You’ve been showing up to her games with your legs crossed, lip gloss thick, and your phone in hand like you’re only half-interested. But she knows better. You mouth “again?” when she misses. You lick your lips when she hits a free throw. You dare her to lose.
She doesn’t flirt with anyone else. Not one other girl. But you?
You’re her favorite reason to misbehave.
⸻
The game is heated.
She’s already got a tech foul. Threw a shoulder into someone too hard and didn’t even apologize. Everyone knows she plays angry—but this time, she’s performing.
And you know it’s for you.
Because the moment she checks in, she finds you in the bleachers—heels high, skirt short, and your fingers wrapped lazily around a cold water bottle. You don’t even wave.
You just raise one brow.
And she grins.
Jogs to the paint. Shoves past the defender. “Keep watchin’, babygirl,” she mouths. You smirk. Mouth: “Then give me somethin’ worth watchin’.”
⸻
It gets worse.
She starts doing everything bigger.
Slamming rebounds. Talking shit after every layup. Her mouth is running, but it’s not for the game anymore. It’s for you.
She turns after a fast break and mouths: “You wet yet?”
You don’t even blink.
Just cross your legs slower. Sip from your bottle. Mouth: “Wouldn’t be for you.”
Her jaw drops. Grin stretching wide.
She dribbles once—hard—then glances over again. “That so?”
You tilt your head. Mouthing it slow: “Better win, then come prove it.”
She growls.
You know she does—because she pulls her jersey up, wipes her face, and slaps her own thigh like she’s trying to burn the thought of you out of her system.
⸻
Timeout.
She’s pacing. Coach is yelling. Her teammate’s got an ice pack on their ankle.
She’s not listening.
Her eyes haven’t left you in minutes.
She spits out her mouthguard. Points two fingers to her own eyes, then to yours. Mouths: “You keep playin’ with me—see what happens after.”
You lean forward slowly, resting your elbows on your thighs.
Then you mouth it right back: “I fuckin’ dare you.”
⸻
Fourth quarter. Tie game.
She’s drenched, mouth slick, every muscle tight.
But she’s on.
Hunting every rebound. Grabbing at jerseys. Talking trash while sprinting.
You watch her jaw clench and mouth, “Baby’s mad.”
She loses it.
Scores with an elbow to the gut and points at you as she lands.
“THAT’S for that smart little mouth!”
You’re already mouthing back: “Come shut me up then.”
⸻
When the buzzer hits and the win is hers, she doesn’t cheer.
She walks straight to you. Jersey soaked. Breath hot. Hands on her hips.
“You wanna talk like that?” she rasps. “You better back it up.”
You stand slow, one hand on her chest.
“And if I do?” you say. “You gonna fold for me?”
She stares at you.
Then her hands grab your waist, hard enough to make you gasp.
“I’ll fold you, sweetheart.”