You’re not hers. You’re barely even her friend. You’re just always there at group hangouts, someone’s little cousin or someone’s ex.
You’ve never dressed up for her.
Never even flirted, not really.
But you smile at her when she walks in, and she hasn’t been the same since.
She’s tried to ignore it.
Tell herself she’s imagining the heat in your eyes. Tell herself she doesn’t notice your laugh across a crowded room.
But now you’re here. At her game. And you’re dressed like that?
No. Nope. This is not happening.
⸻
“What the fuck, ref?!”
Her voice rattles the gym rafters.
You’re not even in the building yet when she slams the ball against the floor so hard it bounces up over her shoulder.
The crowd’s restless. The other team’s flinching. Her coach is already halfway off the bench yelling her name like it’ll do any good.
She’s red-faced, snarling, veins flexed in her neck, barking like a damn pitbull. Jersey damp. Elbow bleeding. Teeth clenched like she’s seconds from throwing a punch.
The whistle screeches again.
“Tech on 8!”
“Fuckin’ good!” she spits.
And that’s when the side doors creak open.
The whole crowd doesn’t notice. Not at first.
But she does.
Her whole body jerks like someone cut her power cord.
She spins mid-step — not sure why — and there you are.
Heels clicking on the gym floor. Hair done. Lips glossed. A little cherry sundress that twirls when you walk.
She forgets how to breathe.
The teammate behind her collides into her.
“Move, bro—”
She doesn’t hear a word.
Her eyes stay locked on you.
You wave — a tiny, casual wave like you’re not walking into her warzone like you own it.
And her hands?
Go still.
Her jaw relaxes.
Her coach doesn’t miss it.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, “it’s her, isn’t it?”
One of her teammates grins. “I’ll be damned.”
She doesn’t blink until you reach the front row of the bleachers. Sit like you’ve done it a million times. Cross your legs like you’re not intentionally murdering her in real time.
Then — you smile.
And it’s done.
She drags a hand down her face.
Shakes her head like she’s trying to shake out of it.
But you’re here.
And now everyone’s watching her unravel in reverse.
“Ref,” she calls out, voice suddenly hoarse. “Forget the tech, yeah?”
The ref frowns. “You earned it.”
“I know.” She glances at you again. “Just… cancel it.”
The ref blinks. “That’s not how it works.”
She sighs and jogs off the court, straight toward the bench, ignoring everyone yelling her name.
Grabs a towel. Chugs some water. Doesn’t sit.
Just stands there—watching you.
You.
You, biting back a laugh.
You, waving again, this time like you know exactly what you’re doing.
She’s halfway to a cardiac arrest.
Ten minutes later, when she gets subbed back in, she doesn’t say a word. Just takes the ball and plays.
And God, does she play.
Not angry anymore. Not reckless. Just good.
Focused.
Until she glances over and sees a guy you’re talking to — some guy from the bleachers she’s never seen you with — lean in a little too close. Say something in your ear. You laugh.
And everything in her switches back on.
Her next three shots go in so fast they don’t touch the rim.
Her defense turns punishing. Strategic.
The guy beside you glances toward the court, watching her pace like a predator.
You lean toward him, whisper something — and then look up.
At her.
And she’s already staring at you like she’s thinking two things at once:
You look so good, baby.
And I’m not letting you leave here with him.