You started coming to games as part of the friend group. Nobody told you she was that intense. First time you saw her play, she got benched for yelling at a ref and came out of the game still hyped, slinging her towel over her shoulder and talking about her “goddamn court” like it was war.
But she stopped talking when you looked at her.
Didn’t say a word. Just looked you up and down and licked her bottom lip like she was starving.
Ever since, she’s been louder, dirtier, and cockier just to see how red your face gets in public.
⸻
She’s already in a mood.
Yelling at her teammates during warm-ups, slapping hands, bouncing the ball hard enough to echo. She’s in her black alternate jersey tonight—tight around the shoulders, loose at the hem. When she jogs across the court, her chain bounces against her collarbone.
You show up late on purpose.
Short skirt. Glossed lips. Water bottle in hand.
She stops mid-pass and stares.
Doesn’t even try to hide it. Just tracks you the whole way up the bleachers like it’s instinct.
And the second you sit?
She’s mouthing off again. But not to her teammates.
“You’re late,” she mouths.
You raise your brows, smirking.
She stretches her arms up behind her head—biceps flexed—and mouths, “Make it up to me later.”
The whistle blows.
She turns.
And then the game starts, and it’s chaos.
⸻
She’s got fouls in the first ten minutes.
Shoves a girl too hard on a rebound and just mutters “Get outta the fuckin’ way” under her breath. Yells at the ref. Doesn’t listen to her coach.
She’s in a zone—aggressive, flushed, sweat streaking down the side of her face. Jaw tight.
You shift in your seat.
Her eyes flick up.
And right there, mid-play, she mouths:
“Legs. Closed.”
You gasp.
She smirks—smirks!—and jogs backward.
Mouths: “Nothin’ under that skirt?”
You cover your face with your hand, trying not to smile.
⸻
Timeout.
She doesn’t sit. Just paces the sideline, glancing at you between sips of water. Jersey clinging to her stomach. She pulls the hem up slightly to wipe her face—on purpose.
You mouth: “You’re so annoying.”
She shrugs.
“You love it.” Then: “You wear that for me?”
You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed.
She grins slow. Lowers her bottle. Tilts her head.
Mouths:
“Come sit on my lap after.”
You drop your water bottle.
⸻
Fourth quarter.
She sinks a three-pointer and points at you.
Crowd’s screaming.
Her team’s screaming.
But she’s mouthing:
“That one’s for when you called me annoying.” Then: “I’ll show you annoying later.”
You’re blushing so hard someone next to you asks if you’re okay.
You nod without taking your eyes off her.
⸻
After the game.
She doesn’t even shower first. Just walks straight over to the bleachers, still drenched, mouthguard tucked into her shorts.
“Hey, trouble,” she rasps, glancing down at your legs.
You glance around. “Your team—”
“They’re not lookin’ at you. I am.”
She leans down. Thumb hooks under your jaw. Pulls you into her eyes.
Then she smirks, mouth by your ear.
“Wear that skirt again next game,” she says, voice low. “Or don’t. I’ll still have you mouthing my name by halftime.”