I Don’t Agree With All Of What Bre Did But You Are The Absolute Worst. She Wouldn’t Have Acted Crazy

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 3/4)

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MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 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 | angst!!!!!!!!!!!!! hurt to comfort, ofc. could possibly be triggering?? lots of descriptions of performance anxiety, panic attack, blood/injury (nosebleed), self-doubt, intense internal monologue, comfort after breakdown, soft girl tenderness (tm), juju watkins being a little too good at seeing through you

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yeah so i meant to post this like… three weeks ago. but life got lifey (as u probably know if u keep up with my blog LMAO) and also this chapter emotionally wrecked me while i was trying to write it so i kept stalling. but!!! we are back and we are spiraling. thank you for your patience while i sat in google docs whispering “she’s fine she’s fine she’s totally not fine” over and over like a spell.

juju continues to be dangerously perceptive and our girl continues to unravel in high definition. i’ll see you in part 4. maybe. if i emotionally recover. (i will not). also would like to thank my beta readers! yall helped me out sm, ily<3

December in L.A. doesn’t feel like winter, not really.

It’s sixty-seven degrees and sunny outside. Palm trees still sway like it’s September, and girls walk around campus in shorts and crop tops like they haven’t checked a calendar. But inside the Galen Center, it feels like December - tight, tense, the kind of cold that doesn’t come from the weather, but from expectation.

Finals week is over. The dorms are thinning out. People are catching flights home, saying their see-you-next-years. But for you, there’s still one thing left.

Utah.

Your last game before winter break. And you have to win.

On paper, it’s just another conference game. But everyone knows it’s more than that.

Utah’s been electric this season - fast-paced, fluid, a team that knows how to move as one. They’re flashy, but they’re solid too, and fans have latched on. They’ve become the darling team of the year, the underdogs turned national darlings. ESPN’s been hyping the matchup for a week straight - undefeated USC vs. Utah’s run-and-gun machine. The comments are already spiraling. The forums too. “Can the Trojans stay perfect?” “Taurasi’s kid isn’t as clutch as her mom.” “Juju’s carrying again.”

You try not to read them. You really do. But they seep in. And lately, everything’s been seeping in.

Warmups feel off.

Your shots fall, but they don’t feel right. Too much wrist. Not enough arc. Your follow-through looks good, but it doesn’t settle you like it usually does. There’s this twitch in your legs, like you’ve had too much caffeine. Your heart’s pounding, even though you haven’t started running yet.

You glance over at Juju as you stretch. She’s bouncing on her toes, headphones in, nodding along to whatever she’s playing. She looks focused - but loose. The way she always is before big games. She thrives in this kind of spotlight. Loves it.

You used to. At least, you think you did. But lately it feels like the spotlight’s more heat than light. It blisters.

You’ve been here before. Big games. Big stakes. But this season has felt different from the start.

USC hasn’t lost once.

8–0. Ranked #3 in the country. Climbing.

The pressure started subtly - postgame interviews, features, “can they go all the way?” Then it ramped up. People you haven’t spoken to in months. Suddenly everyone wants to talk. Everyone wants a quote. Every game feels like proof. Every stat line is a headline.

And you - you’re the one with the last name that drips expectations. You’re the one they measure against a ghost who still plays like a myth.

--

THREE DAYS UNTIL UTAH

Practice had run long again. Not because Coach said it had to, but because that's just how it went when you were undefeated in December and still fighting to prove you belonged at the top. You were one of the last ones out of the gym, stretching alone in the corner with your earbuds in - though they weren’t playing anything. Sometimes silence helped quiet the noise better than music ever could.

Your phone buzzed once beside you. Then again. Then four more times in a row.

[Mom]: Landing soon [Mom]: Don’t freak [Mom]: Surprise! [Penny]: Don’t let your mom stress you out too much. We brought reinforcements [Derek]: BIG SISSSSSSS 😈😈😈 [Derek]: finally we get to see you play live!!

You froze mid-stretch.

No. No, no, no.

You blinked at the screen. The knot already forming in your stomach twisted tighter. For a second, your body didn’t move at all, like someone had hit pause.

They were here.

Diana. Penny. Derek. Gigi.

They were in Los Angeles. Three days before the Utah game. The last game before winter break. The game everyone on the team had circled and underlined. And they hadn’t warned you. Not really.

Your heart was racing, but it didn’t feel like excitement. It felt like pressure - familiar, cold, creeping pressure that settled on your shoulders and didn’t let go. Diana flying out to see a game wasn’t just about watching. It was about evaluating. Analyzing. Fixing.

You got up too fast, shoved your phone into your hoodie pocket, and left the gym without a word. This was classic Diana, showing up unannounced, like she owned the damn place. It was a tendency of hers, but you never really minded until it was like this - a high stakes game like this one.

They were waiting by the hotel when you arrived, standing on the curb as if they hadn’t just hijacked your entire mental space.

Penny was leaned against the back of the SUV with one arm lazily draped over the open trunk. Derek was bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was already in a full defensive stance. Gigi, tiny and grinning, sat cross-legged on top of a suitcase, wearing a hoodie that nearly swallowed her whole and sipping from a juice pouch like she’d never been happier.

And then there was Diana.

She stood a few feet away from the rest of them, hands in the pockets of her joggers, sunglasses pushed up on her head. She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like retirement suited her in every possible way.

“Surprise,” she said simply, her voice even. But you knew her too well not to catch the anticipation behind it. The way her eyes scanned you from head to toe, subtle but focused.

You forced a smile. “Hey,” you said, and your voice cracked on the inhale.

Before you could say anything else, Gigi launched herself off the suitcase and straight into your arms, her tiny body colliding with yours like a rocket.

“You’re here!” she squealed.

You caught her, stumbling back half a step under her weight, and laughed a little. “Barely,” you said. “I’m like 40% real and 60% exhausted.”

“You look like Derek when he stayed up all night watching anime,” she said with a serious face, squishing your cheeks.

“I did that once,” Derek muttered. “And it was Naruto. It was important.”

You set Gigi down, and Penny came over to hug you next. She wrapped her arms around you slowly, gently, like she was trying to soften everything your mother inevitably brought with her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Penny murmured. “You look... busy.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you said, stepping back with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Then Diana stepped closer. She gave you a side hug as she just studied you, unreadable expression in place.

“Good to see you,” she said, and it landed somewhere between a compliment and a challenge.

“Yeah,” you replied. “You too.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that never felt comfortable with her.

“We want to take you to dinner,” Penny cut in, trying to ease the moment. “Nothing fancy, just something casual. The kids are starving, and we figured it would be nice. No pressure.”

“Sure,” you said, even though your head was already spinning.

Dinner ended up being a loud Italian place not far from campus. It was the kind of place that served garlic knots by the basket and played old Dean Martin songs a little too loud over the speakers. Gigi insisted on sitting next to you and Derek spent most of the meal showing you clips from his last middle school tournament, pausing every few seconds to point out some assist or block.

You loved them. God, you loved them. But it was hard not to notice how different everything felt.

Penny cut Gigi’s spaghetti for her without being asked. Diana let Derek talk without interrupting, even when he got a stat wrong or rambled for too long. They were patient. Warm. Effortlessly encouraging.

When you were eight, Diana had made you run suicides in the driveway because you missed too many layups in a rec league game. When you were twelve, she’d given you film to watch during winter break and quizzed you on your footwork mid-dinner. When you were their age, she didn’t coddle. She didn’t laugh at your jokes unless they were smart. She didn’t let you cry unless it was in the locker room and even then, only once.

So yeah, watching her now - soft and domestic and kind in ways you didn’t grow up with, it did something strange to you. It made your food taste blander, your chest feel tighter. Made your head buzz with memories you’d tried to file away under “character-building.”

“You’re quiet,” Penny said softly, midway through the meal. “Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired. Practice went long.”

Diana didn’t say anything, but you could feel her watching you.

And then she said, “Heard Utah’s been hot this season. Ranked top ten in fan votes.”

The comment wasn’t loaded, not technically. But with her, it always felt like there was something underneath.

You shrugged. “We’ve been watching film. We’re ready.”

“I hope so,” she replied. “Big crowd. Big moment.”

You smiled tightly, swallowing back the urge to say, I know. You don’t have to remind me.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur - laughter from the kids, Penny’s calm presence anchoring everything, Diana occasionally offering commentary about the league or asking a pointed question about your rotations. You went through the motions. Said the right things. Made Gigi giggle. Gave Derek a few high-fives.

But all you could think about was how this was supposed to be a good thing.

And yet it felt like the walls were closing in.

You loved your family. You really did. But loving them didn’t make it easy. Not when every moment felt like a test you couldn’t afford to fail.

--

TWO DAYS UNTIL UTAH

The gym felt colder than usual that morning. It might’ve been the AC or the way the windows didn’t let in as much light during December, but something about the air felt heavier - like it was pressing against your skin instead of surrounding you. You laced up your shoes slower than usual, your fingers fumbling more than once on the second knot, but you didn’t say anything. No one did.

Everyone was in their own rhythm. Some girls were already warming up on the far court, others stretching in quiet pairs. You ran through your dynamic warm-up like muscle memory, but your thoughts were scattered, caught in a loop that you couldn’t seem to cut through. Your feet moved, your arms swung, but your brain was replaying film, comments, dinner conversations, old memories from Phoenix, like your entire life before USC had decided to come watch this one game. One game. And it had to be perfect.

The pressure wasn’t new. You’d grown up with it, worn it like a second jersey since you were a kid. But lately, it had felt different. Sharper. Not just something to rise to, but something you were afraid might crush you if you weren’t careful.

Practice started the way it always did - shooting drills, a few conditioning bursts, then walkthroughs. You were focused, or at least trying to be, and no one said anything about how quiet you were. Maybe they were used to it by now. Maybe they just assumed it was part of your process. But you could feel it bubbling under your skin, that pressure, that buzzing nervous energy that had been following you around since last night. Since you saw your little brother’s excited face and Diana’s unreadable expression.

By the time scrimmage started, your jaw was already tight from clenching it. You took the court without saying much, nodded at Juju as you settled into your spot on the wing, and locked in, or at least, tried to.

The first few minutes were clean. Crisp ball movement, smart reads, a couple of nice buckets. You even hit a pull-up three that made Coach shout “nice shot!” from the sideline, but it barely registered. Because all you could think was, That won’t matter if we lose on Saturday. That won’t matter if I mess up in front of them.

And then, halfway through the scrimmage, it happened.

One of your teammates - a freshman guard - misread a switch on defense. It wasn’t catastrophic. A miscommunication at most. The kind of mistake that happened all the time in practice and usually led to a quick reset or a calm pointer from Coach. But in that moment, something snapped.

“Are you serious?” you barked, turning around sharply. “You have to see that switch. That’s a wide-open three because you weren’t paying attention.”

The gym went quiet for a beat, just the echo of the ball bouncing once before someone caught it. The freshman blinked, clearly startled, opening her mouth to explain but you didn’t give her the chance.

“You want to win a natty or what?” Your voice rose, sharp and clipped. “Because this game, this game against Utah - this is the one. You think we’re gonna walk into March and magically pull it together if we can’t even run a clean switch on a Wednesday? This is the kind of thing that costs you a season. One mistake. One possession.”

Your chest was heaving, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The whole team was staring at you, no one saying anything. A couple girls looked down at their shoes. One of the seniors shifted uncomfortably. And in the silence, the weight of your outburst settled in like dust—too quiet, too much.

Coach finally spoke, voice even but laced with something cautious. “Alright. Take a second. Everybody reset.”

You didn’t move.

Coach looked at you. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” You reached for the ball and passed it to the nearest teammate, too forcefully.

Everyone got back into position, but the energy had shifted. Nobody was moving the same way. The pace was slower, tighter. Like everyone was suddenly aware of being watched. Like the trust had cracked and hadn’t fully sealed over yet.

Only Juju stayed near you.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stood by your side at the wing during the next possession, eyes flicking between you and the floor like she was working something out in her head. When the ball stopped again, she leaned in a little, keeping her voice low so only you could hear.

“Hey,” she said gently. “I know you’re trying to carry all of it, but you don’t have to.”

You didn’t look at her.

She tried again. “You’re not alone out here. You never were.”

You forced a smile. “I’m just locked in. That’s all.”

“You’re not locked in,” she said, still soft, still careful. “You’re spinning out.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying to laugh it off. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “You’re not sleeping. You’re barely talking to anyone. And now you’re yelling at freshmen over one blown coverage?”

“I’m not yelling.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Alright.”

You shook your head, trying to make a joke out of it. “Maybe I’m just trying to be more like Coach Taurasi. Gotta keep the legacy alive.”

But Juju didn’t laugh.

She didn’t say anything else either, just kept looking at you like she was trying to see straight through you. And that somehow - this was worse. Because it felt like she could see through you, like all the walls and deflections weren’t enough to cover up how much pressure you were under, how badly you wanted this game to go right, how terrified you were of failing in front of your family. Especially Diana.

It was too much.

“Can you just...” you started, then stopped, then looked at her with more bite than you meant to. “Can you worry about yourself, Ju? I said I’m fine.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t snap back. Didn’t look hurt.

Just nodded once, eyes steady. “Okay.”

And that quiet, calm okay cut deeper than anything else could have. Because she believed you weren’t fine - but she was still giving you space. Still showing up, even when you pushed her away.

You turned back toward the scrimmage, swallowing the lump in your throat, the sting behind your eyes.

Because the truth was, you weren’t fine.

You were unraveling. And you weren’t sure how much longer you could pretend otherwise.

--

ONE DAY UNTIL THE UTAH GAME

Something feels off.

Not in a way you can name. Not in a way you can show. Your jumper still looks clean. You’re getting to your spots. You’re locked in during film. No one would guess anything’s wrong just by looking at you.

But you know.

It’s not nerves exactly. Not excitement either. It’s something heavier. Something slower. Like a low drumbeat under your skin that doesn’t stop. Like everything is a half-second behind even though you’re trying to stay ahead of it.

USC is undefeated. That should settle you. Should make you feel strong, confident. You’re part of something real heading into the last game before winter break. The Galen Center’s gonna be packed tonight. National attention. Ranked game. Everyone’s watching.

You don’t have room to miss tonight. Not after what you told her back in August - If I choose USC, I’ll give you 110%. Every damn game.

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration. A challenge.

So no, you can’t lose. Not in front of her. Not when she’s watching like she used to - analyzing everything. Every decision. Every step. Every second you have the ball in your hands.

It’s not just a game anymore. It’s a test. And you're the one who wrote the syllabus.

You wipe your palms on your shorts, try to ignore the way your breath keeps catching in your throat like it's climbing over something just to get out. It’s not like you can talk about it. Not really.

Not to Coach. Not to the trainers. Not even to your teammates. Because everything on the outside looks fine. Better than fine. You’re averaging double figures. Your minutes are solid. Your defense has improved. You’re getting praise from analysts who used to call you overhyped.

But Penny called last night. Said Diana was watching film. Not just a game. Your game. Said she had notes.

And you knew what that meant.

She’s always done that. She rewatches your performances like they’re case studies. Breaks them down on the phone with military precision. No fluff. No sugar. Just cold, clean basketball logic.

You’ve learned to take it. Learned to breathe through it. But it still hits.

Because she doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. She asks why you missed the read on that backdoor cut. Why you pulled up into a double team. Why your closeout was slow by half a beat. She doesn’t mean it cruelly. That’s just how she loves you. She corrects.

And you love her for it. You do.

But tonight, you’re tired.

Not the kind of tired a nap will fix. The kind that settles in your bones and makes everything feel just a little too loud. The kind that makes your chest tighten when you think about her sitting there, watching with her arms crossed, judging whether or not her legacy was wasted on you.

Because nobody says it outright - but it’s always there.

She’s good. But is she Diana good?

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that question in one form or another. And tonight, you’re scared of the answer.

Juju catches your eye from across the gym. Just a look - subtle, knowing.

She sees you. And maybe that’s what makes your skin feel too tight.

Because Juju’s the type to smile through the chaos. To play free. To let the game come to her like it’s a gift. And you? You’re trying to outrun something invisible. Something that sounds like don’t mess this up. Something that feels like you have to be perfect or what was the point of choosing this?

You think about how Diana will be sitting courtside. You think about the promise you made. And you think about what happens if you come up short.

Juju tosses you a ball. “Wanna run through some sets?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t press. Doesn’t say what she’s probably thinking. But she doesn’t need to. You know she sees it. The stiffness in your shoulders. The way you’ve been chewing the inside of your cheek since this morning. The way your voice got quiet when Coach brought up the game plan for Utah’s zone press.

You’re here. You’re focused. You’re fine.

But she knows the difference between your game face and your real face. And right now, you’re wearing the wrong one.

Still, you run the sets. You make your reads. You talk through the actions. You do everything right.

But something in you is clenched. And you don’t know how to let go.

The sun’s starting to dip outside Galen by the time y’all finish running through sets again. The gym lights stay humming above, buzzing faintly like always. You can hear the faint bounce of a stray ball in the far corner, the shuffle of sneakers from some of the younger girls staying after, but mostly it’s just you and Juju now.

And she’s still watching you. Quietly. Like she’s waiting.

You wipe your face with the bottom of your shirt and grab your water bottle. It’s half-warm, the kind that’s been sitting on the sideline too long. You drink anyway.

“Hey,” Juju says eventually, walking over. Not loud. Just enough.

You glance at her, try to play it easy. “Hey.”

She studies you for a second. Her arms are crossed, one wrist lightly taped from something earlier this week. “You good?”

It’s simple, the way she says it. No edge. No accusation. Just a check-in. Not like you had a freak out yesterday.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She gives you a look that’s all eyebrow, skeptical and soft at once. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” You tack on a grin, crooked and automatic. “Why, you worried about me?”

That gets the smallest snort from her, but she doesn’t drop it. “Nah, I just know when someone’s about to play like they got cinderblocks on their shoes.”

You laugh lightly, trying to shove off the weight of that comment. “That your subtle way of saying I’ve been dragging ass?”

She steps a little closer. Not in a threatening way - Juju's never threatening. She’s just… grounded. Present. “No, it’s my way of saying I’ve been where you are. And it sucks when no one calls it out.”

You look down at your shoes. Scuffed just enough to prove you’ve been working. You press your lips together and shake your head like you're just shaking off sweat. “I’m good, Ju. I promise.”

Juju stays there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You know she’s not going anywhere. And something about that makes your skin feel too tight.

“I mean,” you add, trying again, this time with a little more bounce, “we’re undefeated. We’re at home. You’re about to drop twenty-five on Utah’s heads. My family’s here. What could I possibly be stressed about?”

“Stop,” Juju says, but it’s not harsh. It’s soft, almost like she’s telling you to breathe. “You don’t have to do that with me.”

“Do what?”

“That.” She gestures vaguely, hands loose at her sides. “The joking thing. The ‘I’m chill, everything’s fine, I got it’ act. You don’t gotta be Diana 2.0 with me.”

And there it is.

The one thing she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

You freeze for a beat, something hot flashing in your chest before you even have the words. It’s not her fault. You know that. She doesn’t mean anything by it. But your whole body tenses anyway.

“I’m not doing an act,” you say.

Juju raises both palms. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Your jaw tightens. You don't know why it lands like that. The pressure behind your ribs flares up, sharp and restless.

You pace a little, not even really realizing you are. “I just... look, it’s not that deep. I’ve had a long week. Everyone’s hyped about Utah and I get it, but like… I’m not falling apart or anything. It’s one game.”

Juju watches you closely. Calm. Collected. Still not buying a damn thing.

You sigh through your nose, trying to laugh again. “You really don’t let shit go, huh?”

“Not when I care about it.”

That line lands too hard. You feel it in your teeth.

You turn back to her. “Ju, I’m fine. Seriously.” And then, quieter: “You don’t need to worry about me.”

She tilts her head. “Too late.”

There’s this moment, just a beat of stillness, and it feels like something might break if either of you move.

You snap first.

“Just worry about yourself, Juju,” you say, voice sharp - sharper than you mean it, but you don’t stop it either. “I’m fine, alright? Just drop it.”

It echoes louder in the gym than it should.

A few heads turn from across the court, curious but not too interested. You immediately regret raising your voice, but you’re too far in now.

Juju just blinks once. Then nods. Not upset. Not hurt.

She takes it in like she expected it. Like she understands.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”

You exhale hard, like you’re trying to burn it off.

But it doesn’t leave you. It just simmers in your chest, guilt and heat tangled up like a knot. She doesn’t walk away. She just picks up her ball and starts dribbling slowly toward the sideline.

And you watch her, feeling every inch of your tension suddenly coil tighter instead of loosening.

Because the thing is - she wasn’t wrong.

You are off. You are feeling it more than you want to admit. And she was trying to help.

But the idea of letting someone help you right now? Of admitting out loud that you’re not okay, that all the weight in your chest is actually starting to mess with your game, that you’re scared of failing in front of the entire country, in front of your family?

It feels impossible.

You sit down at the end of the bench, elbows on your knees, trying to find a breath that feels deep enough. But they all feel shallow.

Juju bounces the ball behind her back. Shoots a lazy three. Swish.

She doesn’t look at you again. Not out of spite.

Just giving you the space you think you want.

And for some reason, that makes your throat burn worse than anything else.

--

The locker room smells like sweat and eucalyptus muscle rub, that familiar post-practice haze hanging thick in the air. You’re not there - you left early, a quick muttered excuse to Coach about needing to ice your knee, even though both of you knew that wasn’t the real reason. The tension had gotten too thick, your voice too thin, and something in you had started to splinter at the edges. So you left. Grabbed your bag and ducked out before anyone could stop you.

But the rest of the team stayed. Some hit the showers, others sprawled out across the benches, still in their socks and compression sleeves. The mood is lighter now, the way it always gets after the grind is over and endorphins start to do their job. Someone’s playing music low from a phone speaker. A couple girls are teasing each other about missed layups and tangled ponytails. Laughing. Loose.

Until the topic shifts.

“Yo, was she okay today?” Kennedy asks, only half-innocent, towel draped over her shoulder. “She looked like she was gonna pop a blood vessel when Coach brought up Utah’s press.”

“She did pop a blood vessel,” Bree snorts, unlacing her sneakers. “Swear I saw it happen. One second she’s normal, the next she’s barking like Coach took her scholarship or something.”

There’s laughter. Loud, harmless in tone, but sharp if you’re listening close enough.

And Juju is listening.

She’s sitting on the bench across from them, quiet, towel around her neck, earbuds looped around her collarbone but not in her ears. She hasn’t said anything yet. Not since practice ended. Not since you left.

“I mean, I get it,” Kennedy continues, like she’s just filling air. “Pressure’s getting to her or whatever. But damn. Girl’s unraveling like an cheap sweater.”

That one gets a laugh too. Juju doesn’t join in.

Instead, something flickers behind her eyes. Not anger - not yet. Just… awareness. A tension drawing up the line of her spine.

“She’s not unraveling,” she says finally, and it’s quiet, but not uncertain.

The room softens a little, like it knows that voice. Juju doesn’t raise it often, but when she does, people listen.

Bree blinks. “I mean, she kinda is.”

“She’s had a bad week,” Juju replies, evenly. “That doesn’t mean she’s falling apart.”

“Okay, but you gotta admit-”

“No,” Juju cuts in, sharper this time. “I don’t have to admit anything.”

Now there’s a shift. Bare legs go still. Water bottles pause mid-sip. Kennedy quirks a brow, not defensive yet, just surprised. Juju almost never pushes back like this.

“She didn’t yell because she’s some ticking time bomb,” Juju says, standing now, towel forgotten on the bench. “She yelled because she’s under pressure and no one’s really been checking on her for real. And yeah, it wasn’t cool. But it also wasn’t some unforgivable thing. Y’all are acting like she spit on the Trojan logo.”

There’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy.

“I’m just saying,” Bree offers, slower now, “it’s not that deep. We’re just talking.”

Juju crosses her arms. “Then maybe talk like teammates, not commentators. This isn’t some Twitter thread. That girl shows up to every practice, every lift, every film session. She works her ass off. She’s not out here slacking or starting fights or acting like she’s better than anyone.”

“She yelled at you, though,” Naya points out, voice more tentative now. “Aren’t you, like… mad?”

Juju shakes her head, jaw tight. “No. Because I know it wasn’t really about me and because I’m not gonna sit here and clown someone who’s clearly struggling just because it’s easier than asking what’s wrong.”

That one lands. Hard.

A few girls drop their gazes, suddenly busy with shoelaces or their phones.

Kennedy tries to lighten it again, maybe to save face. “Damn, Ju. Didn’t know you were out here defending her honor like that.”

Bree smirks. “Lowkey romantic.”

“Shut up,” Juju mutters, but it’s too late.

The comments spiral just a little. All in good fun, or so they claim.

“Is this, like, a thing?” someone teases.

“She yours now?”

“Gotta admit, the tension was kinda sexy-”

Juju doesn’t respond.

Because in the space between those jokes, something cold and startling is creeping up her spine. A realization. One she’s tried to ignore all week. Maybe longer.

She’s not just mad at them for the way they talked about you. She’s mad because it made her want to protect you.

And not in the team captain, ride-or-die, squad-unity kind of way.

It’s… softer than that. And messier. The kind of thing she doesn’t let herself feel, especially not about you. You, with your sharp game face and the way you never ask for help. You, who sniped at her like she was the problem. You, who left the gym with your shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring.

You, who she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about.

Not since the second you looked at her like she’d seen too much.

She swallows hard, pushing that thought deep down into her chest like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s not new and terrifying.

“Nah,” she says finally, forcing a smirk as she grabs her slides. “Y’all are stupid. I’m just not cool with teammates talking shit, that’s all.”

“Mm-hm,” Bree hums, unconvinced but willing to let it go.

Juju heads toward the showers, but the air feels heavier now, like the room shifted in a way no one wants to acknowledge.

She keeps walking, jaw tight, heart pounding against her ribs like it’s begging her to admit something. Something she’s not ready for.

She’s not in love with you. She’s not.

She just cares. She just… sees you. That’s all.

But the echo of your voice, the way it cracked when you told her to drop it, the way you couldn’t look her in the eye, it sticks. And she knows.

If she keeps caring like this, she’s going to have to deal with what that means.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she lets the water run hot over her face until the locker room clears, and she doesn't let herself think about the way she wanted to reach for you and say something she’s never said out loud.

Not yet.

--

GAME DAY

You wake up on game day before your alarm even has a chance to buzz. It's not nerves, exactly. It’s something else, something heavier. You lie there for a while, staring up at the ceiling of your dorm, sheets kicked down past your ankles, that pressure sitting on your chest like it's been waiting all night to smother you.

It’s the Utah game. Big one. Eyes-on-it kind of big.

Your phone lights up with team messages. Graphics with your faces. Hype videos. “Let’s eat today.” “Showtime.” You double-tap a few, type a half-hearted Let’s gooo, and toss the phone to the side.

No one knows how close you are to losing it.

You’ve been spiraling all week. You know it. The outburst in practice, the early exits, the way you’ve been tiptoeing around Juju like something broke and neither of you knows how to fix it. But today isn’t about that.

Today is about pretending.

You pull on your uniform like armor. Tape your wrists tighter than usual, like it'll keep the insides from leaking out. You tell yourself you’ll be the version of you that everybody expects - the one on all the posters, with the clean stat lines and the smart passes. The leader. The jokester. The one who flips the switch and makes magic happen under pressure.

The cameras are already around by the time you walk into the arena. The lighting’s too bright. The buzz in the gym is loud, even with just warmups going. Your team trickles into the locker room, talking fast, energy vibrating off the walls.

You walk in with a grin pasted on.

“You ladies ready to go viral?” you crack, winking at one of the freshmen.

They laugh. It’s easy. Too easy.

Coach says a few words, gives the scouting recap, says Utah’s going to press early, play hard, try to get in our heads. No surprise. You nod along like you’re locked in. You can feel Juju watching you from the opposite bench. You haven’t really spoken to her since practice. Not about it, anyway.

But you feel her eyes like heat on your cheek. You don’t look.

When Coach asks if anyone has anything to say, everyone turns to you. Like they always do.

You stand. Blow out a breath. Clap your hands.

“Alight, listen up.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, exaggerating your usual bravado. “They’ve been talking about this game all damn week. About how Utah’s supposed to have this ‘elite defense’ and how they’re gonna take us out at home. But they forgot one thing.”

You pause for dramatic effect, raising your brows. “We’re them.”

The girls laugh, a couple whistles. You keep going.

“Every single person in this room earned their spot. They don’t hand out these jerseys. They don’t give us cameras because we’re cute, they give us cameras cause we can hoop.”

More nods. More little hums of agreement. You’re working them now.

“So I don’t care who they got on that bench. I don’t care how loud their fans are. I don’t care if I gotta put my body on the line - if we all do this together, they’re not walking out of here with a win.”

You finish with a loud clap, a bark of “LET’S GO” that echoes off the walls.

It works. They erupt, bumping shoulders, hyping each other up. And when you sit back down, you smile like your heart isn’t pounding out of rhythm in your chest.

Juju’s still looking at you.

You give her a crooked grin and say, “Don’t worry. I got my head on straight.”

But that’s a lie.

Because the second the game tips off, you realize how off you feel.

Your legs feel heavy. Like running through sand. The timing’s just… wrong. You’re late on rotations. You’re rushing passes. You hesitate on open shots, second-guessing yourself when you usually play by instinct.

Juju gives you that look, that small, subtle “you good?” glance after a clumsy turnover in the second quarter. You nod too fast.

She doesn't believe you.

And the rhythm between you, the one that’s usually automatic, starts to crack. Passes come a second too late. Cuts are missed. On a backdoor play you’ve run together a hundred times, you pull up when she expects you to drive. The ball bounces out of bounds.

You hear the crowd murmur. The announcers probably already crafting the narrative.

You, unraveling. The second coming of Taurasi, unraveling under real pressure?

Utah plays rough. They’re built for that. Physical and fast and annoying as hell. You get bumped more than usual, slapped across the arm, tugged off balance. But you don’t complain. You play through it. Until you stop playing smart.

You go for a charge when you shouldn’t. Reach in when you’re already off-balance. You start playing angry, and that’s not your game. That’s never been your game.

Fourth quarter. Four minutes left. Tight score.

You're chasing a Utah guard on a drive - number twelve, the one who’s been talking shit all game. You try to body her up, but you’re off-angle. You go high when you should’ve gone low. Your elbow flies. There’s contact.

And then there’s the crack.

It’s not bone, not anything serious - at least, not in the way it should be. It’s the crunch of cartilage and pressure, the sudden burn in your nose, and then the warmth. That kind of warmth that only means one thing. It drips before you can process it. A fat, wet drop splashes onto your jersey, right over your number. Then another. And another.

You're bleeding.

“Ref,” someone yells. It might be Juju. It might be the Utah bench. You’re not sure because the ringing in your ears has started.

You blink. Blood trickles from your nose down your lip, catches on the corner of your mouth. You wipe it with the back of your hand, smear it across your face and onto your sleeve. You don’t even realize it until a teammate grabs you - Kiki, maybe and says something about a sub, about getting looked at, about, “You’re bleeding, you’re bleeding.”

You shake your head. You wave them off.

“I’m fine,” you say. Your voice is hoarse and too loud. “I’m fine.”

You're not.

You're dizzy. You can feel the heartbeat in your nose, like a drumbeat behind your eyes. The blood keeps coming. The official calls for a trainer. You try to brush it off, plead with the coach, but she’s already signaling to the bench. Juju’s up before you can say anything.

And then there’s chaos.

You're walking off, jaw clenched, still trying to convince yourself this isn’t a big deal - that it’s just a nosebleed, not the end of the world. But you see Juju stop mid-play, pivot toward number twelve and let her have it. You don’t hear every word, but her tone cuts through everything else - sharp, furious.

“That’s how you play? That’s who you are?” she snaps, and the ref gets between them before it escalates.

The crowd is roaring. The Utah player is yelling back. Juju is still barking. It’s loud and hot and frantic and suddenly you feel like you can’t breathe.

You slump down on the bench, and someone tosses you a towel. You press it hard against your face, not gently - rough, punishing, like maybe you can make it all go away if you press hard enough. You don’t want to cry. You won’t cry. But your vision is already blurry. Your throat is tight. You’re swallowing fast and hard, like that’ll keep everything inside.

The trainer says something, but you don't completely register it.

“You need stitches.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You’re watching Juju argue from the sidelines, watching her swing on defense and hustle for the ball and throw you these quick, panicked glances like she wants to come to you, but she won’t let herself. You want to meet her halfway. You want to be okay. But you’re not.

You’re spiraling.

The game presses on. You keep the towel pressed to your face. You nod at the coaches like you’re paying attention but you're not absorbing anything. Every time your eyes flick up to the scoreboard, your stomach drops. Two minutes. Then one. You're still on the bench. Blood on your shorts. Blood in your mouth.

The buzzer sounds.

Final score: Utah 84. You: 82.

You don't even remember the last play.

The crowd erupts for them. Cheers and celebration and Utah players rushing the court. Confetti falls. Cameras flash. You sit on the bench like a statue, still holding the blood-soaked towel to your nose, which has finally stopped bleeding but somehow still aches.

It hits you all at once.

You lost.

Because of you.

You should’ve played through it. You should’ve insisted harder. You should’ve been smarter - lower on defense, tighter with your arms, better with your body. You should’ve never let her get the drive. Never let her get in your head.

You start to tremble.

Your chest seizes. Your throat closes. Your vision blurs, not from blood this time but from the tears that you’ve been holding back for what feels like the entire game, the entire week, the entire season. Maybe your entire life. You don’t blink. If you blink, they’ll fall. If they fall, it’s over.

You stand. Your legs are wobbly, but you start walking away from the bench, away from your team, away from the noise and the lights and the confusion. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to move. If you stay, you’re going to lose it in front of everyone. And that can’t happen. Not again.

Down the tunnel.

Past the locker room.

Into the first empty hallway you can find.

You press your back to the cold cement wall and let yourself slide down it until you’re sitting, knees to your chest. You bury your face in your hands - still sticky with blood, you can smell it and that’s when it happens.

The unraveling.

It starts with the shaking. Your hands first, then your arms, then your whole body. You can’t stop it. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps. You try to take a deep one, but it catches halfway, turns into a sob. You bite your fist. You try to muffle the sound. It’s no use.

Your heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through your chest. You’re sweating but freezing. Your ears ring, and your vision dims at the edges.

This is your fault.

You let a nosebleed ruin the game.

You let your team down.

You let yourself down.

You’re the reason they lost.

You’re the reason the cameras caught Juju yelling and Diana losing her mind and the entire game spinning out like a car on black ice.

You press your head to your knees and try to disappear. You want to crawl out of your skin. You want to rewind time. You want to vanish. You want to scream. All of it. Everything. All at once.

It’s not just about this game.

It’s about every game. Every practice. Every comment.

Every moment this week where you haven’t felt good enough. Haven’t felt like you. You’ve been pretending - acting like you're fine, like you're focused, like you belong. But the cracks are showing now. You're not holding it together anymore.

What if this was a mistake? What if everyone was right - you are just Diana 2.0, that’s all you are. That's all you’ll ever be. You should’ve just listened to Diana, went to UConn. Did you really think you’d ever be something outside of the Taurasi name?

You're spiraling.

You try to count your breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It doesn’t help.

The floor feels like it’s spinning underneath you. The hallway is too quiet. You can hear the echo of your breath and the shaking in your limbs and the sob that rips out of your throat when you finally give up trying to hold it in.

You feel pathetic.

You feel like a failure.

You feel like if you sit here long enough, maybe no one will find you. Maybe they’ll forget you. Maybe that’s easier than facing what just happened.

But then, faintly, you hear footsteps.

Voices.

Someone’s calling your name.

You flinch.

You pull your hoodie over your head, press your back harder against the wall, as if it’ll swallow you whole. You’re not ready to be seen. You’re not ready for Juju or Diana or the coaches or anyone. You’re not ready for the sympathy or the disappointment or the “you did your best” lies.

You just want to be alone.

So you stay still.

You close your eyes.

You let the world keep spinning without you, heart still thudding in your ears, chest still caving in on itself, and for the first time in a long time - you let yourself fall apart completely, completely unravel.

The second Juju turns that corner and sees you - crumpled on the floor, hoodie over your head, body shaking like a leaf in the wind - something inside her breaks. This wasn’t the girl she knew back in October, in the beginning of the season.

She doesn’t think. She moves.

She drops to her knees beside you like gravity pulled her there, like the weight of how much she cares knocked her flat. And she doesn’t even hesitate - doesn’t ask, doesn’t pause, just reaches for you, arms open and steady.

“Hey,” she whispers, soft and warm and everything you need. “Hey, I got you. I got you, okay?”

At first, you flinch. Like you think you’re not allowed to be touched right now. Like you think you're not deserving of comfort. But Juju doesn’t pull back. She stays there, solid as ever even when you shake your head, even when you try to apologize through the tears that won’t stop.

“No,” she says, her voice firmer this time. “No, it’s not your fault.”

She says it again.

And again.

Until she feels your fists uncurl just a little.

Until your head drops against her shoulder.

Until your breath starts to hitch instead of sob.

“You didn’t lose that game,” she tells you, pressing her cheek to the side of your head. “A nosebleed didn’t lose that game. We win as a team, we lose as a team. That’s the deal. You don’t carry this alone.”

Your hands are clutching the front of her jersey like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world.

Juju tightens her arms around you. Keeps you there. Keeps talking, soft and steady, because she knows if she stops, you'll spiral again.

“Your mom doesn’t hate you,” she murmurs. “Diana is probably tearing the refs a new one right now, not thinking for a second that this was on you. She’s your mom. She loves you. She just... she gets intense. You know that. But you didn’t let her down. You didn’t let anyone down.”

You’re shaking again. She holds you closer.

“And USC doesn’t hate you,” she says, more fiercely now. “They love you. We love you. No one’s looking at you thinking, ‘wow, she blew it.’ We’re thinking you gave everything until your face bled and you still wanted to play. You never quit. That’s what we see. That’s what I see.”

Your breath stutters. Slows. Not normal yet, not easy but enough that Juju can feel your weight starting to shift, starting to relax into her.

And God - Juju doesn’t even realize how tightly her chest has been wound until this moment. Until you melt against her like you're finally letting go. Like all month you’ve been carrying this pressure, this legacy, this image you think you have to live up to, and now - finally, it slips a little. You let her take some of it. You let yourself be held.

And Juju’s heart? It soars.

She strokes your back, slow and rhythmic, grounding you with each pass of her hand.

Because you’re not just Diana Taurasi’s daughter, and you’re not just some phenom dropped into the starting lineup with too many expectations stitched into the seams of your jersey.

You’re you.

The girl who wears her headphones too loud and eats all the hot fries before anyone else can get to them. The one who texts Juju memes at 2 a.m. even when they’re rooming two doors down. The one who overanalyzes film and underestimates herself, despite the overconfident exterior she tries to uphold.

You’re not trying to take Juju’s spot.

You’re just trying to survive it all.

And for the first time - she sees it.

Not the image. Not the pressure. Not the competition.

You.

You, with your bleeding nose and your bloodshot eyes and your whole heart on your sleeve.

You, who are still so soft under all that armor.

You, who let yourself fall apart in front of her and maybe that’s the most honest thing you’ve done all month.

Juju holds you like she means it. Because she does.

She presses her forehead gently to yours and lets the silence stretch, warm and safe.

You’re not saying anything now. You’re too tired to think, too wrung out to speak. But you’re still here. You haven’t pulled away.

You’re not some perfect little legacy player sent to outshine her. And Juju - well, she wants to protect you.

Not because you’re weak. But because you're finally letting someone in. And because she knows what it’s like to try and be everything for everyone and still feel like it's never enough.

So she stays.

She holds you like the world isn’t spinning, like this hallway is the only place that matters.

And even when your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling and your death grip on her jersey loosens, she still doesn’t let go.

Because for the first time all month, you’re letting her carry some of it.

And Juju’s not going to drop you.

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

Moaned ngl, I love a good shot

beautiful

Dare I say 5'8 +up and I might be sold (PLS)

100 5’6+ lesbians vs. 1 me let’s go

and stalking much? you are the main reason she killed herself along with all the other bitches

Stalking... Someone told me after I posted the first anon that Bre was alive. Stop talking to me common whore🤺

….mating press w a werewolf while he mumbles “get pregnant” over and over🥲🥲🥲🥲

anon you can't say these things to meeeeeeeeee



fucking- alright. Imagine being a cute little human with no fucking clue about the volatile breeding kink your werewolf boyfriend has. anything domestic you do has him hard as a rock. you're just trying to do dishes and all he can think about is making you his cute little house spouse, full of his puppies.

He's obsessed with wolf-courting rituals. his home is always cozy but maybe just a bit too big for two people, hint hint. he spoils you with expensive gifts and tons and tons of food. As much as he loves seeing you do domestic things he also loves showing off how good he can be around the house. He would be such a good husband! He would be such a good father! So hurry up and ditch the birth control already-

God help you if you mention anything about wanting to get married or have kids he will take that as an open invitation to knock you up. he can smell when you're ovulating and he basically doesn't let you leave the bed, he's so busy pounding you full of his cum. he calls you his "bitch in heat" while he does it too.

Really though I like to imagine his breeding kink really only comes out in the middle of sex. you think you're just having a romantic night but then he's got your ankles over his shoulders and he's moaning about how he's going to knock you up.

" 'm gonna cum in this sweet pussy and make you a mommy. you'll take it, right? Be a good bitch and take it all for me-"

and of course, as he fucks himself deeper into you he can't help but moan "get pregnant" over and over again. you can't really tell if he's talking to himself or commanding you to get pregnant already, and with the way he's bullying his thick cock into you, you don't have the mental energy to do anything but moan- let alone ask for clarification.

He knots you. Of course. As if it's even a question. He loves watching your stomach bloat with his cum and there's just so much of it, some of it can't help but slip out around the base of his knot. all the more reason to fuck it back into you.

If for whatever reason he couldn't knot you, he'd make you wear a plug, to keep his seed inside of you when you go to work or are out of the house. he likes that it makes you smell like him. he likes knowing that you're full of him even when you two are apart.

no you stupid fucking bitch followed my rp accounts from Izzy’s account your trademade is literally following the account then sending mean anons. @/amyreinhart, @/dannydavenport. iszy isnt stupid enough to follow an account just to block it bc you don’t need to follow an account to block it.

Again you're being fucking stupid, I never followed your weird alt accounts. It wasn't hard to find some of them because you used a few to send asks to ME. I haven't sent any anons to those accounts. Unlike y'all I don't hide under anons. Be big and bold or stfu🤷🏾‍♀️

I'm turning off anons, anybody can tell who you two are but it sucks not to see y'alls...wait just bres username🤭

cum in her in 3.14 seconds, call that a cream π 

she's gonna be a hometown hero everywhere

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