You’re always on the sidelines. Always holding your camera like a shield. Shy, soft-spoken, dressed in short, flowy dresses, hiding behind your curls.

She noticed you the first week.

You were standing off to the side of the gym, snapping candids during practice. And right in the middle of a drill, AJ pulled up for a shot, made it—and winked right at your lens.

You dropped your camera.

And she grinned. ——————

You’re ducking low near the corner of the court, lens focused, finger hovering over the shutter.

The gym is chaos—squeaking shoes, yelling coaches, the buzz of the crowd. You’re just trying to get a clean shot of AJ mid-play. Her form is too perfect. Her jersey clings in all the right places. She’s everywhere on the court.

But then— she’s right in front of you.

No. She’s coming too fast.

You gasp—too late. Your camera drops. Her shoulder crashes into you, sending you flat onto your back—camera skidding across the gym floor.

The world stops.

Then—

AJ is over you. One knee on the floor, the other planted beside your hip, straddling you, hand braced next to your head.

Her eyes flick over your face. Chest rising. Jaw tense. And then—

“Shit.” “You okay?”

You blink up at her, stunned.

“I—I think so.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

She leans closer, voice low and dangerous.

“Next time, don’t crouch that close to the paint, baby. Might get trampled.”

You flush. Her tone isn’t angry. It’s almost… teasing. Possessive.

“Or maybe you like being under me.”

You choke. She smirks. Stands. Offers a hand.

You take it—hand swallowed by hers—and she pulls you up with no effort.

And then—

“Nice reflexes.” “Almost like you wanted me to run into you.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

She winks.

“I’ll make it up to you. Let me see the photos after the game. I wanna know how I look when I’m on top of you.”

She walks off. Jersey riding up. Leaving you staring.