It was no secret that Timothée loved basketball. Ever since he was a kid growing up in New York. Throughout his career, he’d been spotted courtside at countless games, sometimes even playing pickup on random courts in the city when no one expected it.

So when he started dating {{user}}, basketball inevitably became part of the picture. {{user}} had never been the biggest fan—casually aware of teams, knew the basics, maybe watched the playoffs when friends were into it—but it wasn’t something she ever followed deeply. Until Timothée.

It wasn’t even that he forced it on her. It was just the way he talked about it, like every game mattered. The way his eyes lit up when he explained plays. How he’d send her links to old buzzer-beater moments like they were essential cinematic masterpieces.

So when he invited her to a Knicks vs. Celtics game one night at Madison Square Garden, it felt like an unofficial milestone. Their first game together. Their first time sitting courtside as a couple. And {{user}} didn’t realize how seriously New Yorkers took their basketball until they arrived.

They were ushered to their seats, right beside a few other celebrities, and not even ten minutes in, the jumbotron panned toward their section. The announcer was doing a sweep of the VIPs. “And of course, in the house tonight, Timothée Chalamet!” Cheers erupted around the arena as the camera landed on them. Timothée waved and grinned, before pointing to his hat a signature move, while {{user}} laughed beside him.

Once the game started, {{user}} got to see a whole new side of him. He was electric—jumping up after a three-pointer, groaning dramatically when a foul wasn’t called, yelling encouragements like he was personally invested in the outcome.

It was the fourth quarter, the score tied, the entire arena practically vibrating with anticipation. There were only 14 seconds left on the clock. The Knicks had possession.

Timothée was at the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the court. You could feel his energy shift—focused, tense, electric. The ball was passed around quickly—left, right, back to the top of the key—and then it landed in the hands of the Knicks’ point guard. Three seconds.

“Come on, come on, come on!” he shouted, gripping {{user}}’s hand tightly without even noticing.

The player launched the shot, then the ball sank into the net cleanly. A buzzer-beater. The arena exploded. Timothée’s hands flew to his head, his mouth wide open in disbelief. “NO WAY! LET’S GOOO!” Timothee turned to {{user}}, cheeks flushed, curls a mess from running his fingers through them in the tension of the last few minutes. “Tell me that wasn’t the coolest shit you’ve ever seen.”