And maybe they were right. Because from that night on, things were different.

The country stopped seeing you as separate.

You were a unit now.

They gave you names—The Ice Twins, Fire and Ice, The Coldest Backcourt. SportsCenter ran daily highlight reels with just you two. Not even the whole team—just you two. Breaking press, trapping defenders, throwing no-looks, clapping back on defense with chase-down blocks and swipes so clean they slowed the footage down just to catch it.

And the thing was… you liked it.

Not the spotlight, exactly—but what it meant.

It meant people were starting to understand what you’d already known. That it wasn’t just about talent or athleticism or who scored more. It was the way you played. How everything felt cleaner when she was on the floor with you. How your instincts sharpened. How your patience deepened. How you never had to wonder where she’d be.

By mid-November, you were undefeated.

And not just winning—dominating. Games were decided by halftime. Opposing coaches started building entire scouting reports around how to stop you and Juju. “Double the point.” “Force her left.” “Switch every screen.”

It didn’t matter.

You two adjusted mid-game like it was nothing. You’d fake the flare just to pull defenders away from her cut. She’d slip the screen early if you hesitated on your drive.

Even Coach started building the lineup around you. Centered sets on your spacing. Let you and Juju freelance out of horns. There were new drills in practice just for the two of you—two-man game, downhill reads, ghost screens. You ran them without thinking. By December, you were calling plays without needing hand signals. Just eye contact. Just feel.

It stopped being something you worked on. It just was.

And weirdly… that was the most intimate part of it all.

Because you didn’t talk about it. Not really. You didn’t sit down and say, hey, this feels good, doesn’t it? You just showed up to the gym every day, knowing she’d be there too. You let her throw you reps at 6am, rebounded for her until your arms were sore. You started noticing the way she paced during timeouts, how she clenched her jaw when she was annoyed. You started talking more, then less. Your communication narrowed into something sharper than words.

You never labeled it. The media tried. “Do you guys hang out off the court?” “What’s the secret to your connection?” “Have you ever fought over who gets the last shot?”

You’d both shrug. Maybe smile.

But the truth was, it did feel weird to play without her. Like missing a limb. If she sat for too long, you got restless. If you got in foul trouble, she tightened up. There was a kind of silence when only one of you was on the floor. Like holding your breath. Like waiting for the beat to drop.

You were both great on your own. That much had always been true.

But together? Together, you were terrifying.

Not just because of the stats or the highlight reels or the growing pile of wins—but because of how effortless it was. How second nature. Like the game made more sense when it filtered through both of you. Like you were born to balance each other.

You were calm where she were fire. You were still sharp where she was steady. But instead of canceling each other out, you just… amplified. Completed. Created something between you that couldn’t be touched.

And you knew, deep down, if you kept showing up. Kept pushing. Kept trusting—there wouldn’t be a defense in the country that could stop you.

And no one really noticed when it turned into something more than just teammates with insane chemistry. First came the little things.

Like when Coach started randomly switching up the rooming assignments during road games and you and Juju stopped complaining about getting paired together. The silence that used to feel sharp and cold turned soft. Sometimes you both just laid in your hotel beds in total quiet, headphones in, legs aching from practice, phones forgotten on the nightstand. Not talking, not fighting.

Just breathing in the same space.

Eventually, someone on the team caught you two eating lunch alone at the athlete dining hall—headphones still in, still not talking, but choosing to sit across from each other anyway. That’s when the jokes started.

“You guys married now or what?” someone teased.

Juju rolled her eyes and muttered something rude, and you laughed, cheeks warm.

But you didn’t move.

It was the late-night rides home after away games that did it.

Those long, sleepy drives back to campus with your teammates passed out across bus seats, wrapped in sweatshirts and oversized headphones. That’s when Juju would slide into the seat across from you, sometimes even next to you if the front rows were empty. She’d stretch her legs out, lean her head back, and stare out the window. Never said much.

But it didn’t feel like silence anymore.

It felt like a rhythm.

You started swapping snacks halfway through one of those rides. You handed her a pack of Sour Patch Kids without asking if she wanted some. She looked at you like you’d just handed her your entire bank account, but she took one. Just one. You didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to.

Another time, you passed her your charger when her phone was at 3%. She mumbled something that might’ve been “thanks.” You just nodded.

Sometimes, you caught her watching you. Not in a creepy way. Just... observing. Like she was trying to understand you. Like she was surprised you weren’t as soft as she’d assumed.

Because you weren’t. Not really.

Juju started noticing it before you did—the you let people push you around.

Not your teammates. Not Coach. But on the court? You’d get shoved, elbowed, yanked off screens, and you wouldn’t say a word. You’d take it, tighten your jaw, shake it off. You played clean, precise, and relentless, but you didn’t bark back.

And that did something to Juju.

She hated it.

One game, in Arizona, you took a hard shoulder to the chest that had you stumbling back. It was borderline dirty. You didn’t even complain. Just caught your breath, flexed your hands, and went to inbound the ball like nothing happened.

The next play, Juju didn’t even try to hide her retaliation.

She boxed the girl out so hard she hit the floor, and Juju stood over her just long enough to get a warning from the ref. When you gave her a look, she shrugged like, What?

After that, it became a pattern.

Every time someone got too rough with you, Juju inserted herself. Not with words—but with presence. Her body. Her physicality. Like she was drawing a line no one else could cross.

“She got a guard dog now?” you heard someone mutter from the opposing bench once.

You didn’t correct them. You kind of liked it.

And like any athlete, media days were where things changed for you.

Because while Juju became your defender on the court, you became hers off it.

It was subtle at first. A question from some outlet with too many consonants in its name about Juju’s “attitude.” You could see it in her jaw—how she tensed. Bit the inside of her cheek. How the smile slipped.

You leaned forward before she could even answer.

“Or maybe,” you said, voice even but firm, “you’re just not used to confident women who aren’t here to coddle you.”

The room went still.

Juju blinked. And then—slowly—smirked.

You weren’t the same person in those interviews anymore. You dropped the polished, picture-perfect responses and started speaking with edge. Especially when it came to her. You called out the microaggressions. Shut down the loaded questions. You didn’t let them frame her as the villain just because she didn’t smile on cue.

“She’s not rude,” you said once. “She’s focused. You should try it sometime.”

It caught on fast. Twitter clips. TikToks. Headlines that read like:

“Y/N and Juju: USC’s Unlikely Dynamic Duo” “Y/N Taurasi Defends Teammate in Viral Interview—‘Try Respecting Black Women’” “USC’s Power Pair: The Fire and Ice of College Basketball”

And every time one of those interviews dropped, Juju didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.

You’d catch the way she looked at you.

Not surprised anymore. Just... seeing you.

You didn’t know when “teammates” stopped being the right word.

It wasn’t one moment. It was a million small ones stitched together across bus rides, hotel rooms, and sideline glances. It was the way she always stood behind you in warmups, like a silent shield. The way her elbow brushed yours during timeouts and lingered. The way she passed you the ball like she was daring you to score, because she knew you would.

It was the way she didn’t like anyone else talking to you too long after games.

The way you caught yourself watching her mouth when she was chewing gum.

The way you said “we” when you talked about plays now, without even thinking.

It was slow, and steady, and impossible to ignore. You didn’t talk about it.

--

The gym smells like lemon cleaner and something deeper—old sweat sealed into the wood grain, worn-down sneakers that still left their ghosts behind. It's late. Later than it should be. The kind of hour where nothing feels real and everything feels possible.

You’re barely a month into the season. November has blurred into December, the first wave of jitters and expectations settling into something steadier, something lived-in. You’ve found your rhythm—kind of. Enough to stop overthinking your minutes, enough to know when to push and when to float. You’ve made peace with the way the locker room works, with the inside jokes you weren’t around for and the ones you’re slowly being let in on. Enough to not flinch when Coach starts yelling, and enough to know Juju Watkins won’t ever stop pretending she doesn’t care.

Which brings you here. After practice, after film, after everyone else has gone home to ice baths and late-night DoorDash orders. The gym empty but not quiet, the hum of the lights and your shared breath filling the space. You’re both stretched out across the court, practicing... something. It started with a “hey, let’s run through that action from the second half again,” and now it’s evolved—or maybe devolved—into made-up tricks and weird passes, just to see if they land.

It's not structured. It's not even smart. But it’s chemistry.

Juju’s dribbling in slow motion, clearly mocking you, her tongue peeking out in concentration like she’s trying to master some impossible move. You’re sprawled on the three-point line watching her, arms crossed, smirking like you’ve got the cheat code to her whole existence. You don’t—but it’s fun to pretend.

“Real smooth,” you say as she fumbles the ball off her foot and blames the floor. “You trying out for the Harlem Globetrotters or what?”

“Nah,” she shrugs, “I already got a team.”

“Barely,” you say, walking toward her and kicking the ball back her way. “You be acting like a teammate and a tourist at the same time.”

That gets a reaction. Not much of one, but enough. She scrunches her nose like she’s offended and amused in equal measure.

“You talk too much,” she says.

“And you don’t talk enough,” you fire back. “Maybe we balance each other out.”

She looks at you, really looks at you, for a second too long. You know that look. She’s trying to decide if she can trust you, or maybe just trying to figure out what you want. You don’t make it easy.

“Or maybe you just like hearing yourself,” she mutters.

“You’d be surprised how many people like hearing me,” you grin, toeing the ball toward her again. “It’s kind of a gift.”

Juju catches it this time, spinning it lazily on her finger like she’s not impressed.

“I’m not one of them.”

“No,” you say. “You’re the one who texts me at eleven asking to ‘run sets.’”

She rolls her eyes and turns away, heading toward the baseline again. You follow, obviously. You always do.

“You didn’t have to show up,” she says over her shoulder.

“You knew I would.”

She shrugs, but her pace slows. She’s waiting for you to catch up.

It’s not the first time you’ve stayed late. It’s not even the first time it’s been just the two of you. But this feels different somehow. Not heavier—just more alive. There’s no clipboard, no assistant coach counting reps, no music blaring from the speakers. Just you and her and the soft thud of the ball when it hits the hardwood.

She stops near the free throw line and pivots to face you, nodding like she’s got an idea. “Alright,” she says, “you set the screen, I’ll curl around, no dribbles, just a catch-and-shoot. You ready?”

You blink. “You trust me to set the screen?”

“Moment of weakness.”

You snort, but you do it. She fakes one way, cuts the other, curls tight around you like muscle memory, and you flip the ball to her—clean, just where she wants it. She nails the shot.

It’s quiet after the swish. That kind of perfect sound that only happens when the ball kisses the net just right.

You clap, mock-serious. “Wow. A shooter. Who knew.”

“Don’t gas me now,” she says, smirking.

“Too late,” you grin, backing up to the wing. “I’m your biggest fan.”

She arches a brow, amusement flickering across her face like light through stained glass. “You a fan of everybody or just me?”

“Oh,” you say, pretending to consider it. “Just you. Everybody else is kind of mid.”

Juju laughs—actual, real laughter that she tries to swallow down too quickly, like it slipped out by accident. You don’t say anything, but you store it away, the way her laugh sounds at midnight in an empty gym, echoing just enough to feel important.

You run the play again. And again. It keeps getting smoother. Tighter. There’s a moment where she catches the ball and passes it back before even looking, already knowing you’re there.

That’s what this was about, right? Chemistry.

But it’s not just that. Not really. You both know it. It's about trust. About rhythm. About building something you can’t fake or force or script.

You grab a water bottle from the edge of the court and toss her one without looking. She catches it midair and gives you a nod like that means something now.

You flop down onto the court, sprawled out like your bones are too tired to keep pretending this is just about hoops. Juju hesitates, then sits down next to you—knees bent, arms draped across them.

There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable, not weird.

“You ever stop playing?” she asks, glancing sideways at you.

“Not unless I’m sleeping,” you say. “Even then I dream in crossovers.”

She laughs again. Softer this time.

You turn your head toward her. “Why’d you really ask me to come out here?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just rolls her water bottle between her palms and shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

“You move different,” she finally says, like that explains everything. “Thought I should figure out how to keep up.”

You smile, more to yourself than anything. She’ll never say it plain. That’s not her style. But this? This is her version of reaching out.

And you’ll take it. Every time.

The drills slow down. The passes get looser. Your fingers are starting to sting, your calves burn every time you reset your feet, and your shoulders ache from overuse. You know the signs—your body’s quitting, even if your mind’s still wired.

You wipe sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand and glance at Juju, who’s pacing toward the far sideline like she’s done too but won’t admit it first. You’d almost respect her more if she called it. But you know her by now.

“I swear, if we run that same play one more time—” you start, flopping backward onto the floor dramatically.

She doesn’t even flinch. “You’re the one who said you wanted to get our reads tighter.”

“That was before I realized you play like you’re trying to beat me at a one-on-one I didn’t agree to.”

“That’s crazy,” Juju says, grabbing the basketball and sitting beside you. “Because I am.”

You breathe out a laugh, arms spread wide across the hardwood like a crime scene. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

There’s a beat of silence. The good kind again. Your chest rises and falls slowly, sweat drying cold against your skin. You stare up at the rafters, letting the weight of the day press down, just enough to keep you grounded.

“Hey,” Juju says eventually, voice quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

You don’t look at her. Just blink at the ceiling and nod.

“What’s it like… being Taurasi’s kid?”

You blink again. This time slower.

You’ve been asked that before. Plenty of times. By reporters, by teammates, by random fans with camera phones and too much time on their hands. It’s usually an icebreaker, a compliment, a setup for someone else’s expectations. You’ve got the answers rehearsed in your bones.

“It’s great,” you say automatically. “She’s my biggest role model. Taught me everything I know.”

Juju doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t even pretend to.

“Nah,” she says. “I mean really.”

You finally turn your head to look at her. She’s watching you—one knee up, arm looped around it, sweat-damp curls escaping from her bun. Calm. Still. But curious in that way she gets when she wants the truth.

You exhale slowly, jaw clenched just enough to keep the words in.

“I said what I said,” you mumble.

“And I said,” Juju echoes, “nah.”

It’s quiet again, but heavier now. Not awkward. Just… held.

You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest, arms draped loosely over them. You stare down at the floor for a long second, then glance sideways at her.

“You really wanna know?”

She nods.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then shake your head like you’re already regretting opening your mouth.

“It’s… complicated,” you start. “She’s not just my mom. She’s Diana Taurasi. Like capital letters. GOAT. One-name recognition. And I know what that means. I’ve known since I was old enough to dribble. People don’t just look at me and see a player. They see her shadow.”

Juju stays quiet. Just listens.

“And don’t get me wrong,” you say, voice a little tighter now, “she loves me. I know she does. But love and pressure aren’t the same thing. She didn’t raise me to be soft. She raised me to win. Every game. Every drill. Every damn rep. Crying wasn’t really a thing in our house. Excuses weren’t either. You either got better, or you didn’t get on the court.”

You’re talking faster now, like the truth is trying to outrun the guardrails you built around it.

“She’d have me up before school to shoot. Had me watching film with her before I even knew what the plays meant. We didn’t have bedtime stories. We had game tape. She’d pause the screen and ask me, ‘what’d she do wrong here?’ and if I didn’t know, she’d rewind it again and again until I did.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“She told me once, ‘being great isn’t a job, it’s an identity.’ And I think—” you pause, voice catching a little, “I think she wants a legacy more than a daughter sometimes.”

Juju shifts beside you. Not closer, not farther. Just… present.

“And I love her for it,” you continue, softer now. “I do. Because I know it came from a real place. She wanted me to be unstoppable. And I learned how to be. But… sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like to just be a kid. To mess up and not feel like I was disappointing the whole dynasty. To lose and not feel like it was her loss.”

You finally look at Juju again, and something in her gaze softens.

“People see the name on my jersey and think I’ve got it made,” you whisper. “But sometimes it feels like the weight of it’s the one thing keeping me from breathing.”

The silence between you now is fragile. Bare. Like if either of you moved too fast, it might crack.

And then Juju—who has made a career out of being unreadable—says quietly, “That’s real.”

You blink at her, surprised by the simplicity of it.

She shrugs, eyes on the floor. “I get it. Different version. But I get it.”

You don’t press. She doesn’t offer more. But something shifts in the air between you—like a drawbridge quietly lowering in the middle of the night.

She leans back on her palms, exhales like she’s been holding her own breath this whole time.

“You know,” she says after a while, “I think people forget you’re a person. Like, a real one.”

You snort softly. “Tell that to the twenty dudes in my DMs who keep calling me ‘Baby White Mamba.’”

“Please delete your Instagram,” Juju deadpans. “Immediately.”

You laugh for real this time, wiping your face with the edge of your shirt. “You started this. Asking all deep questions like we’re on some HBO docuseries.”

“I’m curious,” she says with a shrug. “You’re kind of an enigma.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

She rolls her eyes so hard you almost hear it. “Don’t make me regret this moment.”

But the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth says she doesn’t.

You both sit in the quiet again, this time a little closer. A little more understood.

And maybe it doesn’t fix everything—not the pressure, not the legacy, not the million expectations—but for tonight, it feels a little lighter.

For tonight, someone sees you. Not the name. Not the future GOAT. Just you.

And that’s enough.

Later that night, the gym echoes in your head long after you've left it.

Your legs are sore. Your voice is hoarse from calling out switches and cuts. You and Juju had gone until the lights dimmed, until the janitor peeked in and gave you that “wrap it up” stare that said he was too polite to kick you out but too tired to wait much longer.

You showered. Changed. Ate something half-decent out of a vending machine because the dining hall was already closed. And now, you’re curled up in your dorm bed, legs tucked under the blanket, phone pressed to your ear.

It’s not your mom on the other end of the line tonight. It’s Penny.

You love Penny. She’s the softness that balances the fire in your household. But even Penny has her scripts sometimes. You know the rhythm by heart.

“How’s the knee holding up?” “Coach say anything about your minutes?” “You stretching before bed?” “How’s chemistry with Juju?”

You answer everything like a seasoned pro—tight, even, unfazed. You’ve been media trained since you were twelve. You know how to sound fine, even when you’re not. Especially when you’re not.

But Penny’s not just anyone. She knows the quiet tells.

“You sound off, kid,” she says gently.

You don’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Just tired.”

She hums. Doesn’t press. Just lingers in that way she does when she knows you’re lying but doesn’t want to force it out of you.

You talk a little longer—light stuff. Someone on campus brought a dog to the quad. One of the assistant coaches tripped on a loose ball during practice and tried to play it off like he meant to fall. Juju made fun of his landing form for a full ten minutes.

Penny laughs at that. “She’s got a good sense of humor. Good for you.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. She’s… surprising.”

When you hang up, the room feels colder.

You toss your phone on the nightstand and sink deeper under the covers, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll offer answers it’s never had before.

And then, like a film reel slipping out of its case, the memory unspools—one you’ve tried to keep boxed up for years. One you almost forgot was still breathing inside you.

Nike Nationals. July of your sophomore year.

The gym in Chicago was packed—loud, hot, buzzing with cameras and scouts. Your AAU team had clawed its way through the bracket all weekend. Double-OT in the quarters. A last-second block in the semis. You were running on adrenaline and gummy bears, legs stiff from barely sleeping in hotel beds that smelled like bleach and bad decisions.

You were there. The final. The last two teams standing.

And you were good. So good. You’d dropped 20 in the first half alone—spin moves, step-backs, dimes off the pick-and-roll. Your mom had been in the stands, arms crossed, sunglasses on even indoors, watching you with that look.

The look that meant she was proud. But not satisfied.

That look that made you want to be better. Perfect.

The game went down to the wire. Tied at 58 with eleven seconds left. Your coach called a play for you—clear out, iso, drive the lane. And you got fouled on the take. Two shots. Win-the-game free throws.

You remember the silence. How everything else faded—the crowd, the cameras, the pulse in your ears. Just the ball, the line, your breath.

You missed the first.

Back rim, long bounce.

You knew before it hit.

The second rattled out, too.

They got the rebound. Called time. Hit a buzzer-beater three.

You lost.

You don’t remember the locker room. Just the bathroom stall you locked yourself in. The sharp, tight sobs that ripped out of you. The sound of your jersey hitting the floor when you yanked it off. The way your hands shook so badly you couldn’t even retie your sneakers.

You didn’t talk to anyone on the ride back to the hotel.

And Diana didn’t either.

She was waiting in the lobby when you walked in, arms crossed again, that same unreadable stare locked on you like a laser sight. You were hoping—maybe—she’d pull you in, tell you it was okay, that she was proud anyway, that everyone has moments like that.

She didn’t.

She didn’t say anything until the next morning. Woke you up at six sharp. Said, “Let’s go.”

You thought she meant breakfast.

She meant film.

You’re sixteen. Still emotionally raw. Sitting at the edge of a stiff hotel bed in your hoodie and compression shorts, and your mom has her laptop open, already queuing the footage from the game. Her voice is flat, clinical.

“You had her beat on that first cross. Should’ve gone left.”

Pause. Rewind.

“Your arc’s too flat. That’s why the free throws didn’t drop.”

Pause. Rewind.

“You pulled up early on this drive. You could’ve drawn contact and one’d it.”

Pause. Rewind.

It goes on like that. An hour. Then two. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t curse. But it almost feels worse. Because she’s treating it like surgery—cutting into you with precision, peeling back every failure and dissecting it in silence.

You nod through it all. Quiet. Barely blinking.

When she finishes, she shuts the laptop and says, “We work now, or we work later. Your call.”

You don’t answer. You just stare down at your feet.

All you can think about is how close you were. How small the margin. How those free throws will haunt you for the rest of your life.

That was the first time you ever wanted to quit.

You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Because that’s not who you’re allowed to be.

Back in your dorm room now, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, but it doesn’t help. The chill is inside.

You close your eyes and picture that moment again. The line. The ball. Your mom’s face afterward.

Sometimes you wonder if she remembers it like you do. If it meant as much to her as it did to you.

You’re not mad at her. Not exactly. You know she did what she thought was right. That’s how she was raised, too. The same fire. The same unforgiving standard.

But you were sixteen.

And all you wanted in that moment wasn’t a lecture, or a film session, or a fix.

You just wanted your mom.

You wanted her to sit beside you on that hotel bed, and wrap an arm around your shoulder, and say, “You’re allowed to miss.”

“You’re still mine.”

You roll onto your side, burying your face into the pillow.

You don’t cry. Not anymore.

But the ache is old and familiar.

And it doesn’t fade.

Not really.

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IM CRYINGGGFFFF IM GINNA BE SICK .

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Can't believe I was too new of a fan to realize what great shit was happening right before my eyes 😭😭

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GIMMIE DAT

…

JUJU OHHHHH MY GOSH

YESS

excited to see paige have her 'welcome to the wnba' moment...sad that diana taurasi will have no part in it

“i loved that croatian that was fireee”