Sing Off-key While Ur At It . 😒

Sing off-key while ur at it . 😒

LONG WAY DOWN

pairing: azzi fudd x fem!reader

content: angst w comfort, holly rowe, parent death, cancer, grief, language

wc: 4.9k

synopsis: You weren’t supposed to get drafted without your mother at your table. Life, however, had other plans, and you were just barely hanging on. You thought you’d be able to make it through the night but it was clear that a certain reporter had other plans, too. Luckily for you, your girlfriend was always willing to catch you before you crumbled.

notes: based on this request! thank you anon - hoping i did this justice for you 🫶 this is definitely one of my heavier fics so please read the content tags and be mindful. also, title from the one direction song. wasnt gonna drink tn but i miss them like a mf. let me know how y'all feel ab this and have a great weekend 🫶

Much like any teenager dreaming of greatness, you’d always had the perfect vision of your future.

“UConn will recruit me,” you told your mother at thirteen, dribbling the ball between your legs as you weaved around imaginary defenders.

“Keep the ball on a string,” she coached in response, her eyes appraising, gaze sharp in a way befitting of a former athlete. “Don’t overextend.”

You adjusted silently, breathing heavily before stepping back and launching a fadeaway jumper that sinks in seamlessly. “I’ll win a natty my senior year,” you manifested, talking mostly to yourself, but you knew she was listening as she passed the ball back to you. “Go top five in the draft.”

“You think I can get my future pro baller to clean her room?” she joked, and you gave her a knowing smile as you repeated the same drill again.

You worked for it everyday — starting with early conditioning, thorough recovery, taking care of your body and your mind. Your mother, your personal coach and former Seattle Storm forward, gave everything to help you realize your dreams and your abilities.

You started on varsity before you were even in high school. You had more gold medals than you had turnovers. You let yourself start dreaming about your draft table the day Coach Auriemma visited to watch you play, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on his face, but you knew he had a roster spot with your name on it. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a well earned confidence, surety.

Your table would be you. Obviously. Someone on the coaching staff — maybe CD, because at the rate Geno was recruiting the phenom in Minnesota, you figured he’d end up shackled to her table. Your mom — no question about it. She was your best coach, your biggest supporter, your rock. There wouldn’t be a you without a her in so many different ways. The last two people at your table were always a little ambiguous. You hoped that maybe there would be space in your life for someone you loved. Your girlfriend, maybe. The last person was even less clear — maybe a friend, your aunt, or maybe someone else from the coaching staff, but you had time to figure it out.

You’re recruited by UConn, ranked second in your class only behind Paige Bueckers, the phenom from Minnesota. Your first year together is rough with all the COVID restrictions. Then, your life changes in your sophomore year when Azzi Fudd commits.

She was Paige’s best friend, having met back in high school and Paige moved mountains to recruit her. You think you fell in love the first time you saw her jumper. You knew you were in love when she smiled at you in practice after stealing the ball and taking it cross court for a layup.

You’re dating by November of Azzi’s freshman year, just in time for the season to begin. The two of you have an undeniable chemistry on the court but there’s an inexplicable connection between the two of you off of it. You just get each other. You’re together through it all — the injuries, the midnight practices in the gym, the fifth year you take because you’re not leaving UConn without a national championship, not until you and Azzi hoist the trophy together.

Then, in late January of 2025 as you’re gearing up for the Tennessee game only days away, you get the news. Your mother had been diagnosed with a pretty severe brain cancer — glioblastoma. You’re not sure how it went unnoticed for so long, but the doctors said she’d be lucky if she could make it to May.

Your world spins on its axis. How could it not? Your mother was only in her mid 50s. She’d done everything right. She was an athlete, she took care of her body, her mind, everything. She was a good person. She hosted annual camps for high school athletes back home in Seattle, coaching them the same way she’d coached you. She donated, volunteered, always gave back – so why was she the one with the diagnosis, the one you would lose? Why her, why now, why at all?

It took a lot of effort to keep you afloat — but Azzi tried. Most of the time, it felt like she was the only one who truly understood you. There wasn’t much you could say about it and she never pressured you. She just stayed, and that was more than you could ask for. Azzi rubbed your back when you cried, held your hair back when the grief made you sick. Your mom wasn’t gone but it felt like she was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand through an hourglass.

You’re pretty much a non-factor in the Tennessee game, contributing more to the loss than Tennessee contributed to their win. You spend more than half of the game dissociating on the bench, thinking you should be in Seattle right now, keeping her company at her bedside. After she retired and got pregnant with you – your father no more than a donor – you were all that she had. She shouldn’t be alone during this, but she was adamant that you stay and finish out the season. This season was everything you’d spent five years working for but it quickly became the least of your worries. Your mother was dying; who cared about a trophy?

She did.

The night of the Tennessee loss, you’re on the phone together. You’re curled up in Azzi’s comforter, her dorm a constant ever since you’d heard the news. She stepped out to pick up some late night snacks, mostly to give you and your mom some privacy but also to cheer you up. Azzi was the only one who truly knew how hard you were taking all of it, the only one who got to see you fall apart.

“You’re not allowed to let this destroy you,” your mother rasps, her voice firm in her Coach Voice that you grew up teasing her about. Now, it just makes you emotional instead of amused – she won’t be around to remind you about your follow-through, about leading with your shoulder. You’ll have to remind yourself of that. Some other coach that’s not her will have to remind you about that. You try not to choke up. You know you need to hear what she’s saying.

“You’ve spent five years fighting for this,” she continues. “Nineteen years living this. Whatever happens in May, you are not allowed to let this be the end for you. Do you hear me?”

Throat tight, you nod, knowing she can’t see you. “I do,” you promise.

She says your name, her voice strong where her body can’t be, and you swallow thickly as you prepare to listen. “Whether or not I’m here, I’ll always be with you. You have the very best parts of me, you know that? My smile, my passion, my jumpshot–” That draws a watery laugh out of you. You can almost visualize the smile on your mom’s face. “And no matter what, we’ll always have basketball. You’ll have me. I’ll take care of you. That’s what moms do.”

“I don’t know if I can do this without you,” you whisper.

“You already are,” she says softly. “And you’re doing an amazing job.”

“I don’t want to do this without you,” you amend.

“Then don’t. Get your head on right. Win the championship – for yourself, for your team, for Azzi, for me. Go to the draft. Wherever you go, I’ll be there. I promise you that. But I can’t be there if you let this break you.”

“I won’t let it.” You take a deep breath, glancing at Azzi’s bedroom door when it opens. Azzi walks in silently with her arms full of snacks. You smile when she crawls in next to you, offering a piece of chocolate, and you take it gratefully. “You wanna talk to Azzi?” you ask, but you already know your mother’s answer as you pass the phone over.

“Hey, girl!” Azzi says in a valley-girl accent, making you roll your eyes with another wobbly laugh. You can hear your mom’s laugh too – the exact same one as yours. You can barely make out her voice on the other end, but you don’t need to, knowing that Azzi needs this conversation just as much as you do. Your mother had welcomed Azzi to the family long before you started dating. She claimed that she knew you loved Azzi the moment you called her after a practice to rant about how pure her form is because there’s just no heterosexual or platonic explanation for that. “You know I got her,” Azzi promises, making you perk up a little. Almost absentmindedly, Azzi’s free hand rubs your knee soothingly. She is quiet for a few beats, nodding her head as she listens, her face softening. “I know. I will. I swear. I love you, too.”

After a quick goodbye, Azzi passes the phone back to you, where you and your mom chat for a little while longer. You ask about what she’s doing to keep busy, if she’s resting enough, if she’s drinking enough water. She humors you, the smile evident in her tone as she asks about your day, too, if you’re taking good care of her daughter-in-law, which makes you laugh because if there’s one thing that you try to get right always, it’s Azzi.

When the call ends so your mom can get to bed, Azzi holds you as you silently process. She doesn’t push you to talk. She knows that you don’t have the words for it right now. But she’s there, grounding, and that’s all you need. Eventually, the words come to you – terrified confessions because you’ve lived your entire life with your mom being one call away; how were you supposed to navigate that? Bursts of grief, because everything is so overwhelming right now. An on-brand spark of determination because you promised your mom that you would hold it together, that you’d win the championship, that you’d get drafted. You would do it. For her.

And you do. After the Tennessee game, it’s like a flip has been switched for you. You’re averaging over twenty points a game. You and Azzi combine for 54 points against South Carolina, which sets the tone for the rest of the regular season and the postseason. In the NCAA tournament, the Huskies are unstoppable, with everyone having at least one particularly explosive game, but you? Every game is explosive. You have something to lose if you don’t win, something a lot more important than a trophy.

Your mom is one row behind the Husky bench in Tampa for the national championship game against South Carolina. She’s wearing your jersey, one that used to fit but now swamps her body like it’s several sizes too big. Each and every one of her cheers motivates you, energizing your step-back threes or a harsh block. You know that she has until May, but if this is the last time she gets to see you play…then you’re content with it being a blowout in the national championship.

When you cut down the net, you cut an extra piece for her.

On Wednesday, three days after the national championship, she’s buried with that piece of nylon tied around her necklace, one you’d bought for her with your first NIL endorsement.

Grief is weird. You’d made it through her funeral in solemn silence, not crying during your speech as you shared some anecdotes during her life. You could only stare as her casket was lowered, your hand holding Azzi’s tight enough that you were sure it hurt her, but she let you. You smiled faintly at family members, thanking people for their condolences, agreeing that Yeah, cancer fucking sucks. You don’t cry when you spend the night in your childhood home, going through photo albums with Azzi (ones that she’s been through numerous times, although your mom was usually right there next to her, pointing out your embarrassing baby photos. Now, you’re the one showing her the photos that used to make you cringe, thinking about how cruel fate is).

You don’t cry when Azzi wraps her arms around you that night, reminding you that you’re not alone. You know you aren’t, but you can’t help but feel like you are.

You do cry when you wake up that morning. Determined to feel normal again, you make your way to the kitchen to make Azzi coffee and breakfast in bed. A thank you for everything she’s done for you since your mom’s diagnosis. You cry when you spot your mom’s coffee mug left out on the counter, remnants of cold coffee left at the bottom. The coffee pot is still full, untouched since Sunday morning. There’s a half-done crossword puzzle at her spot at the table, left open like she thought she’d have the time to come back to finish it. Everything in the kitchen reminds you of how fucking cruel life is – countless photos of the two of you pressed onto the refrigerator with magnets, leftovers packed neatly into tupperware, the calendar tacked onto the wall with April 6th circled multiple times with a smiley face.

You can’t help it. You sob, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes like it would make everything stop, but it doesn’t. That’s the issue, isn’t it? Time doesn’t stop. Not for you, not for you mom, not for anyone. It keeps on moving. Your mom is gone and everything in this house reminds you of when she wasn’t and how she had plans and so much more of her life left to live. She was supposed to be in New York for your draft night. She was supposed to be courtside for your first game in the WNBA, yelling about bad foul calls in your honor and cheering for your first professional point.

It’s not her fault but you can’t help but feel like you’ve been abandoned. Somebody – something took her from you and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to come back from that. Your heart pounds, perhaps too fast for how little air you’re sucking in, and you bury your head in your hands to try to calm yourself.

Then you feel Azzi behind you. Her body is warm, strong, her arms loving as she presses herself into you, offering quiet support. You choke, turning around, burying yourself in her embrace as you crumble. She murmurs nonsense to support you, tears of her own soaking your shirt, but you just hold onto each other in the kitchen.

Above all else, you remember the promise you made to your mother. You weren’t gonna let this destroy you. So you grieve, but you’re in New York for the draft, at the top of the Empire State Building, sticking close to Paige because she’s your best friend and she’s the closest thing you have to family right now.

On Monday, you sit politely in Azzi’s suite as your stylists and hair and make-up teams bustle about, brushing product onto your face, swiping mascara through your lashes. For the most part, it’s a blur, but the knowledge that Azzi is right next to you keeps you steady. You don’t complain when Brittany helps you into your draft outfit – a simple white suit perfectly tailored to your frame, although you omit the jacket to expose your arms.

When you first catch sight of Azzi, it’s as though the very breath is stolen from your lungs. You stare at her, your eyes impossibly tender as you take in the floor-length black dress she’s wearing, the depth of her gaze heightened by her dark makeup. You swallow bashfully, feeling as though you’re a high schooler staring at their prom date for the first time.

“You’re stunning,” you murmur, your hands reaching out to hold her. There’s a soft reverence in your features as you breathe her in.

She smiles at you. “Good arm candy, huh?” she jokes, which makes you shake your head as you laugh. You wrap your arms around her fully and rest your head in the crook of her neck, sighing and trying to regulate your emotions. The pressure of her arms around you makes you feel a little more stable. “I’m so proud of you.” Her words make you soften, tightening your grip. “And I love you. Wherever you get drafted tonight isn’t gonna change that.”

“I love you, too,” you promise.

And, for the most part, your night isn’t terrible. You pose for photos on the orange carpet, feeling yourself loosen up as you get lost in the camera flashes. When you’re pulled into your first interview, the reporter covers her mic and politely offers her condolences, which you appreciate. The interview itself is focused purely on basketball, where you’re hoping to land in the draft, what you can bring to the team that drafts you. You could answer those questions in your sleep.

Hannah and Rickea are amicable, too, asking who you’re wearing. Their energy makes you smile, relaxing a little more, and Rickea’s departing hug is a little tighter, more meaningful. You take more photos with your team, rolling your eyes when Paige rests her arm over your shoulder as if you two aren’t the same height, trying to not look too in love with Azzi when you break apart for solo shots.

Then, you and Azzi make your way into the main room, where the draft tables are separated by rope. It almost makes your heart stop beating, but Azzi takes your hand in hers, giving you a gentle squeeze and a concerned look. You just nod at her, taking a deep breath, and you make your way to your table where CD and Jamelle are waiting for you. You hug the both of them, melting a little more into CD’s arms and trying to not cry.

During your time at UConn, you relied a lot on CD – probably more than you were expecting to. Now, that relationship you have with her is just what you need right now. She doesn’t release you until you’re ready.

You thought a lot about your draft table. It would be the biggest moment of your life and you wanted the people you loved around you. There was you. Obviously. There was CD, your coach, because of course that phenom from Minnesota was hogging Geno (you didn’t mind – even if Geno was available, you probably would have chosen CD, anyway). There was Jamelle, who you learned so much from, who you went to for advice when you were hopelessly crushing on Azzi because you knew Geno would just make fun of you and CD would give you a really long lecture. There was Azzi, your girlfriend, the person who you made space for in your life because you loved them.

Then, there’s your mom, who occupies the empty chair, who’s here if not physically. She’s with you because you are her – you’re an amalgamation of all of the good parts of her and the pieces of you that you curated. You have her smile, her passion, the jumpshot that got her drafted, her wisdom and all of her heart.

You sit through the opening remarks. You clap for Paige when the Wings call her name first – she comes over to your table and hugs you, Azzi, CD, and Jamelle, winking at you conspiratorially as she walks up the stage. She poses for photos, does a quick interview with Holly Rowe, then leaves for media.

With the second pick, the Seattle Storm are on the clock, and you cast a glance at the empty chair next to you, trying to not get too emotional. Azzi reaches over, tangles your fingers together, and smiles at you gently.

Cathy returns to the podium to announce Seattle’s pick. You’re lost in thought and hardly hear the name called until Azzi squeezes your hand, saying, “It’s you!” and you glance up in confusion to see the entire room staring at you, their cheers loud. CD and Jamelle are already standing but all you can focus on is the fact that you just got drafted by the Storm, the same team that drafted your mother so many years ago, the same team you grew up idolizing. With your heart in your throat, you stand, wrapping your arms tightly around Azzi, holding back tears when she tells you she loves you and hugging CD and Jamelle just as tightly. Then, you make your way to Paige’s table, hugging Geno, and you walk up the stairs with a wobbly smile.

What you’re not prepared for is the jersey that Cathy unfolds for you to see. It’s not the standard draft jersey. It’s number thirteen – your mom’s number – and her – your – last name is printed on the back. You can’t stop the tears this time, trying your best to shake Cathy’s hand and keeping your head high so you don’t stain her outfit with your mascara. You wipe your eyes, stepping down for the interview with Holly Rowe, who has to wait until the crowd calms down to ask her first question.

“Lots of emotions here on draft night,” she begins. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling right now?”

“Blessed. Grateful. The works,” you joke through your tears, smiling when the crowd eats it up. “At risk of sounding like a broken record, I’m just happy to be here, that the Storm is taking a chance on me. They’re my hometown team and I’m honored to have been selected by them.”

You’re not prepared for her second question. “More than being your hometown team, your mother played for them for almost a decade before retirement. How are you feeling after your mother passed from cancer? Do you feel like you have pretty big shoes to fill?”

It’s almost as though the room goes pin-drop silent. You freeze, the camera guy looks as though he wants to be anywhere else, and Holly just stares at you with that same imploring, vulture-like reporter’s stare, like she hadn’t said anything wrong.

Part of you wants to be sad – this feels like humiliation on live television, your mother’s memory dishonored for clicks. Sad because every other journalist at this event had the courtesy to be respectful about your loss, but not this one.

You’re almost surprised by the anger, because where does she get off on asking such a question? Big shoes to fill? You haven’t even mourned her fully yet. You haven’t grieved enough to process a loss as big as this one. Your mother passed away a week ago, you’re barely hanging on, and you have to answer these stupid fucking questions when you could be working through all of the pain you’ve pushed to the side just so you can be here because it was what your mother wanted. Your hands tremble as you seethe, trying to hold onto the five years of UConn media training, but you’re too upset to think that actions have consequences as you answer.

“I feel like it’s a miracle you’re still employed,” you say, your gaze hard. “I don’t owe you my fucking grief.”

You don’t wait for a response as you leave her behind, already knowing this clip is going to be circulating on social media within a few hours. You feel sick as you think about what your face must have looked like, the lapse in control or the expression of pure horror. The tears pool in your eyes as your throat burns. You’d made it through the entire day without any incident and now is when you fall apart.

You find the bathroom, pushing the door open, relieved that it’s empty as you press your hands to your eyes again, uncaring of the fact you’re smudging your mascara. The first hiccuping sob leaves you in a heave as you turn on the water faucet, hands shaking as you desperately try to wipe the makeup off of your hands and your face. The second one echoes embarrassingly, which just makes you more emotional – you’re losing your mind in the bathroom at the WNBA Draft and you feel weak, unmoored, and in need of a hug from your mother but obviously, that’s a little unattainable right now.

It’s then that it hits you fully – your mother is gone. You’d kept the grief and the emotions close to your chest or with your close circle, but the fact that Holly has brought it up, that people outside of you know that your mother has passed, makes it more real. You don’t know what you’re doing – what you’re supposed to do, and it feels too late to try to figure it out. You’d never realized how high you’d built yourself up, blissfully ignorant of the fact that your mother would one day die, and now you’re starting to truly understand that it’s truly a long way down.

You’re still crying when the door opens cautiously, although you look up, already wiping your eyes. When you see it’s Azzi who has found you, you give up on trying to be strong, instead falling into her arms with equal parts relief, anguish, and anger. She holds onto you tightly as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear completely.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, smoothing down your hair as your shoulders shake. “I’m so sorry. She shouldn’t have said that.”

You shake your head, not quite having the words as you breathe Azzi in, the scent of her perfume, the shampoo she’d used the night before, the pieces of her that have blended in with the scent of you. It’s difficult to describe – the fact that Azzi is the only thing that truly feels like home right now. She’s your only source of peace, the only one who makes it feel like you’re not drowning in your grief all the time. You’re the same for her, too – you’ve both lost something.

After a few moments, the tremors in your body subside and your breathing evens out. Azzi doesn’t let you go, instead whispering, “You remember Tennessee?” You think for a moment, nodding, recalling the night in Azzi’s dorm room after you got off the plane and talked to your mom on the phone. “As long as you have basketball, you’ll have her. Don’t let Holly Rowe take that away from you. You worked so hard to get here. You did it, okay? This is everything your mom’s ever wanted for you. This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“I just wanted her to be here,” you confess, your voice cracking, but you don’t have anything left in you to cry.

“She is,” Azzi says. “She wouldn’t miss it. She’s proud of you, you know that?” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and Azzi cups the back of your neck, her nails brushing against your skin in the way she always soothes you. “And I am too. You’re going to Seattle. You’re gonna wear her jersey number – and you’re not filling her shoes. She wouldn’t want you to do that. You’re remembering her and forging your own path.”

When you don’t respond, Azzi pulls back from you, her face drawn up in worry as her hands cup your cheeks. “You okay?”

You nod again, the movement a little shaky, and you can’t help but smile when she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I will be,” you say. “Are you okay?”

She offers a sly sort of smirk. “I’m not the one who almost sucker punched Holly Rowe on national television. But I am thinking really hard about it.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “For real,” you whisper. “You always say I’m not alone, but…you’re not either, Az.”

“I know,” she says quietly, the affection in her eyes shining. “And I promise I’m okay. It’s… really hard but we’re taking it day by day. Together.”

“Together,” you echo.

Azzi nods, a tender smile appearing on her face as she presses her forehead to yours. “You wanna go back to the hotel?” she asks. “DoorDash a bunch of unhealthy food and watch trashy reality TV?”

You grin, kissing her gently, unfiltered adoration and appreciation seeping through the small gesture. “Later,” you say, sure of it. “I just needed a moment. I’ll power through media and then be back in time to see Kaitlyn and Aubrey get drafted. Mom would come back to beat me up if I left my teammates hanging.”

“Whatever you want,” Azzi murmurs, pulling you into her embrace again. “Just let me know how you’re feeling.”

“I will,” you say, squeezing her around the waist. “Thanks for checking on me.”

Her hold on you tightens, like she can’t imagine a world where she wouldn’t. “I always will,” she promises. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you whisper, smiling against her skin. It feels like such a small way of verbalizing how much love you truly have for Azzi, who’d pulled you up when you thought you were sinking. You wouldn’t be here without her and that’s not something that will change, no matter how often she tries to argue against it. She has the uncanny ability to make life more manageable, and you know she understands you just the same – that the love you hold is something that transcends description. She always would.

Sing Off-key While Ur At It . 😒

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