3 FUCKING POINTS FROM WINNING AND YALL FUMBLED WHAT THE FUCK

Thank you, thank you

Okay so think with me, Sarah x reader and it shows the difference between Sarah on cort and when she's with her girlfriend

I like the way you think

i’m so sick, the tears wont stop omg

the wings play today

excited to see paige have her 'welcome to the wnba' moment...sad that diana taurasi will have no part in it

not paige pulling a tom holland and tagging azzi somewhere a little dubious 😭😭

omfg 😭 i didn’t even notice

What makes you think you could write something so sad without a consequence.

Trust you will be delt with.

LONG WAY DOWN

pairing: azzi fudd x fem!reader

content: angst w comfort, holly rowe, parent death, cancer, grief, language

wc: 4.9k

synopsis: You weren’t supposed to get drafted without your mother at your table. Life, however, had other plans, and you were just barely hanging on. You thought you’d be able to make it through the night but it was clear that a certain reporter had other plans, too. Luckily for you, your girlfriend was always willing to catch you before you crumbled.

notes: based on this request! thank you anon - hoping i did this justice for you 🫶 this is definitely one of my heavier fics so please read the content tags and be mindful. also, title from the one direction song. wasnt gonna drink tn but i miss them like a mf. let me know how y'all feel ab this and have a great weekend 🫶

Much like any teenager dreaming of greatness, you’d always had the perfect vision of your future. 

“UConn will recruit me,” you told your mother at thirteen, dribbling the ball between your legs as you weaved around imaginary defenders. 

“Keep the ball on a string,” she coached in response, her eyes appraising, gaze sharp in a way befitting of a former athlete. “Don’t overextend.”

You adjusted silently, breathing heavily before stepping back and launching a fadeaway jumper that sinks in seamlessly. “I’ll win a natty my senior year,” you manifested, talking mostly to yourself, but you knew she was listening as she passed the ball back to you. “Go top five in the draft.”

“You think I can get my future pro baller to clean her room?” she joked, and you gave her a knowing smile as you repeated the same drill again.

You worked for it everyday — starting with early conditioning, thorough recovery, taking care of your body and your mind. Your mother, your personal coach and former Seattle Storm forward, gave everything to help you realize your dreams and your abilities.

You started on varsity before you were even in high school. You had more gold medals than you had turnovers. You let yourself start dreaming about your draft table the day Coach Auriemma visited to watch you play, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on his face, but you knew he had a roster spot with your name on it. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a well earned confidence, surety. 

Your table would be you. Obviously. Someone on the coaching staff — maybe CD, because at the rate Geno was recruiting the phenom in Minnesota, you figured he’d end up shackled to her table. Your mom — no question about it. She was your best coach, your biggest supporter, your rock. There wouldn’t be a you without a her in so many different ways. The last two people at your table were always a little ambiguous. You hoped that maybe there would be space in your life for someone you loved. Your girlfriend, maybe. The last person was even less clear — maybe a friend, your aunt, or maybe someone else from the coaching staff, but you had time to figure it out. 

You’re recruited by UConn, ranked second in your class only behind Paige Bueckers, the phenom from Minnesota. Your first year together is rough with all the COVID restrictions. Then, your life changes in your sophomore year when Azzi Fudd commits.

She was Paige’s best friend, having met back in high school and Paige moved mountains to recruit her. You think you fell in love the first time you saw her jumper. You knew you were in love when she smiled at you in practice after stealing the ball and taking it cross court for a layup. 

You’re dating by November of Azzi’s freshman year, just in time for the season to begin. The two of you have an undeniable chemistry on the court but there’s an inexplicable connection between the two of you off of it. You just get each other. You’re together through it all — the injuries, the midnight practices in the gym, the fifth year you take because you’re not leaving UConn without a national championship, not until you and Azzi hoist the trophy together.

Then, in late January of 2025 as you’re gearing up for the Tennessee game only days away, you get the news. Your mother had been diagnosed with a pretty severe brain cancer — glioblastoma. You’re not sure how it went unnoticed for so long, but the doctors said she’d be lucky if she could make it to May.

Your world spins on its axis. How could it not? Your mother was only in her mid 50s. She’d done everything right. She was an athlete, she took care of her body, her mind, everything. She was a good person. She hosted annual camps for high school athletes back home in Seattle, coaching them the same way she’d coached you. She donated, volunteered, always gave back – so why was she the one with the diagnosis, the one you would lose? Why her, why now, why at all?

It took a lot of effort to keep you afloat — but Azzi tried. Most of the time, it felt like she was the only one who truly understood you. There wasn’t much you could say about it and she never pressured you. She just stayed, and that was more than you could ask for. Azzi rubbed your back when you cried, held your hair back when the grief made you sick. Your mom wasn’t gone but it felt like she was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand through an hourglass.

You’re pretty much a non-factor in the Tennessee game, contributing more to the loss than Tennessee contributed to their win. You spend more than half of the game dissociating on the bench, thinking you should be in Seattle right now, keeping her company at her bedside. After she retired and got pregnant with you – your father no more than a donor – you were all that she had. She shouldn’t be alone during this, but she was adamant that you stay and finish out the season. This season was everything you’d spent five years working for but it quickly became the least of your worries. Your mother was dying; who cared about a trophy?

She did.

The night of the Tennessee loss, you’re on the phone together. You’re curled up in Azzi’s comforter, her dorm a constant ever since you’d heard the news. She stepped out to pick up some late night snacks, mostly to give you and your mom some privacy but also to cheer you up. Azzi was the only one who truly knew how hard you were taking all of it, the only one who got to see you fall apart.

“You’re not allowed to let this destroy you,” your mother rasps, her voice firm in her Coach Voice that you grew up teasing her about. Now, it just makes you emotional instead of amused – she won’t be around to remind you about your follow-through, about leading with your shoulder. You’ll have to remind yourself of that. Some other coach that’s not her will have to remind you about that. You try not to choke up. You know you need to hear what she’s saying.

“You’ve spent five years fighting for this,” she continues. “Nineteen years living this. Whatever happens in May, you are not allowed to let this be the end for you. Do you hear me?”

Throat tight, you nod, knowing she can’t see you. “I do,” you promise.

She says your name, her voice strong where her body can’t be, and you swallow thickly as you prepare to listen. “Whether or not I’m here, I’ll always be with you. You have the very best parts of me, you know that? My smile, my passion, my jumpshot–” That draws a watery laugh out of you. You can almost visualize the smile on your mom’s face. “And no matter what, we’ll always have basketball. You’ll have me. I’ll take care of you. That’s what moms do.”

“I don’t know if I can do this without you,” you whisper.

“You already are,” she says softly. “And you’re doing an amazing job.”

“I don’t want to do this without you,” you amend.

“Then don’t. Get your head on right. Win the championship – for yourself, for your team, for Azzi, for me. Go to the draft. Wherever you go, I’ll be there. I promise you that. But I can’t be there if you let this break you.”

“I won’t let it.” You take a deep breath, glancing at Azzi’s bedroom door when it opens. Azzi walks in silently with her arms full of snacks. You smile when she crawls in next to you, offering a piece of chocolate, and you take it gratefully. “You wanna talk to Azzi?” you ask, but you already know your mother’s answer as you pass the phone over.

“Hey, girl!” Azzi says in a valley-girl accent, making you roll your eyes with another wobbly laugh. You can hear your mom’s laugh too – the exact same one as yours. You can barely make out her voice on the other end, but you don’t need to, knowing that Azzi needs this conversation just as much as you do. Your mother had welcomed Azzi to the family long before you started dating. She claimed that she knew you loved Azzi the moment you called her after a practice to rant about how pure her form is because there’s just no heterosexual or platonic explanation for that. “You know I got her,” Azzi promises, making you perk up a little. Almost absentmindedly, Azzi’s free hand rubs your knee soothingly. She is quiet for a few beats, nodding her head as she listens, her face softening. “I know. I will. I swear. I love you, too.”

After a quick goodbye, Azzi passes the phone back to you, where you and your mom chat for a little while longer. You ask about what she’s doing to keep busy, if she’s resting enough, if she’s drinking enough water. She humors you, the smile evident in her tone as she asks about your day, too, if you’re taking good care of her daughter-in-law, which makes you laugh because if there’s one thing that you try to get right always, it’s Azzi.

When the call ends so your mom can get to bed, Azzi holds you as you silently process. She doesn’t push you to talk. She knows that you don’t have the words for it right now. But she’s there, grounding, and that’s all you need. Eventually, the words come to you – terrified confessions because you’ve lived your entire life with your mom being one call away; how were you supposed to navigate that? Bursts of grief, because everything is so overwhelming right now. An on-brand spark of determination because you promised your mom that you would hold it together, that you’d win the championship, that you’d get drafted. You would do it. For her.

And you do. After the Tennessee game, it’s like a flip has been switched for you. You’re averaging over twenty points a game. You and Azzi combine for 54 points against South Carolina, which sets the tone for the rest of the regular season and the postseason. In the NCAA tournament, the Huskies are unstoppable, with everyone having at least one particularly explosive game, but you? Every game is explosive. You have something to lose if you don’t win, something a lot more important than a trophy.

Your mom is one row behind the Husky bench in Tampa for the national championship game against South Carolina. She’s wearing your jersey, one that used to fit but now swamps her body like it’s several sizes too big. Each and every one of her cheers motivates you, energizing your step-back threes or a harsh block. You know that she has until May, but if this is the last time she gets to see you play…then you’re content with it being a blowout in the national championship.

When you cut down the net, you cut an extra piece for her.

On Wednesday, three days after the national championship, she’s buried with that piece of nylon tied around her necklace, one you’d bought for her with your first NIL endorsement.

Grief is weird. You’d made it through her funeral in solemn silence, not crying during your speech as you shared some anecdotes during her life. You could only stare as her casket was lowered, your hand holding Azzi’s tight enough that you were sure it hurt her, but she let you. You smiled faintly at family members, thanking people for their condolences, agreeing that Yeah, cancer fucking sucks. You don’t cry when you spend the night in your childhood home, going through photo albums with Azzi (ones that she’s been through numerous times, although your mom was usually right there next to her, pointing out your embarrassing baby photos. Now, you’re the one showing her the photos that used to make you cringe, thinking about how cruel fate is).

You don’t cry when Azzi wraps her arms around you that night, reminding you that you’re not alone. You know you aren’t, but you can’t help but feel like you are.

You do cry when you wake up that morning. Determined to feel normal again, you make your way to the kitchen to make Azzi coffee and breakfast in bed. A thank you for everything she’s done for you since your mom’s diagnosis. You cry when you spot your mom’s coffee mug left out on the counter, remnants of cold coffee left at the bottom. The coffee pot is still full, untouched since Sunday morning. There’s a half-done crossword puzzle at her spot at the table, left open like she thought she’d have the time to come back to finish it. Everything in the kitchen reminds you of how fucking cruel life is – countless photos of the two of you pressed onto the refrigerator with magnets, leftovers packed neatly into tupperware, the calendar tacked onto the wall with April 6th circled multiple times with a smiley face.

You can’t help it. You sob, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes like it would make everything stop, but it doesn’t. That’s the issue, isn’t it? Time doesn’t stop. Not for you, not for you mom, not for anyone. It keeps on moving. Your mom is gone and everything in this house reminds you of when she wasn’t and how she had plans and so much more of her life left to live. She was supposed to be in New York for your draft night. She was supposed to be courtside for your first game in the WNBA, yelling about bad foul calls in your honor and cheering for your first professional point.

It’s not her fault but you can’t help but feel like you’ve been abandoned. Somebody – something took her from you and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to come back from that. Your heart pounds, perhaps too fast for how little air you’re sucking in, and you bury your head in your hands to try to calm yourself.

Then you feel Azzi behind you. Her body is warm, strong, her arms loving as she presses herself into you, offering quiet support. You choke, turning around, burying yourself in her embrace as you crumble. She murmurs nonsense to support you, tears of her own soaking your shirt, but you just hold onto each other in the kitchen.

Above all else, you remember the promise you made to your mother. You weren’t gonna let this destroy you. So you grieve, but you’re in New York for the draft, at the top of the Empire State Building, sticking close to Paige because she’s your best friend and she’s the closest thing you have to family right now. 

On Monday, you sit politely in Azzi’s suite as your stylists and hair and make-up teams bustle about, brushing product onto your face, swiping mascara through your lashes. For the most part, it’s a blur, but the knowledge that Azzi is right next to you keeps you steady. You don’t complain when Brittany helps you into your draft outfit – a simple white suit perfectly tailored to your frame, although you omit the jacket to expose your arms.

When you first catch sight of Azzi, it’s as though the very breath is stolen from your lungs. You stare at her, your eyes impossibly tender as you take in the floor-length black dress she’s wearing, the depth of her gaze heightened by her dark makeup. You swallow bashfully, feeling as though you’re a high schooler staring at their prom date for the first time. 

“You’re stunning,” you murmur, your hands reaching out to hold her. There’s a soft reverence in your features as you breathe her in.

She smiles at you. “Good arm candy, huh?” she jokes, which makes you shake your head as you laugh. You wrap your arms around her fully and rest your head in the crook of her neck, sighing and trying to regulate your emotions. The pressure of her arms around you makes you feel a little more stable. “I’m so proud of you.” Her words make you soften, tightening your grip. “And I love you. Wherever you get drafted tonight isn’t gonna change that.”

“I love you, too,” you promise.

And, for the most part, your night isn’t terrible. You pose for photos on the orange carpet, feeling yourself loosen up as you get lost in the camera flashes. When you’re pulled into your first interview, the reporter covers her mic and politely offers her condolences, which you appreciate. The interview itself is focused purely on basketball, where you’re hoping to land in the draft, what you can bring to the team that drafts you. You could answer those questions in your sleep.

Hannah and Rickea are amicable, too, asking who you’re wearing. Their energy makes you smile, relaxing a little more, and Rickea’s departing hug is a little tighter, more meaningful. You take more photos with your team, rolling your eyes when Paige rests her arm over your shoulder as if you two aren’t the same height, trying to not look too in love with Azzi when you break apart for solo shots.

Then, you and Azzi make your way into the main room, where the draft tables are separated by rope. It almost makes your heart stop beating, but Azzi takes your hand in hers, giving you a gentle squeeze and a concerned look. You just nod at her, taking a deep breath, and you make your way to your table where CD and Jamelle are waiting for you. You hug the both of them, melting a little more into CD’s arms and trying to not cry.

During your time at UConn, you relied a lot on CD – probably more than you were expecting to. Now, that relationship you have with her is just what you need right now. She doesn’t release you until you’re ready.

You thought a lot about your draft table. It would be the biggest moment of your life and you wanted the people you loved around you. There was you. Obviously. There was CD, your coach, because of course that phenom from Minnesota was hogging Geno (you didn’t mind – even if Geno was available, you probably would have chosen CD, anyway). There was Jamelle, who you learned so much from, who you went to for advice when you were hopelessly crushing on Azzi because you knew Geno would just make fun of you and CD would give you a really long lecture. There was Azzi, your girlfriend, the person who you made space for in your life because you loved them.

Then, there’s your mom, who occupies the empty chair, who’s here if not physically. She’s with you because you are her – you’re an amalgamation of all of the good parts of her and the pieces of you that you curated. You have her smile, her passion, the jumpshot that got her drafted, her wisdom and all of her heart.

You sit through the opening remarks. You clap for Paige when the Wings call her name first – she comes over to your table and hugs you, Azzi, CD, and Jamelle, winking at you conspiratorially as she walks up the stage. She poses for photos, does a quick interview with Holly Rowe, then leaves for media.

With the second pick, the Seattle Storm are on the clock, and you cast a glance at the empty chair next to you, trying to not get too emotional. Azzi reaches over, tangles your fingers together, and smiles at you gently.

Cathy returns to the podium to announce Seattle’s pick. You’re lost in thought and hardly hear the name called until Azzi squeezes your hand, saying, “It’s you!” and you glance up in confusion to see the entire room staring at you, their cheers loud. CD and Jamelle are already standing but all you can focus on is the fact that you just got drafted by the Storm, the same team that drafted your mother so many years ago, the same team you grew up idolizing. With your heart in your throat, you stand, wrapping your arms tightly around Azzi, holding back tears when she tells you she loves you and hugging CD and Jamelle just as tightly. Then, you make your way to Paige’s table, hugging Geno, and you walk up the stairs with a wobbly smile.

What you’re not prepared for is the jersey that Cathy unfolds for you to see. It’s not the standard draft jersey. It’s number thirteen – your mom’s number – and her – your – last name is printed on the back. You can’t stop the tears this time, trying your best to shake Cathy’s hand and keeping your head high so you don’t stain her outfit with your mascara. You wipe your eyes, stepping down for the interview with Holly Rowe, who has to wait until the crowd calms down to ask her first question.

“Lots of emotions here on draft night,” she begins. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling right now?”

“Blessed. Grateful. The works,” you joke through your tears, smiling when the crowd eats it up. “At risk of sounding like a broken record, I’m just happy to be here, that the Storm is taking a chance on me. They’re my hometown team and I’m honored to have been selected by them.”

You’re not prepared for her second question. “More than being your hometown team, your mother played for them for almost a decade before retirement. How are you feeling after your mother passed from cancer? Do you feel like you have pretty big shoes to fill?”

It’s almost as though the room goes pin-drop silent. You freeze, the camera guy looks as though he wants to be anywhere else, and Holly just stares at you with that same imploring, vulture-like reporter’s stare, like she hadn’t said anything wrong.

Part of you wants to be sad – this feels like humiliation on live television, your mother’s memory dishonored for clicks. Sad because every other journalist at this event had the courtesy to be respectful about your loss, but not this one.

You’re almost surprised by the anger, because where does she get off on asking such a question? Big shoes to fill? You haven’t even mourned her fully yet. You haven’t grieved enough to process a loss as big as this one. Your mother passed away a week ago, you’re barely hanging on, and you have to answer these stupid fucking questions when you could be working through all of the pain you’ve pushed to the side just so you can be here because it was what your mother wanted. Your hands tremble as you seethe, trying to hold onto the five years of UConn media training, but you’re too upset to think that actions have consequences as you answer.

“I feel like it’s a miracle you’re still employed,” you say, your gaze hard. “I don’t owe you my fucking grief.”

You don’t wait for a response as you leave her behind, already knowing this clip is going to be circulating on social media within a few hours. You feel sick as you think about what your face must have looked like, the lapse in control or the expression of pure horror. The tears pool in your eyes as your throat burns. You’d made it through the entire day without any incident and now is when you fall apart.

You find the bathroom, pushing the door open, relieved that it’s empty as you press your hands to your eyes again, uncaring of the fact you’re smudging your mascara. The first hiccuping sob leaves you in a heave as you turn on the water faucet, hands shaking as you desperately try to wipe the makeup off of your hands and your face. The second one echoes embarrassingly, which just makes you more emotional – you’re losing your mind in the bathroom at the WNBA Draft and you feel weak, unmoored, and in need of a hug from your mother but obviously, that’s a little unattainable right now.

It’s then that it hits you fully – your mother is gone. You’d kept the grief and the emotions close to your chest or with your close circle, but the fact that Holly has brought it up, that people outside of you know that your mother has passed, makes it more real. You don’t know what you’re doing – what you’re supposed to do, and it feels too late to try to figure it out. You’d never realized how high you’d built yourself up, blissfully ignorant of the fact that your mother would one day die, and now you’re starting to truly understand that it’s truly a long way down.

You’re still crying when the door opens cautiously, although you look up, already wiping your eyes. When you see it’s Azzi who has found you, you give up on trying to be strong, instead falling into her arms with equal parts relief, anguish, and anger. She holds onto you tightly as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear completely.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, smoothing down your hair as your shoulders shake. “I’m so sorry. She shouldn’t have said that.”

You shake your head, not quite having the words as you breathe Azzi in, the scent of her perfume, the shampoo she’d used the night before, the pieces of her that have blended in with the scent of you. It’s difficult to describe – the fact that Azzi is the only thing that truly feels like home right now. She’s your only source of peace, the only one who makes it feel like you’re not drowning in your grief all the time. You’re the same for her, too – you’ve both lost something.

After a few moments, the tremors in your body subside and your breathing evens out. Azzi doesn’t let you go, instead whispering, “You remember Tennessee?” You think for a moment, nodding, recalling the night in Azzi’s dorm room after you got off the plane and talked to your mom on the phone. “As long as you have basketball, you’ll have her. Don’t let Holly Rowe take that away from you. You worked so hard to get here. You did it, okay? This is everything your mom’s ever wanted for you. This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“I just wanted her to be here,” you confess, your voice cracking, but you don’t have anything left in you to cry.

“She is,” Azzi says. “She wouldn’t miss it. She’s proud of you, you know that?” You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and Azzi cups the back of your neck, her nails brushing against your skin in the way she always soothes you. “And I am too. You’re going to Seattle. You’re gonna wear her jersey number – and you’re not filling her shoes. She wouldn’t want you to do that. You’re remembering her and forging your own path.”

When you don’t respond, Azzi pulls back from you, her face drawn up in worry as her hands cup your cheeks. “You okay?”

You nod again, the movement a little shaky, and you can’t help but smile when she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I will be,” you say. “Are you okay?”

She offers a sly sort of smirk. “I’m not the one who almost sucker punched Holly Rowe on national television. But I am thinking really hard about it.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “For real,” you whisper. “You always say I’m not alone, but…you’re not either, Az.”

“I know,” she says quietly, the affection in her eyes shining. “And I promise I’m okay. It’s… really hard but we’re taking it day by day. Together.”

“Together,” you echo.

Azzi nods, a tender smile appearing on her face as she presses her forehead to yours. “You wanna go back to the hotel?” she asks. “DoorDash a bunch of unhealthy food and watch trashy reality TV?”

You grin, kissing her gently, unfiltered adoration and appreciation seeping through the small gesture. “Later,” you say, sure of it. “I just needed a moment. I’ll power through media and then be back in time to see Kaitlyn and Aubrey get drafted. Mom would come back to beat me up if I left my teammates hanging.”

“Whatever you want,” Azzi murmurs, pulling you into her embrace again. “Just let me know how you’re feeling.”

“I will,” you say, squeezing her around the waist. “Thanks for checking on me.”

Her hold on you tightens, like she can’t imagine a world where she wouldn’t. “I always will,” she promises. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you whisper, smiling against her skin. It feels like such a small way of verbalizing how much love you truly have for Azzi, who’d pulled you up when you thought you were sinking. You wouldn’t be here without her and that’s not something that will change, no matter how often she tries to argue against it. She has the uncanny ability to make life more manageable, and you know she understands you just the same – that the love you hold is something that transcends description. She always would.

where are the marvel fanfics where y/n lived in avengers tower and was dating either bucky or loki and thor was eating pop tarts and clint was in the ventssss. bonus points if she was tony’s daughter and had wanda’s powers but a different color

take me bad to 2020-2023😣😣

JUJU OHHHHH MY GOSH

YESS

HEY GOAT! so ik you have finals rn so just ignore this until ur done BUT i have a long (as usual) paige x reader request for you this time👅 for some backround paige and reader went to uconn together and have been dating for a bit like 3 years and they both get drafted by the wings (reader being 12th pick) and they are super excited whatever. OKAY SO basically reader is like the first person in her family to graduate college and it was really important for her to be there in person and walk with her family watching but she didn’t expect to be drafted in the first round let alone so far away. so she goes to ask the head of whatever at dallas if she can go to her graduation and they say prolly not so she gets super upset and paige decides to plan something with the team and flys her parents out and stuff like that one video with mika and the storm last year. ykwimmm like something super fluffy and just a littttlleee bit angsty.

-⬇️

LOVE IS THE WAY

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: language, 1% angst (like there's more fat content in some milk than there is angst in this story), unfathomable plot

wc: 5.4k

synopsis: As a first generation college student, graduation meant everything to you and your family. Your entire high school career was spent studying through the night, devoting yourself to academics, extracurriculars, and basketball, and reminding yourself that college was the goal. But basketball was your passion – your home away from test prep and the rigor of your courses, and the athletic scholarship from UConn saved your life in more ways than one. When you’re drafted 12th overall alongside your girlfriend of three years, it devastates you to find out that you wouldn’t be able to make it back to campus in time to walk across the stage. Luckily for you, Paige was more than willing to move mountains just to see you smile.

notes: HAPPY GAMEDAY CHAT (i deleted twitter this morning in honor of it) and HAPPY PB5 HOOPS DAY!!!! everyone lock in. this is generational. but real talk, as a first gen student, this request actually means the world to me 🤞 hoping i did this justice for u ⬇️ and i cannot thank u enough for these banger requests 😛 as alwaysss lmk what we're thinking and i hope y'all enjoy 🫶

Basketball wasn’t always the goal.

Anyone who sees you might not believe that at first glance. Your game is clinical – smooth, effortless. Your jump shot is perfect, technical in a way analysts have described as academically precise. You play like you were destined for the professional leagues, like you dribbled a basketball for the first time at three years old instead of in the sixth grade.

Growing up, you didn’t have a lot. Your parents weren’t well off but they worked hard to give you a good life. You excelled in school, got exceptional grades, and by eight you knew you would do anything to get into college after touring the local university on a field trip. Your parents weren’t able to go to college, coming from families where they had to prioritize working. College, while impossible for them, became something that was within reach for you. College – an education – was the goal.

When you first started middle school, you knew you needed an outlet, something more than your grades and wit. You tried a few things. Art, while pretty, wasn’t for you. You were a little too restless for it, too much of a perfectionist to fully appreciate the abstract. You briefly considered band but your parents had to make the decision for you when they looked at the cost to rent an instrument from the school.

Sports was your last option. You liked the discipline, the structure, and how you could get all of your energy out. You showed up to softball tryouts, but again – the price tag attached to the glove, the cleats, and the gear was too much. It was the same story for soccer. You arrived at basketball tryouts, not really having much of an interest in it, but figuring you could suck it up if there was any option you could play.

As soon as you picked up the ball for the first time, dribbling it a little clumsily around your body, and following the coach’s instructions on how to shoot it, it was like something ignited in you. You put a little too much spin on the ball and it clanked off the rim, but you knew you could perfect it with a few more shots.

So you tried again. And again. And again. Until you finally sunk the shot from the three point line. That was satisfying.

“It’s not a lot,” you remember Coach Kerrigan telling your parents – clearly in what he thought was a hushed tone of voice. “Just $50 for the entire season. It covers the uniform and tournament fees.”

Your parents had paused, clearly contemplating – and selfishly, you’d hoped they’d give just this once. You had done everything right. You kept your grades up, your room clean, and you’d exhausted all other options.

“I don’t know,” your dad admitted. Your heart sunk to your stomach.

Even years later, you recall the weight of your coach’s stare, how his eyes traced the arc of the basketball as it left your hands. The accompanying swish of the net, how you chased after the rebound, settling in to shoot again. “She has so much potential,” he’d said. “I’ve never seen anything like her.”

Your parents remained silent. You shot the ball, hoping, praying that just this once – you could try to find who you were outside of academics. Then, Coach Kerrigan spoke up. “Actually, I think we’ve got a little extra funding this year. So if you’d let her play…you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Your parents let you play. It took you years to realize the girl’s basketball team at your middle school hadn’t actually gotten any extra funding and that Coach Kerrigan paid the season fee out of his own pocket. And the next season’s. And when the high school coach approached you during your eighth grade year and asked if you’d be willing to give varsity a shot, Coach Kerrigan paid for that one, too.

High school basketball is where you truly flourished. It was a simple agreement with your parents – you could continue playing ball as long as you didn’t put college on the backburner. You pointed out that if you got recruited, you would be on scholarship and you truly didn’t have to worry about money anymore. Your parents believed in you. They’d seen what you were capable of, but when you grow up with so little, it’s hard to lose that worry that it could all slip away if you weren’t careful.

You upheld your end of the bargain. You kept your grades up, enrolled in AP courses, joined student government to round out your application. High achieving student. Honored athlete, Team USA gold medalist averaging 26.4 points a season and improving. Student body president. With a resume like that, you were sure you had a solid chance, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t keep working.

Geno Auriemma showed up to one of your games in sophomore year. So did Dawn Staley and several other college basketball coaches. Coach Auriemma kept showing up, though. After an electric win against a conference opponent, he’d pulled you aside and glanced at you like he was unimpressed, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes that reminded you of Coach Kerrigan’s unwavering confidence. Then, Coach Auriemma said, “You play like you’ve got something to prove.”

It wasn’t unkind. Just an observation. Your face was slick with sweat, your feet hurt, and you had a paper due for AP Lang that night. Your teammates were celebrating the win, but your job was far from finished. Isn’t that how it always is, though? Having to work a little extra harder now so you wouldn’t have to in the future. Sacrificing every day to prove to your parents that everything they poured into basketball wasn’t for nothing. Success was hard, exhausting, but God did it taste good.

Simply, you responded, “Don’t we all?”

Coach Auriemma paused. A slow smile spread across his face. He wished you a goodnight.

In junior year, you committed officially to UConn. Full ride athletic scholarship. Your mother cried and your father grinned proudly when the three of you got off the phone with Coach Auriemma.

Being a Husky didn’t mean you could rest easy. The draft was competitive and there was so much talent in the country. This time, there was no “agreement” between you and your parents. You were an adult, but they did have one simple request to get a degree in something versatile. A just in case.

So here you were – a biology major and student athlete. When you weren’t in lab, you were in practice. When you weren’t in practice, you were studying for calculus. And when you weren’t studying for calculus, you were a little busy falling in love with the sophomore point guard from Minnesota who made you realize that there’s a little more to life than ball and school. You had plenty of room for her – for Paige Bueckers – even though you didn’t make it official until your sophomore year at UConn.

It was her junior season. She’d suffered an ACL tear in August, right before classes started. It was a huge blow for morale – she was the heart and soul of the team, the leader on and off the court. But you were the glue who held everything together. Coach shifted you into a more traditional point guard role. You brought a quiet efficiency to the court and confident play-calling. You weren’t there to replace her. That wasn’t possible.

The feelings between the two of you had been growing since your freshman season although neither of you acted on anything. You were close friends but her injury, somehow, pushed you even closer. She texted you reminders to eat when she knew you had a gap in your schedule. You warmed up her heating pad and let her choose the movie on the nights you gave up the textbooks to stay in with her. You and Paige worked so well together and it became harder and harder to deny what you felt for her.

But when she kissed you for “good luck” before the first game of the season? You dropped a casual 23 points with 11 assists to take home the win and made her ask you out for real after the press conference.

That year, the early Sweet 16 exit in the NCAA tournament stung. So did the Final Four exit in your junior year. Paige was staying for a fifth year and you knew that the both of you had one more chance to reel it in for the last time.

And you did. Your senior season was hard but you loved (almost) every second of it anyways. When Azzi was cleared to return from injury. When Aubrey and Carol did, too. When Paige and Azzi tested every bit of your patience by spraining their knees at different parts of the season. When you lost to USC, Notre Dame, and Tennessee but blew out South Carolina – twice, once in the regular season and the second when it mattered the most. When your teammates had your back, unconditionally, just as you had theirs.

Your name started creeping into the mock draft predictions. Third round. Then second. Then first. You were hard to place – nobody could ever agree on whether or not you were a Sun, a Sky, or a Mystic. The only thing that was guaranteed was the fact your girlfriend would be a Wing and you’d cheer her on from wherever the draft took you.

Getting invited to the draft was a different feeling entirely. You had a shot. You were going to be selected, and for once, you truly allowed yourself to reflect – through thick and thin, for worse or for better, you’d made it here. Not just to the draft, but you made it through college, too, which had seemed so out of the picture. Everything your parents had ever sacrificed for you, you’d be able to give it back with interest. You got your degree, your education. You have your career in basketball. You have Paige. That was more than enough for you.

You flew your parents out for the draft in New York. They were ecstatic for you, nearly in tears when you showed them your dress for the first time – styled by Brittany Hampton, of course, because Paige was so keen on matching. It was made of a dark, lace material that glimmered under the lighting in the room, the bodice fitting you just right, and the skirt billowing out around your ankles, cut at the side to reveal one of your legs.

Paige nearly fell out the moment she saw you. You weren’t any better, either. Your eyes lingered (she was wearing her hair down – you might have fallen in love for a second time if you weren’t so drawn to the way her suit sparkled, too) while her hands traveled, linking her fingers at the small of your back and pulling you in. “You’re unreal,” she’d murmured as you wrapped your arms around her neck, smoothing out some of the baby hairs at her nape.

You just grinned, self-satisfied at her obvious speechlessness. Knowing you couldn’t ruin your makeup without your respective teams losing their mind, you press your temple to hers, relishing in the closeness before you’d be pulled away for interviews and to sit at your separate tables. “I could pinch you, if you’d like,” you offered. “Just to make sure you’re not dreaming.”

“Hands to yourself, aight?” she grumbled. “Sum’ about that biology degree makes you evil.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” you cooed softly. “Like at all.”

Paige just squeezed you around your waist, not saying much else, and the two of you made your way to the draft venue. Interviews were quick – pictures, not so much, especially when your entire team was in attendance to watch you, Paige, Aubrey, and Kaitlyn get drafted. You and Paige go your separate ways after the photo on the draft stage. She had a second outfit and you had to find your family – which leads you to now.

Your parents, CD, and Coach Kerrigan are waiting for you and you hug each of them one by one, although you linger on Coach Kerrigan. He doesn’t say much other than a “Proud of you, kid,” and you don’t either – not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down. You’re not sure if he knows the kind of impact he made on your life by welcoming you onto his team when he did, but he grins at you like he understands it just the same.

When Paige makes her way through the crowd, having changed into her second outfit, you almost fall out again. Somehow, you manage to keep it together, even as your jaw hangs slack in near awe while you’re examining the rings on her fingers, the fact that this suit sparkles too, and the devastating lack of an undershirt that has you ready to give up on the draft completely so you can run a few laps around the block to control yourself.

Obviously, she’s the first pick overall. She hugs everyone at her table before finding you and your family. You tell her that you love her and that you’re proud of you. She winks at you and asks you to keep an extra draft hat for her.

The next few picks go by agonizingly slow. You don’t think it should take this long for teams to settle on their next pick and the way the cameras linger on you makes your skin prickle. The Sky have the two picks late in the first round followed by the Wings with the last first round selection. When Hailey Van Lith is taken at #11, you deflate a little, thinking you’ve fallen to the second round. Truly – it’s not the end of the world. It just means you’d have to fight a little harder for a roster spot. That’s a challenge you’d be willing to take head on.

But when the commissioner steps up to the podium again to announce the 12th pick in the draft, you freeze when it’s your name that is called. You, to the Dallas Wings, the same organization that selected Paige only moments ago. Stunned, you hug everyone at your table, then your girlfriend’s family, before making your way up to pose with the Wings jersey. You’re only half-listening to the interview with Holly Rowe, too concerned about making it to the back for media and seeing Paige.

When you finally do, Paige’s expression is one of disbelief and awe and you fall into each other with breathless giggles. Your hat jostles from the force of her body against yours, but she reaches up to steady it, her hands cupping your jaw as she looks at you with something like wonder. Her eyes are the most disarming shade of blue you think you’ve ever seen – and this right here, this feeling of contentment, of knowing that you get to live out your professional dreams with your girlfriend? You want to live in it forever.

“Guess you didn’t need to save an extra hat for me,” she comments coyly.

You laugh, not even bothering with a response as you grab her face and kiss her. Paige sinks into you like you’re the only thing she’s ever been sure about. For a moment, you think that may be true. In a world full of ACL injuries, of never really knowing if you’ll be able to make it unless you work for it, the relationship the two of you have is something steady. Constant. You’ll always have space for each other, just like you’ll always know that loving each other is the easiest part of living.

After the draft, you and Paige don’t immediately fly out to Dallas. You have a final exam or two, shared victory tours and talk show appearances, rallies and loose ends to tie up. You’re booked and busy until the very last minute. Packing is difficult – you’re not quite sure how you’re supposed to fit the last four years of your life into a box and tape it shut. You just have to remind yourself that you’re not closing this door. Maybe you leave it cracked, because you’re not the type of person to abandon your past in search of your future.

But you do come across your graduation gown while you’re packing away your closet. It’s neatly ironed, ready for the big day – May 10th. There’s something about that day that gives you pause, so you pull out your phone to scan the email sent to you by the Wings front office. Your first preseason game was on May 2nd against the Aces.

The second preseason game? May 10th. In Dallas.

Your face falls. Your phone screen goes dark from disuse while you stare in silent disbelief at your graduation gown.

Basketball wasn’t always the goal.

It was a reprieve before it was your passion before it was the best part of your life. You didn’t know if you’d be able to play in middle school, didn’t think you’d get recruited to the best basketball college fresh out of high school. You didn’t know if you’d win a national championship or meet some of your best friends ever. You didn’t know that you’d get drafted.

College was the goal. The goal was beating the odds, of getting a degree and an experience that your family wasn’t lucky enough to put time away for. The goal was succeeding despite every barrier and obstacle that made it difficult for you. The goal was walking across the stage after four years, officially becoming a college graduate, making your family – and yourself – proud, to be able to say that you did. And, sure, walking across the stage doesn’t take away the fact that you did the time. That you excelled. That you sacrificed so much to be a student athlete and a STEM major. Whether or not you walk across that stage has no impact on whether or not you get the degree in the mail certifying that you did everything you wanted to and got something special out of it.

But walking across that stage was a physical reminder that you refused to quit – that you held out hope even when you missed out on so many opportunities because you lacked things out of your control. It’s a reminder for you, for your parents and your family who would fill the stands, a reminder that this is possibly the most important thing you’ve ever done in your life. No one would ever understand it if they haven’t lived it.

You knew you were stuck between a rock and a hard place. You couldn’t miss graduation – you didn’t want to. You knew that you couldn’t miss the preseason game, either. Not if you wanted to keep your roster spot. Not if you wanted to prove you had more determination than the other hopeful rookies on the team. Not if you wanted to prove you were an invaluable piece to the Dallas Wings roster. The most devastating part of the situation is that you truly don’t have a choice at all.

You’re still when Paige walks in, her voice startling you. “Hey, baby. You got another roll of tape? I completely fucked up and used like, half of it on one box, but it just wouldn’t shut–” She falters, her gaze meeting yours when she realizes that you’re barely listening and you’re staring catatonically. “You okay? What’s going on?”

“Graduation is May 10th,” you tell her, and she nods – because she’d had that date saved in her calendar the moment you submitted the documentation stating that you had all requirements and would be participating in the ceremony. “And so is our second preseason game.”

Paige’s body softens with regret and understanding all at once. You swear you see something curiously like guilt as if it’s her fault at all. Like she feels bad that she got the opportunity to graduate and walk across the stage when that was the one thing you’d set out to do with your life.

She doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arms around you, letting you sink into her embrace while you try not to fall apart. Paige knows how important this is to you.

“I don’t think I can miss the game,” you confess, not having to look up to know Paige is listening as you rest your chin on her shoulder. “Not when I’m competing for a roster spot with Aziaha and Madison and JJ and everyone who’s not you, Arike, Ty, Dijonai, NaLyssa–” Your voice breaks, and you inhale sharply, feeling the familiar sting of tears. Paige runs a soothing hand down your back, comforting you enough to keep talking. “But my parents were supposed to see me walk.”

“They will, okay?” she murmurs, like she’s never been more confident than anything in her life. “It’s not over. You’re you. You wouldn’t make it this far just to give up now. Have you called Curt?”

“Well, I was a little busy having a mental breakdown before you walked in complaining about tape, so no, I did not call Curt,” you say dramatically.

“I’m so sorry I interrupted your spiraling,” Paige deadpans, which makes you laugh a little. She gives you one more squeeze before you extract yourself from her body, turning your phone on again as you take a seat on your bed. She follows suit as you scroll through your contacts for Curt’s number.

The line rings for a few moments. Paige, as if sensing your nerves, rests her hand over your knee for encouragement before Curt’s voice clicks through, greeting you. You remember your manners before you explain the situation to him. Graduation on May 10th. Preseason game too. Can I please miss the game so I can walk the stage and not crash the fuck out? You don’t say all of that – you use your professional voice, but the sentiment is the same.

Curt doesn’t respond for a moment. And when he doesn’t, you already have your answer. You deflate as he says, not unkindly, but clearly remorseful, “I’m sorry, I don’t think you’ll be able to miss it. The coaching staff needs you there for evaluation and your contract–”

You stop listening when he starts talking about contracts and roster spots and how he’s really sorry, but he just can’t make an exception right now. You can tell he genuinely feels terrible that it’s happened this way, but the league is competitive. You need to be there if you want to play basketball in May. Knowing doesn’t make the feeling go away, though, so you thank him for his time when he’s done explaining it to you and you hang up.

Paige doesn’t make you say anything, already reaching for your phone and turning it off. She pulls you into her arms again, her mood dampened as she murmurs an apology in your ear, pressing a consoling kiss to the crown of your head.

It does make you feel a little bit better, and maybe, one day, you won’t feel as bitter and as disappointed about missing your graduation as you are now, but you just can’t push the hurt to the side.

You let Paige hold you for a little longer, her hands rubbing soothing circles on your back as you curl up against her, your head tucked into her neck.

But she’s quiet – maybe a little too quiet, and you wholeheartedly miss the expression of sheer determination on her face like she’s plotting something that you’ll never know about until the time comes.

The move to Dallas goes better than expected. You and Paige lease an apartment not too far away from the facilities, but decently away from the bustle of the city. You spend a huge chunk of your time between Target and Costco and building furniture together – Paige has always been handy although a little…creative, when it comes to the instruction manuals, so you have to force her to follow them exactly. The last thing you want is your coffee table crumbling.

Between practice, shopping, and getting used to being in a completely different city, you hardly have the time to think too hard about how you have to miss graduation. You try to let yourself be happy, too. The Wings vets are incredibly kind and helpful, although they love to tease you and Paige, which is probably something you should have known was going to happen as soon as Cathy called your name at the draft. Despite the ache of missing Storrs, your teammates, and what you still consider home, you can see yourself loving it in Dallas, too. You can see the Wings becoming your family, too.

The first preseason game goes as well as it could have. Not wanting to risk injury, neither the Wings nor the Aces do anything too crazy, just wanting to get the rookies acclimated to playing professional basketball. Your coach runs different rotations, evaluating how everyone plays. It’s sad to know that by the beginning of the regular season, a few of your new teammates will be waived, even if you have to work extra hard just to make sure it’s not you.

Ultimately, the Aces take the win. Losing wasn’t something that you were used to in Connecticut, so you try not to take it to heart. You sleep on Paige’s shoulder the entire flight back to Dallas, blissfully unaware of the plans she’s making on her phone.

A few days after the first preseason game, you’re making your way through the tunnel in the Wings facility to get ready for another grueling day of practice. Before you can enter the locker room, Paige catches your wrist at the door, taking your bag gingerly as you stare at her in confusion.

“Do you trust me?” she asks you in a tone of voice that is screaming Don’t trust me!

“Under most circumstances, yes,” you respond. “What–”

“Wait here,” she says softly. “And close your eyes, please.” You sigh, but you do as she asks, even placing your hands over your eyes for good measure. You hear shuffling inside of the locker room before she comes out again. “Keep ‘em closed, but hold out your arms.”

You do, and she helps you into what feels like a large coat. You hear the sound of a zipper and then she’s carefully fitting a hat over your head. “You comfy?” she checks in.

“Just hoping my girlfriend didn’t team up with the vets for some weird rookie hazing ritual,” you mutter, listening to her laugh.

“Something a little better than that, I promise,” Paige swears. She links her fingers with yours, giving you a gentle squeeze. “Don’t open your eyes. Just follow me.”

You let her lead you through the facility, hoping that she remembers she’s an athlete with coordination and that she doesn’t run you into a wall accidentally. Before you know it, she comes to a stop, and nervously, she says, her voice echoing, “Okay. Open your eyes.”

When you do, your breath catches in your throat. You’re dressed in your cap and gown and you’re in the practice gym, but what truly captures your attention is the makeshift stage that’s been assembled at the center of the court. There’s a podium, where one of the coordinators from UConn’s Department of Biology stands – you’d worked with her a lot when it came to your academics since you were always booked and busy with class, studying, practice, and games. Your entire team sits in neat little rows in front of the stage dressed in their practice jerseys, but most of all, your parents are front and center, too.

“Paige,” you whisper, your voice catching, and she takes your hands in hers.

“Surprise!” she says, her tone soft. Despite yourself, you give a watery laugh, trying not to cry in front of everyone. “You weren’t able to go back to Storrs to walk across the stage. So…I pulled some strings and brought Storrs to you.” You take the scene in again, your heart full. You lock eyes with Arike, who’s holding a laptop. She lifts it slightly to show you the Zoom call she’s on. The screen is full of your teammates – KK, Morgan, Ice, Sarah – and you can hear their cheers through the computer speakers.

“Dr. Snyder agreed to speak and present your diploma,” Paige continues. “And I flew out your parents for the weekend.” She lowers her voice, ensuring that only you can hear her. Your lip trembles, the love you feel for your girlfriend almost overwhelming. “I know this means a lot to you. Graduating. I’m sorry we couldn’t be in Storrs to do this, but…you deserve to be honored. You deserve to do this.” Her eyes shine a little brighter, the affection almost stifling. “I love you, and I’m so proud of you. I hope you like it.”

“Like it?” you echo, disbelief lacing your tone as you laugh again. “Paige, I love this.” Her features relax a little, her grin widening as she pulls you into a tight hug. “This means everything to me.”

“Then let’s graduate.”

You pull away and your teammates, coaching staff, and trainers all clap for you as you make your way to the lone seat reserved for you in front of everyone else. You grin a little, shaking your head as Dr. Snyder steps up to the podium fully, taking her job incredibly seriously. She clears her throat.

“Esteemed graduate, friends, family, teammates old and new,” she begins, winking at you, and you let your smile grow without a care in the world. “We’re gathered here today to celebrate an extremely special individual who was unable to make it back to Storrs to receive her degree. But unconventional does not mean undeserving, and I certainly can’t name one other student who deserves this more than she does.

“I’ve guided many students in my career,” Dr. Snyder continues. “None of them are ever the same, yet she stands a caliber above the rest. She juggled a rigorous course load, a taxing athletic schedule, and she did this for four years with determination, wit, and unyielding perseverance. She has made such a profound impact on our university, on the basketball program, as well as in the lives of many people around her. I am proud to have advised her, but even more proud to stand here today to see her achieve her dreams. On behalf of everyone at the University of Connecticut, we are so excited to see you write this next chapter of your life.”

If there weren’t tears in your eyes during Dr. Snyder’s speech, then there are when she reaches for the degree cover and says your name. It feels like getting drafted all over again – but it’s even better than being drafted, because this has been your dream longer than basketball has been a reality. It was difficult, and most days it felt damn near impossible, but you did it.

You rise to the raucous applause in the gym, a beaming smile on your face as you make your way to the stage. Before you reach for your hard-earned degree, you give Dr. Snyder a crushing hug, thanking her profusely. Together, you hold onto your degree, smiling for the pictures that your parents, Paige, and the Dallas Wings media team take all at once. Even Arike is angling the computer towards you and you can vaguely hear KK over the computer screaming, “Screenshot it!” – which makes you laugh, because you know they’d have your back. Always.

You step down, degree in hand, and Paige grins at you with that soft, cheeky, scrunchy look of hers. You roll your eyes, the tears surging forward again and you wrap your arms around her tightly, burying your face in her neck and letting it all out. And when your parents step forward, too, wrapping the both of you in a large, crushing hug, you weren’t too sure how you were supposed to keep it together at all.

Graduation wasn’t how you thought it would be, but the knowledge that your family got to see you walk across the stage means everything to you.

You’ve accomplished one dream, and now, it’s time for the next.

World might turn upside down but you will never catch me calling a man " daddy"