Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The start of the NBA regular season had a sound.

It wasn't the roar of the crowd—though that was part of it. It was something quieter, something closer. The echo of sneakers on hardwood, the low rumble of pregame hype tracks bouncing off the walls of State Farm Arena, the zip of velcro as players adjusted sleeves, braces, wraps.

Theresa Young knew the sound by heart.

She stood just off the court, behind the bench, arms crossed over her chest and eyes scanning the energy around her. Her badge caught a bit of light from the overheads. It swung softly with every shift of her weight, clipped to the front of a cropped Hawks windbreaker she didn't think twice about putting on.

This was home.

Not the spotlight. Not the headlines. But the space behind them—the machinery of game nights, the rhythm of schedules, the people who knew how to be invisible while everything around them stayed loud.

She'd been here since she was a kid. First in the stands. Then backstage. Then on lists. Now in roles. She worked across digital content, handled social integrations, consulted with the comms team, and floated wherever she was needed—especially when it came to Trae.

The court glowed beneath her, polished and perfect. Warmups were in full swing, the team stretching, shooting, bouncing energy off each other like static. Her brother was already on the floor, shooting through pregame warmups with the same loose focus he always had. His hoodie was still on, sleeves pushed up. He hadn't gotten serious yet. But he would.

Theresa watched him knock down three in a row before she finally let herself breathe. She smiled as Trae jogged past, nodding once in her direction without needing to say anything. They had their own shorthand. Always had. And it didn't take much to say I see you. Glad you're here.

It was opening night. There was always a little buzz in her chest—part nerves, part pride. But it never lasted long. Not when the game started.

"Big energy tonight," someone said behind her.

She didn't turn around. She didn't have to.

"Always is," she replied.

Jalen Johnson stepped up beside her, smelling like fresh laundry and that cologne he always wore—subtle, expensive, almost sweet. He was still in warmups, bouncing lightly on his toes, a towel slung around his neck. His voice was low, easy. His eyes followed the movement on the court, but his body was leaned slightly toward her.

"You look serious," he said.

"I'm working."

"You're standing."

"Same thing."

He grinned, teeth flashing just slightly. "You gonna wish me luck, or...?"

She looked at him. Just once. Just enough. "Don't miss layups."

He laughed. "Cold."

"I'm supportive. In my own way."

"I like your way."

She shook her head, amused. This was their rhythm—dry, unspoken, maybe a little too comfortable. He bumped her arm with his lightly before jogging toward the bench, leaving her with the scent of whatever he'd sprayed on and the echo of his voice still hanging in her ear.

The anthem played. The lights dropped. And when the arena erupted, she felt it all over again—that spark in her chest, the one that came from being here.

Not because of the fame. Not even because of Trae.

But because basketball was in her blood.

She made her way to her usual spot—second row behind the bench, close enough to catch the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the under-the-breath trash talk that didn't make it onto the broadcast.

The introductions hit hard, as always.

The arena pulsed with bass, lights flashing in sync with the music, fans on their feet like they were waiting for something more than just a basketball game.

Theresa barely looked up when the Hawks starters were announced. She didn't need to. She knew every name, every movement, every moment before it happened.

Trae's name got the loudest cheer, as it always did. His signature wave to the crowd, the walk to center court, the half-smile that barely reached his eyes—that was all familiar.

He'd never say it, but she could tell how much weight opening night carried for him. How every year he shouldered more expectations, more pressure, more eyes.

But he never showed it when it counted.

The game tipped off clean. Atlanta controlled early. Trae moved like he'd never left the floor from last season, directing traffic with his eyes, his shoulders, his wrists. Smooth. Efficient.

Theresa watched him like she always did—analytical, proud, a little protective.

The first timeout came fast, and she stood without thinking, slipping behind the bench with a water bottle in hand for one of the assistants. She didn't have to do that anymore, not really, but old habits didn't die easily. Especially not here.

Jalen dropped onto the bench near Trae, towel draped over his neck, breath even, eyes scanning the scoreboard.

And when Theresa passed behind him on her way back to her seat, his fingers brushed her hip just lightly—like it was nothing. She didn't stop walking. Didn't look back or say anything. But she noticed.

The game stayed tight. The opponent wasn't a throwaway team. They weren't the Wizards, but they weren't soft either. A lot of ball movement. Pressure on the perimeter. A few dumb turnovers on Atlanta's side.

Trae sunk a three just before the shot clock expired, the crowd exploding around them. Theresa clapped, calm but proud. She never cheered the loudest, but he always knew she was there. That mattered more.

At halftime, Theresa slipped out of the bowl and into the tunnel, answering a couple texts and confirming content deliverables for the team's social lead. Nothing urgent. Nothing unexpected.

Serena texted her twice.

Serena:  You better be courtside with that blazer.

Serena:  Tell Jalen to hit his free throws pls.

Theresa didn't reply. But her lips curved just barely.

When she returned to the arena, the energy had shifted. The third quarter was starting to crackle. Both benches louder. Coaches barking more. Fans standing longer.

She sat again—tension low in her shoulders, but never gone.

Jalen had picked up speed. He was quick tonight. Confident. Maybe it was opening night adrenaline. Maybe it was something else.

When he hit a contested three from the corner, the crowd surged to its feet. And his eyes found Theresa's for just half a second. He didn't smile. Didn't gesture. But the look was there. Like he wanted her to have seen it.

She had. She didn't react. But he knew.

The game moved fast. The team looked sharp. There were still wrinkles to iron out, but it was a strong start—and the crowd knew it. When the fourth quarter came, everyone was on their feet, energy electric.

Theresa stayed seated. She didn't need to stand to feel the pulse of the court. It was already under her skin.

The final five minutes moved like they were stuck in quicksand.

Every possession felt heavier. Every shot came with a roar or a groan. The lead flipped twice before Atlanta locked back in with a full-court press and a run that snapped the tension in the arena like a rubber band.

Trae took over with under three minutes to go—quick pull-up from deep, a drive that drew two defenders and left the lane wide open for a dish to Jalen, who finished clean at the rim.

The bench erupted. So did the crowd.

Theresa didn't move. Just watched.

She knew what Trae looked like when he flipped the switch. She could see it in his shoulders, in the way he moved without hesitation, like the game had slowed down for him and him alone. She wasn't surprised when he iced it with a step-back three on the next trip down the floor. That was just what he did.

After the final buzzer, the Hawks walked away with the win. Nothing flashy. Just clean, smart basketball—the kind of start that set the tone for everything to come.

The scoreboard glowed red and clean: ATL 112 - BKN 105

Opening night: won.

She stood when the bench cleared.

High fives. Towels tossed. Shoulder slaps all around.

She didn't push toward the tunnel right away. She waited. Watched.

Jalen dapped up the other team, pulled off his jersey halfway, and ran a towel through his curls. He looked up once, scanning the stands like he was trying to catch someone's eye.

It might've been hers. She wasn't sure.

Trae jogged off court and into the tunnel with a few players behind him, already shaking his head at something one of the coaches said.

Theresa followed a beat later, slipping into the familiar postgame chaos like it was muscle memory—clipboards, camera flashes, the soft buzz of interviews starting just outside the locker room.

She leaned against the wall near the back door, phone in hand, answering a message from one of the team's digital guys.

"Quiet back there," a voice said beside her.

She glanced up. Jalen.

He was still in half-uniform, towel slung around his shoulders, expression relaxed.

"You get your win," she said.

He nodded. "You see that corner three?"

"I'm not blind."

He smiled. "Didn't say you were."

The look between them lingered—short, nothing heavy.

From down the hall, someone called out his name—trainer probably. Jalen gave her a final look before jogging off.

She didn't follow. Didn't move. She waited a little longer. Then tucked her phone away and headed toward the locker room. Trae would want to see her. And she wanted to make sure he was good—even if she already knew he was.

The locker room smelled like sweat, disinfectant, and something vaguely citrusy from the team's new postgame spray. Not unpleasant—just familiar.

Theresa slipped inside without knocking. She didn't have to. Most of the players barely looked up. She was part of the routine, just like tape, towels, and postgame stats.

Trae was still in his uniform, though his jersey was tossed on the bench next to him. He was leaned forward, elbows on his knees, scrolling through something on his phone.

"Don't say it," he muttered as soon as he noticed her.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to say 'good game,' but now I'm reconsidering."

Trae grinned without looking up. "You always wait until I win to be nice."

"You always wait until the fourth quarter to show up."

He looked over at her then, fully. "Still here, though."

"Barely."

"Still counts."

She smiled, just barely. Crossed her arms and leaned against the nearest wall.

"Seriously, though," she said, softer. "You looked sharp."

He nodded once. "Felt good. First ones always weird. Everyone's too keyed up."

"You didn't look keyed up."

"Didn't want to give you the satisfaction."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "You're welcome."

There was a pause then. Comfortable.

Trae looked back down at his phone. "You going to the team thing later?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether I want to sit through two hours of guys quoting themselves and eating wings like they invented seasoning."

He laughed. "That's a yes."

Theresa shrugged. "We'll see."

"Bring Serena. They like her more than they like you."

"She tips better."

"You don't tip at team events."

"She still does."

He shook his head, but the smile lingered.

Theresa stayed for another few minutes, long enough to see him settle, to make sure the trainers weren't swarming him for anything other than routine. Then she dipped out quietly. No announcement. No goodbyes. Just the usual path out of the arena, hoodie pulled up, bag over her shoulder, head down against the cool night air.

The postgame buzz hadn't worn off yet.

Even an hour later, the team hang had that low hum of energy—music low, food stacked high, players spread out across the space like they were still on the court, half trash talk, half celebration. It wasn't a formal event. More like a ritual. Wings, drinks, replay highlights on loop, and the occasional toast that never made it more than halfway through before someone cracked a joke.

Theresa stepped inside without much fanfare, Serena at her side, both of them ditching their coats near the front and sliding into the rhythm of the night.

"Alright, alright," Serena said, eyeing the spread. "This is what I came for. Don't talk to me unless it's about lemon pepper or honey hot."

Theresa smiled. "Trae said you're more liked than I am."

"Because I am. You're mean to them."

"They're grown men."

"They're sensitive."

Serena peeled off toward the food, already waving to a couple players on the way. Theresa hung back for a second. The room was bright but relaxed, players dressed down in hoodies, joggers, chains. Coaches lingered by the bar. A few girlfriends and family members were scattered throughout. It was loud, but not chaotic.

Jalen was across the room. Different hoodie. Same towel around his shoulders like he hadn't noticed it was still there. He was leaning against the wall, drink in hand, laughing at something someone said. He looked relaxed. Confident in that way that never really turned off. He didn't see her yet.

Theresa slipped toward a quieter corner of the room, just outside the halo of the main group. She wasn't trying to avoid him—not really. But she didn't want to hover either.

Trae passed her on his way toward the drinks table. "You came."

"I owed you one."

"You owe me a lot of things," he called over his shoulder.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed a ginger ale.

For a while, she just observed. The guys were loud—predictably. Someone was reliving a missed dunk like it was a war story. Another was playing DJ, skipping songs too early. Coaches were arguing about football. It was the same as always, which made it easy to disappear into.

Until Jalen broke from the group and made his way over.

"You're really not gonna say anything about that pass I dropped to Dee in the third?"

Theresa didn't look up from her drink. "Did it go in?"

"Obviously."

"Then I don't care."

He chuckled. "Tough crowd."

She glanced at him then—quick, unreadable. "You were good tonight."

"You say that like it hurts."

"A little."

Jalen leaned beside her, one shoulder brushing the wall, just close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. Not touching. But aware.

"You bring Serena to protect you?" he asked.

"She's here for the wings."

"Smart."

They didn't say anything for a beat. The sounds of the party carried on around them, muffled just slightly by the corner they'd found.

"You know," he said, low, "I didn't expect you to come."

"Why not?"

"You don't usually show unless Trae asks."

She shrugged. "He did."

"But that's not why you came."

She didn't answer. She didn't look at him either.

He waited. Then said, almost gently, "I like having you here."

That made her turn. Just slightly. Just enough to see if he meant it.

But by then, he was already pushing off the wall, stepping back into the fray with a wink and a throwaway: "Don't go ghost on me."

Theresa watched him go, expression unreadable. He blended back into the room, sliding into a conversation like nothing had just passed between them.

That was the thing about Jalen—he had a way of leaving you thinking about something he'd already stopped thinking about.

Theresa stayed in her corner, drink in hand, heartbeat steady. Maybe too steady.

"You good?" Serena appeared with a plate stacked dangerously high and an arched brow that said she'd noticed everything.

"Yeah."

"Uh huh." She leaned against the wall beside her. "You and Jalen doing your little almost-a-thing again?"

Theresa didn't answer.

Serena popped a wing in her mouth, chewed, then spoke with her mouth half-full. "You know you're too smart for that, right?"

Theresa's eyes didn't move. "For what?"

"That whole... slow-motion, barely-there, friends-but-not-really, I-saw-you-look-at-me-so-I-might-text-you vibe y'all do."

"It's not like that."

Serena gave her a look.

Theresa exhaled. "Okay. Sometimes it's like that."

"Girl."

"It's not serious."

"Exactly my point."

Theresa didn't say anything. Didn't have to. Serena bumped her shoulder lightly.

"You want it to be, though."

Theresa looked away. That was enough of an answer.

Serena didn't push. She just finished her wing, wiped her fingers, and nudged Theresa's arm with her elbow.

"I like you better when you're delusional over NBA boys with actual intentions."

"Wow."

"I'm just saying."

Theresa cracked a smile despite herself. "You're a menace."

"You're lucky I'm pretty."

A few minutes passed in easy silence. The team crowd was starting to thin a little—some of the guys dipping early, others settling into the kind of late-night pacing that meant it'd be hours before they left. Theresa finished her drink, set the cup down on a nearby ledge.

She didn't know why she stayed longer. She wasn't waiting for anything. Wasn't hoping. But when Jalen glanced over again, when his eyes caught hers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary—she felt that little pulse again.

Eventually, the party started to lose its edge.

The music dipped. Conversations mellowed. A few players peeled off, tossing casual goodbyes over their shoulders. The energy was still there, but it had settled into something softer—familiar and forgettable.

Serena had dipped twenty minutes ago with a dramatic yawn and a kiss on the cheek. Trae had vanished not long after, pulled into some postgame recovery schedule he swore he hated but never skipped.

Theresa stayed a little longer than she meant to. She could've left. Probably should've. But she stood in the corner for a while, watching the room wind down, letting the weight of the night catch up with her.

That's where Jalen found her. Again.

"You've been real quiet tonight," he said.

"I'm always quiet."

"Not with me."

She glanced at him. "Maybe I'm evolving."

He smiled like he didn't believe her. "You thinking about heading out?"

"I should."

"But you won't."

She didn't respond.

He moved a little closer, slow. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Just enough that she felt it.

"You waiting for something?"

"No."

"Someone?"

She looked at him. "You fishing for something, Jalen?"

He shrugged, eyes steady. "Just asking."

"You always ask when you already know the answer."

"I like hearing you say it anyway."

That made her pause. Not because she didn't have something to say back—but because for once, she didn't want to say the wrong thing. And that was new. That wasn't part of their game.

But the moment was short lived, his attention occupied with something else already, and she slipped out quietly—no drawn-out goodbyes, no lingering looks. Just keys in hand, wind in her hair, and the ache of too much noise in her head. She drove home in silence. No music. Just the hum of the tires and the low buzz of thoughts she wasn't quite ready to name.

By the time she reached her apartment, the adrenaline had worn off. The win had settled into memory. The lights of State Farm Arena were long behind her. She didn't text anyone goodnight. She didn't check if anyone had texted her.

She just showered, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes longer than she meant to. The room was still. Too still.

The kind of quiet that only felt loud when you didn't know what you were supposed to be thinking about.

She tried to focus on the win. On how good Trae had looked. On how sharp the team seemed out the gate. On how the campaign rollout next week would need her full attention.

She exhaled slowly, rolled onto her side, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

The silence didn't bother her. She was used to it by now. Used to the soft hum of nothing, to the way the city dulled itself by midnight. Used to nights that didn't feel empty, just... open.

She listened to the wind slip through the cracks in her window. The hum of her fridge. A car passing below. Everything was quiet. Everything was fine.

And the season had started.

Chapter Text

Theresa's apartment always felt the same in the morning—quiet, a little cold, and just bright enough to make her squint as she opened her eyes. She stayed in bed longer than she should have, stretched across the covers in the hoodie she'd pulled on the night before. She didn't rush.

Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand. She ignored it for a second. Then reached for it.

Jalen: You make it home alright?

A small smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She typed back:
Theresa: Yeah. Crashed hard. You?

He replied almost instantly.
Jalen: I'm good. Let me know if you wanna link up later.

She didn't answer right away. Not because she didn't want to. But because she didn't need to. There was no pressure between them. No rules. No expectations. Just... a soft thread running quietly underneath it all.

She rolled out of bed, pulled on sweats and a tank top, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Coffee brewed in the corner, its soft drip the only sound breaking the morning stillness. She moved around the apartment with the calm precision of someone who knew her space inside and out.

Her phone buzzed once—an early notification from the Hawks' content drive. Postgame photos, highlights, and a half-dozen shots from tunnel cams uploaded overnight.

She opened the folder on her laptop and started skimming through. A few solid frames of Trae. Jalen in motion, towel slung around his neck, eyes locked on something just outside the frame.

She saved a couple, passed the rest to the social lead, and flagged a short post-interview clip of Trae that would do well once clipped down to thirty seconds.

The work was easy. Familiar. Background noise for her thoughts.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was Serena.

Serena: You're not allowed to be smug about last night just because your brother didn't flop in the fourth.

Theresa: You're not allowed to be this awake. It's 9:15.

Serena: Wake up. Vibe check. Also, are we going to that team mixer on Thursday or not?

Theresa hesitated. She hadn't really decided. The Hawks' annual "start-of-season hang" was more casual than anything—a party disguised as bonding. No suits. No pressure. Just players, staff, and a select few who were in enough to get an invite.

Jalen had mentioned it last week. Trae hadn't. But she always went.

Theresa: Yeah. We'll go.

Serena: Wear something tight. I'm manifesting chaos.

Theresa rolled her eyes but smiled into her coffee.

A second cup of coffee came and went. The light shifted warmer.

Theresa moved from her laptop to the couch, pulled a blanket over her legs, and opened her notes app to sketch out a few ideas for next week's Nike campaign shoot. She wasn't leading the production, but she was close enough to it to have a say in everything that mattered.

Player rotations. Interview prompts. Lighting angles. The kind of details people missed unless they were the ones responsible for cleaning up the mess after.

A new email popped up—confirmation of the guest list for the Hawks' next home game. She skimmed it automatically.

Charlotte @ Atlanta. Saturday night.

Her eyes paused briefly on the name, but then she flagged the email and moved on.

She finished her coffee and took a shower and threw on jeans and a cropped jacket, hair pulled into a low bun. She wasn't going anywhere fancy, just decided she didn't want to stay still.

Trae had sent her a casual "u around?" earlier, and she figured that was his version of saying come through without asking for anything.

By the time she pulled up to his house, the sun had pushed out from the clouds and Atlanta was fully awake.

She let herself in.

"You're gonna get jumped one day," Trae called from the kitchen. "Walking in like you own the place."

"I do own a percentage of your soul," she called back.

"Gross."

She found him elbow-deep in a smoothie situation—protein powder, almond butter, something green she didn't want to identify.

"I'm not drinking that."

"Didn't offer."

"Okay, but now I'm offended."

Trae rolled his eyes and handed her a glass of cold water. "You sleep alright?"

She nodded, taking a sip. "Yeah. You?"

"Didn't come down off the game high till like 2 a.m."

"That's how you know you're still in it."

He shrugged, but she saw it—the glint in his eye, the way his shoulders were looser than usual. A win on opening night carried weight. Even if no one said it out loud.

"You looked good last night," she said. "Focused."

"Felt good. I think we got something this year."

"You say that every year."

"This time I mean it."

Theresa leaned against the counter and watched him for a moment. There were few places she felt more like herself than in rooms like this—off-court, no cameras, just her brother and the familiar sound of basketball still echoing in the background like it lived in the walls.

He looked up from the blender. "You going to the thing Thursday?"

She nodded. "Thinking about it."

"Jalen's gonna be there," he said casually.

"I know."

"You two still in that undefined, unproblematic thing where you pretend like feelings don't exist?"

She gave him a flat look. "I see you're still running your mouth."

Trae grinned. "I'm just saying. If you're gonna float, make sure you're not the only one doing the swimming."

She didn't reply right away. Mostly because he wasn't wrong.

Theresa sat on one of the barstools, watching Trae finish blending whatever chaos he called breakfast. He poured half into a shaker, left the rest in the blender, and leaned his elbows against the island across from her.

"You seeing him today?"

She didn't have to play dumb and pretend like she didn't know who he was.

"Maybe."

He didn't smirk. Didn't tease. Just kept watching her.

"I like Jalen," he said finally. "As a teammate."

Theresa blinked, caught off guard. "Okay?"

"But this thing y'all got going on?" He shook his head. "That's a different story."

She crossed her arms. "Because?"

"Because I've got to share a locker room with the dude. Run plays with him. Trust him on the court. That's hard to do when I'm wondering what kind of dumb shit he's saying to my sister when I'm not around."

Theresa let out a breath, half a laugh. "You think I'm letting him play me?"

"I think you care more than you want to admit, Tess," Trae said, still calm. "And Jalen? He's not a bad guy. But he's young, he's focused on the season, and you're... you."

She raised a brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're not just anyone. You're you. My sister. Someone who deserves more than halfway attention when it's convenient."

That one hit. And he knew it.

She didn't respond right away. Just stared at the condensation dripping down the side of her water glass.

"Look," Trae added, "if this was someone outside the team, it'd still matter. But Jalen? He's in my space. If he hurts you, that follows me. If he plays games, I feel that."

"And what?" she said quietly. "You'll bench him from my life?"

Trae didn't blink. "Yes. If I have to."

His voice was even. No edge, no drama—just fact.

Theresa met his eyes, and for a second, neither of them looked away.

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't posturing. It was love. Uncomplicated and loud in its own quiet way.

She looked down again, tapping her nail softly against the side of her glass. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"I know." Trae leaned back against the counter, arms crossed now. "But that's never meant I stop looking out for you."

She didn't argue. Because she didn't want to. Not with him. Not when he wasn't wrong.

Later, she helped him stretch—routine stuff. Light rebounds, a couple glute bands, gentle resistance. She didn't need to be there for any of it, but Trae never asked and she never said no.

It was their thing.

And no matter how big the games got, no matter who was in the crowd—this was the part that didn't change.

As she got up to leave, he called after her.

"You coming Saturday?"

She paused by the door. "To what?"

"Charlotte game. You know it's gonna be packed."

"Obviously."

Trae grinned. "Good. Bring Serena."

"She brings herself."

"She brings chaos."

"You love it."

He didn't deny it.

Theresa stepped back out into the late afternoon sun with a lightness she hadn't realized she needed.

Her phone buzzed as she pulled into her parking garage.

Jalen: Still down to chill?

She stared at the screen for a second. Not because she didn't want to say yes—but because now her brother's voice was right there in her head, the conversation still sitting just beneath her skin.

I've got to share a locker room with the dude.

You're you.

It wasn't anger. Not really. Just... weight. The kind that came with being seen too clearly by someone who always knew how to press the softest spot without even trying.

She thumbed out a reply anyway.

Theresa: Yeah. Just got home. Gonna reset for a bit, but hit me up later.

She didn't wait for him to text back. Didn't check if he read it. Instead, she headed upstairs, kicked off her sneakers, and sank into the couch. The TV stayed off. Her phone stayed face-down.

She didn't want distraction. She just wanted space. Time to hear her own thoughts over everyone else's.

A couple of hours passed before her phone buzzed again.

Jalen: Bout to head out. You wanna come through or nah?

The message wasn't pushy. Wasn't even flirtatious. Just his usual shorthand—casual, cool, no pressure. The kind of thing that used to make her feel relaxed.

It still did. Mostly.

She threw on fresh joggers and a clean zip-up, pulled her hair into a messy twist, and grabbed her keys.

It wasn't a big deal. They weren't dating. They weren't defining anything. But she still stood in front of the mirror for a beat longer than she meant to. Then she shook it off and left.

Jalen's place was only fifteen minutes away, tucked into a lowkey building just outside Midtown. Not flashy, but nice. It was dark by the time she got there, the air warm and thick the way Atlanta nights always were in early fall.

He buzzed her in without a word.

When she stepped into his apartment, he was already stretched out on the couch, ESPN humming in the background, a takeout container open on the coffee table.

He looked up when she walked in.

"Hey."

"Hey."

She dropped her bag near the door and toed off her slides. The room smelled like Thai food and clean laundry. Comfort.

"Hungry?" he asked, nodding toward the extra container.

She nodded. "Starving."

He passed it over without getting up, then shifted to make room as she sat beside him. No big moves. No dramatic tension.

She picked at the noodles while he scrolled his phone one-handed, the two of them half-listening to the game recap on TV.

After a while, she leaned her head against the back of the couch.

He glanced over. "You tired?"

She shrugged. "Kinda."

"You don't have to stay long."

"I know."

But she didn't move. Didn't lean in either. They just sat there—close, familiar, but not quite connected.

Eventually, he set his phone down and shifted toward her a little more, one arm draped along the back of the couch, his hand brushing her shoulder lightly.

"You been alright?" he asked, voice low.

She nodded, not looking at him. "Yeah. Long day. But it was a good one."

"Felt that. You looked real locked in last night."

She smiled, soft. "You watched me?"

He smirked. "You were sitting right behind the bench. Kinda hard not to."

She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away when his fingers traced the curve of her shoulder gently.

"You always make the game feel bigger," he said, voice a little quieter now. "Like it matters more when you're there."

It was the kind of line that could've felt like nothing—throwaway, casual, easy to dismiss.

But coming from Jalen? It was something.

And Theresa? She let herself lean into that. Just a little. Not because it felt like fireworks. But because it felt like something steady.

She turned slightly, meeting his eyes, and after a beat, he leaned in and kissed her—slow, familiar, unhurried.

When they pulled apart, she didn't say anything. Didn't need to. She just settled a little closer to him, the TV still murmuring in the background, the night stretching out ahead of them. And even though a quiet part of her knew this wasn't the full picture... it was enough to hold onto.

It was late when she finally stood to leave.

Jalen didn't ask her to stay. He walked her to the door, loose and easy, hoodie pulled over his head like he might crash the second she left.

"Text me when you get in," he said, casual.

"I will."

She hesitated—not because she wanted more, but because moments like this always felt like they could tilt one way or another. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. Her fingers brushed his for half a second as he handed her her slides. He didn't kiss her again.

Just gave her a small nod. "Later, T."

"Night, Jalen."

The drive home was quiet. Familiar roads, low traffic, a city that still pulsed under its own heartbeat even in the lull of night.

Theresa didn't turn on music. Didn't think too hard. Didn't need to.

By the time she reached her building, the weight of the day had caught up to her. But it didn't sit heavy—just quiet. Just there.

She slipped out of her zip-up, dropped her keys on the entry table, and stood for a moment in the soft stillness of her apartment.

Then she crossed to the couch, folded herself into her favorite blanket, and pulled her laptop into her lap. She didn't open anything urgent.

Just a few quiet content folders. A doc full of campaign notes she didn't need to finish yet. A half-started sentence that sat blinking on her screen for a while before she finally typed something beside it. She erased it two seconds later.

Outside, the city moved like it always did. A little louder on a Tuesday night than it needed to be. Horns. Voices. Bass.

She leaned her head back against the couch and let her eyes close for a moment. The night settled in.

And Saturday was coming. 

Chapter Text

Theresa woke up to light already slipping through the edges of her blinds, soft and gold and unapologetic. She blinked against it, groaned, and stretched slowly across the length of her bed. No alarm today—her body knew what time it was. Her body always knew.

She didn't reach for her phone right away. Not because she didn't care what it might say, but because she didn't want to give herself away.

Eventually, she sat up, pulled her hair into a loose twist, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Coffee. Light breakfast. Calm. Her apartment stayed quiet, just the way she liked it.

It was only after the first few sips of coffee that she flipped her phone over.

Still no text from Jalen.

It wasn't a problem. Not really. She hadn't expected anything. Not after the way last night ended—warm, easy, and just distant enough to remind her of the space they always seemed to keep between them. It wasn't rejection. It wasn't closeness either.

It was what it always was: familiar, unfinished.

She scrolled once through her inbox. The usual: updated photo selects from the Hawks' media day, a new thread from the Nike campaign producer, and a mass text from one of the team's social interns confirming Thursday night's "season start mixer."

Thursday, 7:00 p.m. Casual. Let us know if you're bringing someone!

Theresa didn't reply. Just archived it and moved on.

She spent the first half of the day at the team facility. Not for anything glamorous—just a short production meeting and a follow-up on a sponsorship segment that got delayed last week. The players were out on court running drills, scrimmage energy thick in the air.

Theresa floated around the perimeter of it all, coffee in hand, lanyard swinging from her neck. She didn't need to be here. But it was easier to get eyes on things when she was close.

She passed one of the content crew by the tunnel, offered a few notes on shot angles for a player spotlight, and ducked into the side corridor to grab an updated schedule printout.

She didn't even realize Jalen was in the gym until she heard his voice—low, sharp, echoing off the hardwood.

She glanced out.

He was mid-scrimmage. Guarding hard. Talking trash in bursts and laughing through it. That kind of ease he wore like a hoodie—slouchy, casual, always on.

He didn't see her.

And even though she didn't linger, even though she didn't step closer, it still landed somewhere beneath her ribs. The way he existed in that space without thinking about how she might be watching. The way she always noticed him, even when she wasn't trying.

She looked away before he could catch her. Her phone chimed as she made her way down the hallway.

Serena: You better not back out tomorrow. I'm already emotionally attached to my outfit.

Theresa: I said I was going.

Serena: You also said you weren't gonna cry when Trae got drafted.

Theresa: I didn't cry. My eyes just got a little sweaty.

Serena: Mmhm. Anyway. If you show up in jeans and vibes, I'm calling the cops.

Theresa rolled her eyes but still smiled.

The day kept moving. A few more check-ins. A couple more edits. Nothing difficult. Nothing emotional. Just work—the kind of rhythm she'd built for herself, day by day, choice by choice. There was comfort in it.

Until her phone buzzed again.

Trae: you around?

She sent back a quick Yeah, followed by Heading your way.

He didn't say why. He never needed to.

When she got to his place, the front door was cracked open. He was inside, one shoe off, foam rolling with half his attention on the TV.

"You look like you got hit by a truck," she said, stepping in.

"I feel like I ran through one," he muttered. "That was a long-ass practice."

She tossed her keys on the console. "You're dramatic."

"I'm serious. Coach had us running full-court transitions like it was game seven."

Theresa dropped onto the floor beside him, legs stretched in front of her. "You'll live."

He made a face but didn't argue.

They sat like that for a while. Nothing heavy. Nothing urgent. Just two people who'd done this a thousand times before—letting the room be quiet around them.

He shifted the roller out from under him and leaned his back against the wall. "You see Jalen today?"

Theresa didn't look up. "He was at practice."

"You talk?"

"Nope."

"You want to?"

She paused. "I guess."

Trae didn't push. He never did. But he didn't let things go either.

"I know you're not trying to make it anything," he said. "But sometimes no-label situationships still come with expectations. Just... no one wants to admit it."

She sighed. "You practicing speeches now?"

"I'm your brother."

"That's not an answer."

"It's my job to be annoying."

She finally looked over at him. "I like him," she said softly. "And it's not serious. I'm okay with that."

Trae nodded once. "Just don't convince yourself you're okay with it if you're not."

Later, they ran through a couple stretching drills, more out of habit than necessity. She knew his routine better than anyone—what he'd ask for, what he'd pretend not to need until his shoulder popped just the wrong way.

They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. But when he rotated his shoulder with a soft wince, Theresa gave him a look. "You're not icing that later, are you?"

"I am if you remind me," Trae muttered, adjusting the band around his knee.

She nudged his foot lightly with hers. "Consider it a reminder."

They moved through the last few stretches, the late afternoon sun pouring in through the side windows. The house was quiet except for the low hum of a podcast playing in the background—one of Trae's go-tos, already halfway through.

"Saturday's gonna be loud," he said after a minute.

Theresa arched a brow. "Because of Serena's outfit?"

He gave her a look. "Because Charlotte's in town."

She nodded, slow. "Right. Home game."

"They got Ball back in rotation."

There was a flicker—quick, unreadable—across her face. Barely there. But Trae caught it anyway.

Theresa didn't bite. Just stood, dusted her hands on her joggers, and said, "Not my problem."

"Didn't say it was," Trae replied easily, stretching his arms behind his head. "Just saying—he's back."

She grabbed her jacket off the chair and tossed it over her shoulder. "I'll be there for the team."

"You always are."

She paused at the door.

"And hey," Trae called after her. "Don't let Serena drag you into a fight over ranch."

Theresa caught the protein bar he tossed without looking. "Only if she wins."

"She will."

It was evening when she got home.

The sun had already slipped past the horizon, leaving that dusky blue glow hanging in the air like a breath caught in the chest. She didn't bother turning on any lights. Just dropped her bag, shed her jacket, and walked barefoot to the kitchen.

No messages. No missed calls. She didn't check twice.

The apartment was quiet, a little cold, just the way she liked it. She reheated leftovers from two nights ago, scrolled briefly through her inbox, and opened her content tracker for the weekend.

She wasn't tired. But she wasn't restless either. She was just... still.

The kind of still that made her aware of how much space she took up in a room. The kind that made her wonder, just a little, if anyone was thinking about her when she wasn't there.

Later, while Theresa moved through her apartment—mind half on her notes for the Nike shoot and half on what Trae had said—her phone lit up with an incoming FaceTime from Serena.

She almost didn't answer. Almost let it ring out. But Serena didn't FaceTime for nothing. And she definitely didn't wait around for missed calls. Theresa swiped to accept, holding the phone at a lazy angle. Serena's face filled the screen, already angled for lighting, already smirking.

"I bought a dress," she announced.

"You're ahead of schedule."

"I'm always ahead of schedule."

Theresa sank deeper into the cushions, phone propped in her hand. "It's just a mixer."

Serena's mouth dropped open. "Just a mixer? Ma'am. Not you playing modest during the first actual vibe check of the season. The team's first real social event of the season? Post-opening win energy? The cocktail napkins will be buzzing."

"It's a glorified happy hour."

"With cameras, cocktails, and at least three players who think they can DJ. You know it gets messy. Fun messy. "

"You need hobbies."

"This is my hobby. Plus—" she tilted the screen to show a red slip dress hanging over her closet door "—I'm bringing heat. Tell me this isn't a serve."

It was. Obviously. Theresa sighed. "You're trying to get us jumped."

Serena grinned. "If we're gonna make an impression, we gotta show up like we mean it."

"We're not showing up for them."

"No." Serena's voice dropped, eyes narrowing slightly. "But they'll still look."

Theresa didn't reply right away. Just held her phone steady, gaze softening.

Serena squinted at her. "Why do you look like you just got lectured by someone who loves you?"

Theresa paused, then sighed. "I went to see Trae."

"And he gave you the big brother monologue?"

"Something like that."

Serena leaned closer to her screen. "About Jalen?"

Theresa didn't say anything. Which was enough.

Serena nodded knowingly. "Let me guess—he said you deserve someone who doesn't treat you like a maybe."

"Not in so many words."

"Well. He's not wrong."

"I know."

"And yet..." Serena dragged the word out, watching her carefully.

Theresa rolled her eyes, looking away. "He texted. Asked if I wanted to chill later."

"And?"

"And I might."

Serena didn't say anything right away. Just tilted her head like she was scanning Theresa for cracks.

"He still treating you like convenience?" she asked softly.

Theresa exhaled through her nose. "It's not like that."

Serena gave her a if-you-say-so look and they let that hang.

Then Serena flipped the vibe back in an instant. "Anyway. Did you know Charlotte got Ball back in rotation for Saturday?"

Theresa scoffed under her breath. "Trae told me."

"Of course he did."

"He said it like it was some big warning."

Serena grinned. "He probably thinks you're gonna fight him mid-game."

Theresa's expression went flat. "Not getting my hands dirty."

Serena laughed. "Didn't say you would. Just said that's what Trae probably sees when he closes his eyes."

"Please." Theresa adjusted the blanket over her legs. "He's just annoyed I don't give Charlotte's golden boy any attention."

"That boy lives for attention."

"Exactly." She took a sip of water. "Which is why I'm not giving him any. I'm not giving that man a single ounce of my peace."

Serena grinned. "That's why it's gonna drive him crazy."

There was a long pause before Theresa finally whispered, "Good."

Serena cackled. "Oh, we're bringing chaos. Silent chaos. Stealth mode."

Theresa didn't laugh, but the corner of her mouth tugged up again. "You're too excited about this."

"I live for this."

"I know."

They sat there for another few moments, Serena flipping the camera around again to pick between heels, Theresa absently scrolling her notes but not really reading them.

"You ready for tomorrow?" Serena asked eventually.

"Not even close."

"But you'll be there?"

"I'll be there."

"Wearing black?"

"Probably."

"With attitude?"

"Always."

Serena grinned, satisfied. "That's my girl."

"Get some sleep," Theresa said, tucking herself deeper into the blanket.

"Only if you promise not to catch feelings tonight."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "Goodnight, Serena."

The screen went black.

Theresa set her phone aside, leaned her head back against the cushions, and let the quiet settle around her. Her eyes flicked toward her bag—still packed from earlier. Her mind buzzed with too many things at once. Work. Jalen. Trae's words. The game on Saturday.

She closed her eyes for a beat, then reached for her notes again.

She crawled into bed a little past midnight. No music. No TV. Just her and the sound of traffic outside her window, muffled and far away.

By Thursday afternoon, the buzz was already building.

The Hawks' season launch event wasn't technically mandatory, but attendance was... expected. It wasn't a gala, wasn't a press-facing thing. Just a team bonding night—players, staff and the people close enough to be invited into the fold.

Theresa hadn't planned to overthink it.

But somehow, she still spent twenty minutes trying to decide between outfits before landing on something simple: black wide-leg trousers, a white cropped tank, gold hoops and a sleek ponytail.

Effortless. Clean. Controlled.

She didn't dress for anyone. But she knew how to show up.

Serena texted her while she waited in the Uber.

Serena: I better be the hottest plus-one in the room.

Theresa:  I'm literally not even picking you up.

Serena:  I meant spiritually.

She smirked, dropping her phone in her bag as the driver pulled up to the private venue just outside downtown.

The building was slick and low-profile—part event space, part rooftop lounge. Hawks' security was posted out front, nodding at familiar faces as they slipped through the side entrance.

Inside, the lights were low and warm, music floating over the hum of conversation. Players clustered around tables, coaches floated near the bar and the vibe was easy—casual but clean.

Theresa spotted Jalen before he saw her. He was in a charcoal tee and black jeans, sneakers clean, his hair freshly twisted. He laughed at something one of the rookies said, dap'd someone up, moved through the room like it was his.

She hovered by the entrance for a second longer than she meant to, scanning the space, feeling the shift from arena to here. Everyone was different off court. A little looser. A little less guarded.

And just as she stepped forward, Serena appeared out of nowhere.

"Okay, you look hot. Like, I'd fight for you in a parking lot."

Theresa blinked. "Where did you come from?"

"Back entrance. I don't wait in lines, babe."

They moved toward the open bar together, slipping easily through the crowd. Trae spotted her first.

He raised his glass. "Look who showed."

She smirked. "You say that like I had a choice."

"You didn't. But I appreciate the illusion."

Jalen made his way to her not long after—easy smile, hand settling briefly on her lower back.

"Wasn't sure if you'd show," he said.

"I said I would."

"Yeah, but you play it cool a lot."

She raised a brow. "So do you."

He chuckled. "Touché."

They moved through the room together, not quite joined at the hip, but orbiting each other. People noticed, sure—but no one made a thing of it. Everyone already knew. Or assumed. And Theresa wasn't in the mood to correct them.

Someone turned the music up slightly. Not too much—just enough for the bass to crawl under the floorboards.

Serena had found someone to banter with near the sliders that led to the rooftop lounge, and Theresa took the moment to step away. She wasn't overwhelmed, not really. But there was something about rooms like this—half professional, half personal—that made it hard to keep her balance.

She leaned near the bar, one elbow resting lightly on the edge. Someone passed her a ginger ale without asking—one of the interns she'd worked with last season. She nodded in thanks.

Jalen appeared beside her a beat later, easy as ever.

"You look like you're thinking too hard," he said.

"Just watching."

"Anyone interesting?"

She sipped her drink. "Not yet."

He grinned, like that was a challenge. "You're hard to impress."

"You're easy to read."

That made his smile twitch, just slightly.

They didn't move for a few seconds. Didn't say anything. Just stood there, side by side, neither reaching for more.

Jalen tipped his drink toward her. "I like when you show up."

"You say that every time."

"And I mean it every time."

She didn't respond. Not with words. But she didn't leave either.

They stayed like that until someone called Jalen's name from across the room. He turned, nodded, looked back at her once—one of those I'll be right back kind of looks—before stepping away.

She didn't watch him go. She waved it off. No big deal.

Instead, she found Serena again, now halfway into a debate with a trainer over something that involved wings, strategy, and the best Atlanta rooftop views. Theresa joined her, half-present, half-floating.

She was good at that—at being in the room without giving herself to it.

Eventually, the night began to taper off. Players peeled away. The music dipped again. Conversations slowed to a hum. Someone turned the lights up just slightly.

Serena reappeared at her side, heels in hand, hair pulled into a ponytail like she was already halfway out the door.

"You good?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Wanna come back to mine?"

Theresa shook her head. "I'm gonna head home."

Serena didn't argue. Just nodded and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "Get some sleep. And don't dream about Charlotte's finest."

Theresa gave her a flat look.

Serena cackled and disappeared into the night.

Theresa lingered for a moment. Long enough to look around one last time. Jalen was nowhere in sight.

That felt like something. Or maybe nothing. She didn't stay to figure it out.

By the time she reached her apartment, the air outside had gone crisp. The kind of breeze that hinted at fall but hadn't committed yet.

She kicked off her shoes, tossed her phone onto the kitchen counter, and headed straight for the shower.

Steam. Silence. Soft music from the speaker tucked in the corner.

It wasn't peace. But it was close enough.

When she curled into bed that night, her hair still damp and her skin warm, she didn't think about the mixer. She didn't think about Jalen. Not on purpose.

But she still turned her phone screen down when she finally set it on the nightstand.

And in the quiet that followed, the only thought that stayed was this:

Saturday was almost here.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning came in quietly. No alarm, no rush—just soft, gold light sliding through the edges of her blinds and the familiar weight of game day settling in her chest.

Theresa stayed in bed longer than usual, stretched diagonally across the sheets with one arm slung over her eyes. Her body felt rested, but her mind was already moving. She could feel it—the subtle current of the day winding itself up. The buzz always started early on game days, especially at home.

Eventually, she got to her feet, twisted her hair up, and wandered barefoot into the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft drip of coffee and the occasional hum of traffic from the street below. She didn't mind the silence. It helped her think.

She poured her coffee, added a splash of almond milk, and leaned against the counter while it warmed her palms. No music. No TV. Just her.

When she finally flipped her phone over, the screen was already dotted with notifications—news alerts, game day promos, mentions of Charlotte's lineup.

She scrolled without engaging.

Highlights from last night's west coast matchups. Injury updates. A tweet trending about LaMelo Ball's return to the Hornets' rotation—something about him being "locked in" for tonight's tip-off.

She didn't click it. Just scrolled past and opened her email instead. Content timelines. Shoot confirmations. Notes for next week's Nike session. Something about post-game tunnel coverage.

No texts from Jalen. She wasn't surprised. Wasn't pressed either.

She moved through the rest of her morning without much thought. Light breakfast. A second cup of coffee. A quick rinse in the shower followed by sweats and a hoodie she hadn't even realized she'd pulled from Trae's laundry pile earlier this week.

The arena would start filling by mid-afternoon, and she liked getting in early—before the noise, before the lights, before the cameras started rolling.

By the time she parked and slipped through the staff entrance, the place was already buzzing. The kind of quiet chaos that meant tip-off was only hours away.

She found Trae in one of the back hallways near the training room, sneakers unlaced, legs stretched out, AirPods in.

"You in the zone or just hiding from media?" she asked.

He looked up, smirked, and tugged one earbud out. "Both."

She dropped her bag against the wall and crouched beside him. "You good?"

"Always," he said, rolling out one calf. "You?"

She shrugged. "Just getting in."

He nodded. "You stretch yet?"

She rolled her eyes but reached for the band near his foot. "You are so spoiled."

"Just trying to stay sharp."

They fell into routine—her bracing his ankle while he leaned forward, switching legs, counting under his breath. It was familiar, mindless. She didn't even have to look down to know how far to push him before he tapped out.

"Game-day energy feels different," he said after a beat.

She glanced up. "Different how?"

"Crowd's gonna be wild. Lotta hype around this one."

She gave a small nod, not asking for more.

"They're starting Ball tonight," Trae said casually, like he wasn't watching her reaction.

Theresa didn't look up. "Obviously."

"He's been getting his rhythm back."

Her jaw tensed, barely. "Good for him."

Trae tilted his head like he was trying to read her from a screen away. "You gonna be cool?"

She glanced at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason," he said. But his tone said otherwise.

She finally looked up, deadpan. "You got a press quote to rehearse, or are you just trying to piss me off before warmups?"

He grinned. "Little bit of both."

She shook her head and leaned back, stretching her own arms above her head. "You're impossible."

"And yet you keep showing up."

"You're lucky I like you," she muttered.

"You like me?" he repeated, mock-shocked. "You've changed."

She kicked lightly at his shin. He didn't flinch.

They sat there for another minute, the hallway humming around them. Players' voices echoed from the locker room. Someone shouted for a trainer. A low bass thudded from deeper inside the arena, barely muffled by the walls.

"You staying on the court for warmups?" Trae asked.

She stood, brushing off her joggers. "Probably. Serena's meeting me before tip."

"She's sitting courtside?"

Theresa gave him a look. "What do you think?"

He shook his head, but he was smiling now. "Y'all are chaos."

"She's chaos," Theresa corrected. "I'm just the escort."

"Tell that to security."

She bent to grab her bag. "Play clean tonight."

"Always," he said, already pulling his second sneaker tight. Then, like he couldn't help himself—"And hey. Just behave around Ball, yeah?"

She didn't even turn around. Just tossed over her shoulder, dry as ever. "No promises."

Theresa was already courtside by the time Serena arrived—warmup playlist rumbling through the sound system, sneakers squeaking across the hardwood, and the low thrum of fans filtering into their seats behind the baseline. The lights were still soft overhead, not quite showtime, but close enough.

Serena appeared out of nowhere like she always did—slick ponytail, full face, and a leather jacket slung effortlessly over her shoulders. She wore heeled boots she'd definitely complain about later and leggings that looked like they'd been painted on.

"You're late," Theresa said, not looking up from the player rotation sheet in her lap.

Serena dropped into the seat beside her, completely unbothered. "Fashionably. You knew I was coming."

"I still had to put your name on the list."

"You'd be lost without me."

Theresa smiled faintly. "Debatable."

Serena leaned forward, elbows resting on her thighs, eyes scanning the court like she was watching a pre-show runway. "I'm just here to observe the court."

"That's not what that tone implies."

"Mmhmm." Serena gestured toward a pair of Hawks players running fast breaks across the half. "Number twelve's been flirting with the baseline camera for the last five minutes."

"Don't start."

"I'm not starting. I'm commenting. There's a difference."

Theresa shook her head, but her mouth tugged up anyway.

They sat like that for a moment—Serena throwing out little critiques like it was Chopped: NBA Edition, Theresa half-ignoring her, half-enjoying it.

Then Serena stilled. Her tone shifted, casual but charged. "Well, well. Look who it is."

LaMelo Ball was on the other side of the court, warming up with that same over-the-top energy he always carried like it was part of his uniform. He was pointing at his teammates, yelling something with his arms flailing, and doing far too much for a regular season game.

Theresa stared for a moment, unimpressed. "God, why is he like that?"

Serena glanced over. "Because God gives his loudest voice to his most obnoxious guards?"

"He plays like he's trying to win a trophy for being the most annoying person in the building."

"And yet, he's still breathing. Wild."

Theresa rolled her eyes and took a sip of her drink. She hadn't even planned on watching tonight's game too closely, but LaMelo being on the opposing team made it impossible to tune out. His presence was like an airhorn—loud, impossible to ignore, and completely unnecessary.

"I don't get how people like him," she muttered.

"Oh, they don't like him," Serena said. "They enjoy him."

"There's a difference?"

"A very chaotic one."

LaMelo jogged to the corner, caught a pass, launched a three. It clanged off the rim. He still yelled like he made it.

Theresa snorted. "God, I hope he bricks everything tonight."

"Manifest it."

"I am."

"Is this hate... or projection?"

Theresa looked at her.

Serena grinned. "You're mad because Jalen doesn't act like that."

She didn't respond. Didn't have to.

Jalen was across the court too—warming up with her brother, calm, focused, efficient. The complete opposite of LaMelo's circus routine. And even from here, even through the noise, there was something about the way he moved that made her chest feel lighter.

Serena nudged her. "Are you gonna say hi after the game?"

"Maybe."

"You think he'll ask you out yet?"

"Trae might bench him if he doesn't soon."

They both laughed.

Across the court, LaMelo missed another shot and still somehow found the audacity to cheer for himself.

Theresa shook her head. "Why is he like that?"

"You already asked."

"And I still don't have an answer."

Serena leaned in, still grinning. "You're real pressed for someone who claims she doesn't care."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "It's not personal. He's just... loud."

"And on the opposing team."

"Exactly."

"Not to be that person," Serena said, lowering her voice a little, "but you do realize the camera guy caught you flipping him off last time he played here, right?"

Theresa took another sip. "That's what the sunglasses are for."

"Girl. Please."

Theresa let her gaze drift back to the court. The warmups were winding down, players jogging toward the benches, coaches huddling, lights dimming in prep for intros. Jalen caught her eye as he headed toward the tunnel and gave her a subtle nod, like a silent "see you later."

Her heart flickered—small but steady.

Serena noticed, of course. "So we're smiling now?"

"Shut up."

Serena nudged her knee. "You know I love you, right?"

Theresa sighed. "What now?"

"I just want to remind you to breathe. You're used to being in the background. Jalen makes you feel like the main character."

"I didn't ask to be one."

"Doesn't matter. You are."

Theresa didn't respond. She just watched the court settle and pulled her hoodie sleeves down over her hands again.

The lights dimmed, the announcer's voice boomed, and the crowd roared as the starters were called one by one. Theresa leaned into the moment like she always did—not for the show, but for the seconds just before tipoff, where everything went still.

Trae was last out. Always the closer.

He jogged to the center of the court, flashing a smile at the fans, then found her in the crowd with that split-second glance that only a sibling could catch.

She raised her coffee in salute.

He winked.

Game time.

She relaxed into her seat, folding her legs beneath her, fingers curled loosely around the cup. This part was her favorite—when everything else faded and it was just the game. Just the rhythm. Just home.

Until, of course, LaMelo Ball opened his mouth again.

"FOUL? That's a FOUL?! He breathed on me!"

Theresa exhaled hard enough to fog up her sunglasses. "Is it too early in the game to hope someone benches him?"

Serena leaned over. "The game literally just started."

"And so did his commentary."

"He's consistent."

"Consistently loud."

Serena snorted into her soda.

Down on the court, Jalen was locked in. Controlled. Smooth. He moved like he didn't have anything to prove. Theresa found her eyes following him automatically—through screens, around defenders, slipping between players like he belonged in every open space.

He wasn't showy about it. But he was good. And she noticed. She always noticed.

The first quarter passed without anything worth remembering.

Theresa clapped when the Hawks made smart plays. Sipped from her water bottle. Occasionally leaned toward Serena when the ref made a bad call. She didn't watch the Hornets more than she had to. Didn't need to.

But LaMelo was fast. She'd forgotten how fast he was.

Not just physically—though that was part of it. But the way he read the floor. The way he cut into space that wasn't open a second ago. He moved like he already knew what was going to happen.

She noticed it once. Then again. And then she made herself stop noticing.

"I forgot how much I hate their uniforms," Serena whispered, nudging her. "They look like Gatorade flavors."

Theresa smirked, grateful for the distraction. "You realize that's how they get you to look at them, right?"

"Is that why you keep looking at number one?"

"I'm watching the game."

"Sure."

Theresa didn't answer. She crossed her legs and rested her chin on her hand, eyes fixed on the court like she hadn't just been caught.

LaMelo pulled up for a deep three, held the follow-through, then jogged back without a glance. The crowd reacted—some groaning, some impressed. Even Trae cracked a smile on the bench.

Theresa sat back in her seat.

By halftime, her coffee was gone, and LaMelo had yelled at least three more times. Once at a ref. Once at the crowd. Once—bizarrely—at the scoreboard.

He was talented. She could admit that. But he made it so hard to respect him when he never shut up.

Through the third quarter she'd stopped pretending not to notice him entirely.

Not on purpose. It wasn't conscious. But every time he touched the ball, there was a shift—crowd leaning forward, camera flashes, a hum of expectation. He wasn't the best player on the floor. But he was the one people looked at.

And she hated that she was one of them.

She didn't clap when he made shots. She didn't react when the arena buzzed. But she watched. Not for long. Not openly. Just enough.

Beside her, Serena leaned in again. "You good?"

Theresa nodded. "Just tired."

"You've barely touched your phone."

"Because I'm watching the game."

Serena raised a brow. "Mhm. Just making sure you're not having a quiet identity crisis over there."

Theresa snorted. "Please. I'm fine."

And she was. She was.

Because even though LaMelo was lighting up the court with no-look passes and impossible stepbacks, even though he looked like he was enjoying every second of it—like the lights were a game and he was the only one in on the joke—it didn't matter.

Not to her.

It wasn't personal. It was just basketball.

By the start of the fourth quarter, the Hawks were down by four. LaMelo was still in. Still focused. Still moving like he wasn't even breaking a sweat.

Theresa leaned back in her seat, crossed her arms, and kept her gaze locked on the floor. She wouldn't look at him again.

Not unless she had to.

The final buzzer hit, and the arena let out a collective exhale.

Charlotte took it—by six.

No heartbreak, no last-second drama. Just clean plays down the stretch and an Atlanta offense that couldn't quite catch rhythm. It wasn't a bad loss. Just a frustrating one.

Theresa didn't say anything. She clapped once, out of habit, then rose with the rest of the crowd behind the bench.

Trae had already disappeared into the tunnel. She knew his routine. He'd be short with media, quieter than usual. Not pissed—just focused.

Serena nudged her. "You wanna go back? Or wait for him to cool off?"

"I'll swing through. Won't stay long."

"Want me to come?"

Theresa shook her head. "Nah. You don't do well around controlled tension."

"I am controlled tension."

Theresa smirked and slipped into the tunnel before Serena could follow.

The hallway buzzed with staff and security, voices low, sneakers echoing. She didn't rush. She knew this part too well to get caught in the crowd.

She rounded the corner toward the locker room—and almost ran into him.

LaMelo Ball.

Towel slung around his neck, jersey half-untucked, standing there like he owned the air.

They both paused.

Her eyes landed on him for half a second, and she gave him a once-over—bored, sharp, disgusted. Not dramatic, but unmistakable.

He opened his mouth like he might say something.

She didn't give him the chance.

Just shook her head, muttered a dry, "Of course," under her breath, and kept walking.

Didn't stop. Didn't look back. Whatever smug moment he thought they were about to have?

Not tonight.

The door to the Hawks locker room was cracked open just enough for her to hear the shuffle of post-game noise—voices low, tape being pulled, the occasional thud of a shoe being kicked off. It wasn't loud. That's how she knew they weren't happy with the loss.

She knocked once, out of habit.

One of the trainers glanced over and nodded her in. "He's in the back. Go ahead."

She moved through quietly, offering familiar nods to a few players she knew well enough. Jalen was across the room, towel around his waist, scrolling his phone with one hand, clearly checked out of the vibe. He looked up briefly when he saw her, gave her a low smile.

She didn't stop.

Trae was sitting on the bench, still in his game shorts, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes on the floor. He didn't look up until she dropped onto the bench beside him.

"You good?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"I brought no commentary, no advice, and zero judgment. Just vibes."

That got a tiny smile out of him. Barely. But it was there.

"Rough game," he muttered.

"You've had worse."

He glanced at her sideways. "Comforting."

"I try."

They sat in silence for a few moments, the sounds of the room soft around them.

"You played clean," she said after a beat. "You didn't force it."

"Didn't win either."

"You're not going to win 'em all."

He let out a slow breath. "Yeah. I know."

Another pause.

Then, more quietly—almost like he forgot to filter it:

"Did you see Ball out there?"

Theresa didn't even blink. "Unfortunately."

Trae let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "You're so dramatic."

She leaned back against the wall. "And you're so obsessed with that man's stat line."

"He plays smart. Can't hate on that."

"I can."

"Yeah," Trae said, glancing at her with a smirk, "you're pretty good at that."

She bumped his shoulder. "You still need anything?"

"Nah. I'm good."

"Cool. I'll let you sulk in peace."

She stood up, gave him a pat on the back, and started making her way toward the exit.

She passed Jalen again—he was still where she'd left him, now chatting with one of the assistant coaches.

He caught her eye.

She gave a small, tired smile and kept walking. She didn't feel like being looked at tonight anymore.

Not by anyone.

The drive home was quiet.

No music, no podcast—just the low hum of the road beneath her tires and the faint echo of rain still clinging to the city.

By the time she got to her apartment, the clouds had cleared, but the air still felt heavy. The kind that stuck to your skin.

She let herself in, dropped her keys in the dish by the door, and kicked her shoes off without thinking.

The hoodie came next. Then the hoops. She moved through it all like a routine—muscle memory after game nights. Win or lose, the ritual stayed the same.

She poured herself water, sipped it standing by the sink, and stared out the window without focusing on anything in particular.

She could still hear the buzz of the arena in her ears. The bounce of the ball. The rhythm of it all. It usually comforted her.

Tonight it just felt... loud. She didn't check her phone. Didn't replay anything. Didn't need to.

She climbed into bed without washing her face, pulled the blanket up, and stared at the ceiling for a beat.

Then rolled onto her side, closed her eyes, and let the silence take her.

Tomorrow would be normal again. 

Chapter Text

LaMelo

The win felt good—but it wasn't sticking.

Still in full uniform, jersey clinging to his back, sweat drying on his skin, he sat slouched on the bench with one wrist draped over his knee and his towel tossed carelessly beside him. The post-game buzz was still in the air—guys talking, laughing, the usual trash talk being tossed around—but his head wasn't in it anymore.

He'd dropped twenty-three points. Seven assists. Clean rotation. He should've been satisfied.

But the second he stepped into that hallway and saw her? Gone.

LaMelo didn't usually notice people's reactions. Not like that.

He was used to getting looks—fans, players, media, cameras. It came with the game. Most of the time, he could tune it out. Shrug it off. Smile through it.

But that hallway? That look Theresa Young gave him? Yeah, that one stuck.

Not because it was heated. Not because it was flirty. It wasn't either of those.

It was the kind of look someone gives when they don't want to know you exist.

Not a word. Not a glance back.

And maybe it shouldn't have gotten to him. Maybe it shouldn't have landed harder than the win or the stats or the quiet nods from players he respected. But it did.

LaMelo had sat there like an idiot, towel around his neck, replaying the entire two-second interaction like it held the secrets of the universe.

Which, obviously, it didn't. But still.

Something about it got under his skin.

He draped the towel over his head now—poor attempt to try and muffle the thoughts out—elbows resting on his knees. Someone said his name. He nodded without looking up.

He hadn't thought about her in forever. Not really.

Trae's little sister. The quiet one. Always on the edge of things. Cool, unfazed, smart as hell. She used to come to games sometimes, back when they were younger, but she never tried to be seen. She was just there. She'd nod. Maybe toss a look. But that was it.

Now she was fully grown. Fully in the mix. Fully... off-limits?

Something about that made it worse.

"She got you in a chokehold already?" Josh muttered, walking past him with a smirk.

LaMelo looked up. "Huh?"

"You were frozen in that hallway like you saw a ghost. That girl do something to you?"

"Nah," LaMelo said, but it came out too fast.

Josh laughed and kept walking. "Whatever you say, bro."

LaMelo leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes for a second. He didn't even know why it bothered him. It wasn't like he cared.

She didn't like him? Cool. Most people couldn't handle his energy anyway.

But there was something in the way she looked at him—like she saw through the noise. Like she already had her mind made up.

And that? That made it personal.

He ran it back later again when she flashed across the screen—just for a second—in the background of the game's highlight playing on mute on SportsCenter. Courtside, legs crossed, face unreadable.

He was still in his compression pants, a towel slung around his neck like he hadn't decided whether to shower or just crash right there.

She'd barely looked at him. Just enough to dismiss him with one quick pass. Like he was background noise. Like he was nothing.

He didn't know why it got to him. Maybe because nobody else looked at him like that.

Ever.

He pulled his hoodie over his head and slumped back against the couch, letting the room go quiet. He wasn't thinking about her. Not really. He was just... annoyed.

He couldn't even remember what he was about to say to her before she brushed past. Probably nothing important. Probably something stupid.

But now?

Now he was sitting here, wondering why her voice—her absence of it, really—was still echoing louder than the post-game stats.

And he hated that.

He showered eventually. Half just to do something with himself.

The water didn't help.

He stood under the spray longer than usual, palms against the wall, steam curling around his neck like it was supposed to drag the thought out of him.

It didn't.

When he stepped back into the room, towel around his shoulders, the TV was still on mute. Another highlight of tonight's game was looping—his name in bold across the screen, a flashy three and a cross-court assist playing in slow motion.

He watched it for a second. Then grabbed the remote and turned it off.

It wasn't like he cared what people said. He'd played clean. Smart. Sharp.

But he couldn't get over that second in the tunnel. Not when everything around kept reminding him of it.

That look.

Not even a look, really. A once-over. Dismissive. Borderline disgusted.

She hadn't even been mad. Hadn't said anything. That was the thing. Most people—if they didn't like him, they made it a thing. Loud. Public. Petty.

Theresa Young?

She'd shut it down before he could even speak. Like she'd been expecting him to say something stupid.

He let out a low breath and flopped onto the bed, one arm over his face. Maybe she didn't like his game. Or his attitude. Or just his face. Whatever.

It didn't matter.

She was Trae's sister. Part of the home team. Always around.

Not his business.

He turned on his phone. Scrolled for a bit. Clicked off again. Nothing hit.

The team had a flight out in the morning. Then prep. Then next city. And he'd forget about it by then.

He had no reason not to.

The plane ride back to Charlotte was quiet. Coaches were scattered through the rows, a couple of rookies still buzzed from the win. Melo had his hood up, headphones in, but no music playing.

He saw her face for the last time.

Not soft. Not curious. Just sharp. Like she was already tired of him before he even opened his mouth.

And for once, he hadn't.

He didn't know what he would've said even if he had. It was weird, being silenced by someone he'd barely seen in years. Weirder still that it was her—someone who didn't even flinch around NBA energy. Most girls lit up when he walked into a room. Or at least pretended to.

But Theresa?

She looked at him like he was the punchline to a joke she'd already heard.

And maybe he was.

Theresa

Theresa didn't even remember seeing him in the hallway by the time she woke up.

Her alarm went off at 8:00 sharp. She didn't snooze it.

There was a schedule to keep—calls to take, media content to review, brand mockups to sign off on. She'd agreed to help one of the players with a charity shoot the following week, and that meant early prep. No time to sit still.

The night before? Already filed away.

She didn't bring it up when Serena FaceTimed her over breakfast. Didn't mention the look, the brief step around him, the way he'd almost said something and she hadn't let him. He wasn't worth the air.

Serena, for her part, gave her a look across the screen.

"You didn't say a single word about your favorite person in the NBA."

Theresa sipped her coffee. "You mean Trae?"

"You know that's not who I meant."

Theresa didn't answer.

"You saw him though, right?"

"I passed him."

Serena grinned. "Was it a respectful nod? A dramatic scoff? Did you roll your eyes so hard you needed Advil after?"

"I walked," Theresa said. "That's all."

Serena raised her brows. "Ooh, Ice Queen. Love that for you."

Theresa gave her a look. "It's not that deep."

And it wasn't. Not for her.

He was loud. He was annoying. And yeah, maybe he had a game, but she'd seen a hundred like him—and most of them faded once the cameras stopped flashing.

She didn't care what LaMelo Ball did next. She had her own schedule. Her own focus. And she wasn't about to let one self-obsessed player take up even a single inch of her day.

She was halfway through organizing a set of player-approved social media clips when her phone buzzed with a text.

Jalen: You around?

She read it. Didn't respond right away.

Then set her laptop aside, slid on her sneakers, and grabbed her keys.

She met him outside one of the local training gyms. He was dressed down—sweats, tank, hoodie hanging loose from one arm. No cameras. No entourage. Just him, stretching against the side of his car like he'd been waiting for her for more than five minutes.

"Didn't think you'd come," he said as she walked up.

"You asked," she said. "I don't make things complicated."

He smiled, soft. "You kinda do."

She raised a brow. "Do I?"

He laughed. "Nah. I like it."

She leaned back against the car next to him, arms crossed, letting the quiet settle between them.

They watched a couple of kids shoot around across the street—one of them clearly wearing a Hawks jersey two sizes too big.

"You good after the game?" he asked, finally.

"Always."

"Was a tough loss."

"Not your fault."

He didn't say anything, but his shoulder bumped hers gently.

"You coming to the team dinner next week?" he asked after a beat.

"Maybe."

"You always say maybe."

"That's because it's always a maybe."

He gave her a look—half amusement, half question—but didn't push.

And she appreciated that.

"What about the next home game?"

She tilted her head, squinting a little at the sun. "You tryna pencil me in already?"

"I'm just asking," he said with a small shrug. "You're usually there. Feels weird when you're not."

She didn't answer right away. Just watched the kid in the Hawks jersey dribble awkwardly across the sidewalk. He missed the shot but celebrated anyway. Her lips twitched into the barest smile.

Jalen followed her gaze. "Think I used to do that."

"Miss or celebrate?"

"Both." He grinned. "Some habits stick."

She chuckled softly. "You still do."

He turned to face her fully then, expression gentler now. "You got somewhere to be?"

She shook her head. "Not right now."

"Come shoot with me," he said, nodding toward the gym.

She blinked. "Seriously?"

"You scared I'll beat you?"

"I'm scared you'll cry when I do."

"Say less." He was already moving toward the door, holding it open for her like he knew she'd follow.

And she did. Not because she owed him her time. Not because she had anything to prove. But because the way he asked—soft, steady, nothing extra—made her feel like maybe, just maybe, it was okay to lean in.

The court inside was quiet. Lights humming overhead, floor polished clean. He passed her a ball without a word.

They didn't talk much. Didn't need to. Just the echo of dribbles, the rhythm of shots going up, sneakers sliding across hardwood.

At one point, he tried to show off—pulled a spin move and missed the layup. She didn't let it go.

"You done?" she asked, catching the rebound like she was born for it.

"Just warming up."

"You peaked at practice yesterday."

He grinned, grabbing the ball from her hands. "Keep talking."

They played until the sun started to dip through the high gym windows, casting long shadows across the court.

By the time they stopped, both of them were breathless, flushed from movement but still holding something quiet between them.

Jalen leaned against the wall, sweat at his temple. "You always play like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you've got something to prove."

She raised a brow. "Says the guy who can't take an L."

He smiled again, but softer this time. "You're a problem, you know that?"

"Only to people who think I'm not."

They stayed in that gym a few minutes longer, just catching their breath. Jalen sat on the edge of the court, elbows on his knees, head tilted back like he could stay there all night. Theresa stood for a second, then dropped down beside him—close but not touching.

It was quiet again. The kind of quiet she didn't mind.

Jalen glanced over. "You still mad we lost?"

"I'm not mad."

"Liar."

She shrugged. "Okay. I'm a little mad."

"Fair."

They sat like that for a moment longer, just letting it settle.

Eventually, she pushed herself to her feet. "Alright. I should go."

"You sure?" he asked, not standing yet.

"I got stuff to finish."

He looked up at her, that same easy look he always gave—no pressure, no strings. "See you at next game?"

She hesitated. "Probably."

"You gonna wear black again?"

She smirked. "Always."

Jalen grinned, pushed himself off the court with a low groan, and followed her toward the exit. He didn't say anything else—not about the game, not about them. Just walked beside her, quiet, like he didn't need to fill the space.

She appreciated that.

Outside, the air had cooled. She pulled her hoodie up, turned toward her car.

"Later, J," she said.

"Later, T."

She dropped her phone on the kitchen counter, poured herself a glass of cold water, and stretched her arms overhead with a sigh. The quiet in her apartment wrapped around her like a weighted blanket—familiar, still. Safe.

She was halfway to the couch when her phone buzzed.

It was a DM from a mutual she barely remembered following—someone who worked with game photographers, always reposting tunnel shots and courtside flicks.

She opened it without thinking.

@ATLFocusHoops: You seen this yet? Thought you might like the energy.

It was a photo. From last night's game.

A shot of her in the tunnel—shoulder stiff, eyes forward, walking with her chin high.

And in the background? Just barely visible, turning in the opposite direction—LaMelo Ball.

Clear enough to recognize. Faint enough to make it feel like an accident. They weren't touching. Not speaking. Just occupying the same frame.

She stared at it for a moment. Then closed the message. Didn't save it. Didn't like it. Didn't answer. She locked her phone, dropped it on the couch cushion beside her, and pulled her blanket up over her lap.

It didn't mean anything. Just timing. Just a picture.

Still, she didn't pick her phone up again that night.

LaMelo

Back in Charlotte he thought he forgot about the encounter. Everything moved the same. Practice. Film. Rehab.

Coach was happy with his minutes. The press kept saying he looked locked in again. Even his mom texted him with a little fire emoji after his post-game stats hit Twitter.

He wasn't looking for it when it found him to remind him.

It popped up on his explore page late at night, when he was half-scrolling, half-watching some show on mute, doing that aimless thing people do when they don't want to admit they're bored.

Just a photo. From the tunnel.

LaMelo stopped the second he saw it.

Her. Theresa. Walking past him like he didn't exist.

And him—just barely turned, caught mid-pivot, like he was about to say something and then thought better of it.

Someone had captioned it with something stupid.

When the tension is louder than the score.

He rolled his eyes. It wasn't tension. It was timing. It was nothing. Still, he clicked it. Zoomed in without thinking. She looked like she always did—collected, sharp, unimpressed. Her eyes weren't even on him. Not really.

He didn't even know if she had a role with the Hawks, or if she was just there for Trae. But she looked official—clipboard, headset, all that. She looked like someone who didn't care about impressing anybody.

But something about the photo made it feel like she'd left behind static. Like even after she'd walked away, the space around him still hadn't fully cleared.

He didn't like that.

Didn't like how it felt seeing himself in the background of her moment. How the image made it seem like she'd won some silent game he didn't even know they were playing.

He tossed his phone onto the other end of the couch, jaw tight. Whatever. People made stuff out of nothing all the time.

He wasn't thinking about her. Wasn't wondering what she'd do if he did say something next time.

He had bigger things to worry about. But when he got up to grab a drink from the kitchen and passed his phone again?

He picked it back up. Clicked the photo again.

Then locked the screen without liking it.

A day later, they were back at the arena—Hornets hosting Miami.

LaMelo ran through warmups like usual—loose shoulders, easy grin, chest buzzing with the pregame rhythm he'd always known how to ride. He tossed a no-look pass to a rookie, pointed at the camera guy behind the bench, cracked a joke with one of the trainers.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he searched the stands. Not for a face, exactly. For a feeling.

For that same unimpressed, razor-sharp once-over he'd gotten in Atlanta. The look she'd thrown at him like she was checking a receipt and finding the math didn't add up.

He hated that it followed him now wherever he went.

He hated that he wanted to see it again.

Not because he cared. He didn't. Obviously.

But if she was gonna look at him like that—like he personally offended her by existing on the same court—he'd be lying if he said it didn't hit a little different.

That disgusted once-over? Yeah. He'd take it. Because at least it meant she was watching.

And watching meant he had her attention. Which, honestly, didn't surprise him. He'd been giving her something to look at all night.

But tonight? No glance. No presence. No proof she was even thinking about him.

And it was stupid. It was ridiculous. He had a whole game to play. A whole season to lock in for. And he was standing at half court looking around like a ghost was gonna materialize in the third row.

LaMelo exhaled, hard. It was time to stop obsessing.

He dropped twenty-five that night. Clean. Confident. Loud where it counted.

And felt like himself again.

Chapter Text

Theresa was going through the motions—filtering press releases, checking in on the charity shoot she'd agreed to help organize, scanning for anything she needed to pass on to Trae's team.

She was on autopilot—emails, edits, production updates. Meetings that could've been voice notes. Her calendar stayed stacked, but none of it really registered. She was too used to the rhythm by now—early mornings, fast check-ins, social content to approve, tunnel shots to filter, a never-ending list of names and numbers and angles.

One more game had happened since Saturday. A Tuesday night match against Indiana—light crowd, flat energy, a win that felt more like a formality than a celebration. She'd been there. Court-adjacent. Smiling at the right people, doing the right thing.

However, the game felt distant—like she was watching through a glass wall.

Theresa sat just past the team bench, a few feet from the hardwood, legs crossed at the ankle, clipboard balanced on one thigh. She was exactly where she always was—visible enough to clock in, quiet enough not to draw attention. It was her sweet spot. The zone she’d carved out over seasons, one perfectly timed nod and polite sideline conversation at a time.

But tonight? She felt more like a placeholder than a person.

The crowd was half-full. The energy—light. A weekday game with no stakes. No press frenzy. Just standard rotations, brand placement checklists, and another night in the schedule that blurred into the next.

Jalen was playing well. Nineteen points so far, a couple of smooth assists. He looked sharp. Calm. Comfortable. The kind of performance that wouldn’t go viral but would still earn a quiet head nod from someone who mattered.

She noticed. Of course she did.

She just pretended she didn’t.

Her eyes skimmed the court when they needed to. Jotted names beside plays for the content team. She logged the moments fans would replay online—Trae’s baseline drive, the fourth-quarter steal, the quick sideline dap caught on camera. But her focus kept slipping. Kept drifting somewhere between what was happening and what wasn’t.

Like the fact that Jalen hadn’t looked for her yet. Not once.

Not that he had to. Not that she cared.

But he usually did. Just a glance. Just enough to make her feel like she was part of it.

Tonight, he stayed locked in—head down, locked onto the rim, talking to a rookie between quarters. She caught his smile once, but it wasn’t for her. It was casual. Generic. Practice-level energy.

She crossed her legs the other way and forced her attention back to the clipboard. A note about tomorrow’s shoot. An email reminder for Thursday’s dinner. Someone texted her a behind-the-scenes clip of Trae mic’d up—she watched it once, then archived it.

By the fourth quarter, she’d stopped pretending to be invested. She applauded when the team scored. She clapped when the buzzer hit. She smiled when the media staff gave her a thumbs up from across the court.

Everything looked right.

But it didn’t feel like anything.

Jalen jogged past her on his way to the tunnel, towel around his neck, a sheen of sweat across his jaw. She didn’t look at him. Not directly. Not on purpose. But he brushed her shoulder lightly with his as he passed, and something about it made her heart kick once, hard.

He didn’t say anything. She didn’t turn around. It was fine. It was nothing.

It was always nothing.

Wednesday morning, she had a Nike call at 9 a.m., and by noon she was elbows-deep in storyboards for a new player-driven campaign. A post-game clip had gone viral on TikTok the night before—Trae with a behind-the-back dime that made SportsCenter—and she helped spin it into a cross-platform short before the afternoon meetings kicked off. Routine stuff. Nothing she hadn't done a dozen times before.

She didn't think about the tunnel. She didn't think about LaMelo Ball.

Not until later, when her phone buzzed while she was eating yogurt straight out of the fridge.

FaceTime: Serena

She accepted without thinking. No prep, no angle. Just clicked accept with the same energy she used to delete a marketing email.

Serena's face filled the screen immediately—smooth lighting, lashes curled, lip gloss poppin'. She was perched on her bed like she was about to deliver a TED Talk.

"Good morning to my favorite emotionally unavailable icon," she said sweetly.

Theresa blinked. "It's literally noon."

"Time is fake and so are boundaries when it comes to that man," Serena replied. "Anyway. I know you saw the photo."

Theresa blinked. "What photo?"

"Oh my God. Tell me you're not gonna lie to my face right now." Serena flipped her screen around. "You made the cut," she announced, holding up her phone to flash a screenshot.

It was a tunnel photo from the Pacers game—Jalen in the foreground, hoodie pulled tight, and just barely in the background, Theresa with a clipboard and a no-nonsense expression.

Theresa squinted as the image came into view. "Oh, that," she said, unbothered. "Didn't even see it."

Serena cackled. "Girl. You were in it."

"I meant I didn't see him."

"Girl. You were in it like a ghost. All brooding and backgroundy. It's giving hidden heartbreak arc."

Theresa snorted. "You're annoying."

Serena dropped her phone on her lap and leaned closer. "Okay, but like. When are y'all gonna stop doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This whole we're casual but also let's beam at each other like we invented basketball chemistry thing."

Theresa didn't answer right away. She swirled a spoon through her yogurt instead.

Serena tilted her head. "You know I love you. Deeply. Unconditionally. But I can't keep watching you smile every time that man scores. It's giving courtside Stockholm Syndrome."

Theresa sighed. "It's not that serious."

"It's always that serious when you stop breathing for a whole possession."

Theresa stayed quiet. Not defensive. Just quiet.

Serena softened, her voice dropping into something gentler. "I just think you're giving him too much space."

"I'm not," Theresa said automatically.

"You are," Serena said without blinking. "You let him orbit. Let him pull you in whenever it suits him. And I get it—he's charming. He's easy. But easy doesn't mean consistent. And you deserve consistent."

Theresa exhaled slowly. "You sound like Trae."

"Well, Trae sees it. You think he doesn't notice the way Jalen looks at you? The way he hovers?" Serena paused.

Theresa blinked. "Wait—Trae said something?"

"No," Serena said casually. "But he didn't have to. The man has big brother radar. He probably marked it all like game tape."

Theresa leaned her head against the cabinet behind her, closing her eyes. "It's just comfortable. That's all it is."

"But is it safe?" Serena asked. "Or is it just familiar enough not to scare you?"

Another pause.

Theresa didn't answer. Because maybe she didn't know.

Serena sighed again, softer this time. "I just want you to stop letting people treat you like a half-option."

"I'm fine," Theresa said, quieter now. "It's not that deep."

"You know what else isn't deep? A situationship with no emotional returns." Serena leveled the camera. She didn't push. She just gave her that look again—the one she always used when she was holding back a full thesis. Then softened, just slightly. "I'm not coming for you. I'm just saying—every time he scores, he looks at you like you're the only one watching."

Theresa sighed. "Because I am."

"And he knows that," Serena said. "Which is why he's not letting go."

Theresa leaned her head against the cabinet. "You know what's exhausting? Having feelings for someone who only wants you when it's convenient."

Serena raised a brow. "So let it be inconvenient."

That sat between them for a second. No follow-up. No elaboration. Just Serena's steady stare through the screen.

Then her face broke into a grin. "Anyway. I'm coming over Friday. Don't flake."

"Why?"

"Because you need a reset and I bring vibes."

Theresa smiled despite herself. "You're ridiculous."

"And yet, I'm always right."

They hung up with a plan for Friday and a promise from Serena to send three outfit options for approval.

Theresa already knew she'd ignore them.

The Hawks facility was quieter in the late afternoon—just a few scattered voices from the media room, the low thud of music from the training area, sneakers squeaking against polished floors. Theresa moved through it with ease, clipboard tucked under her arm, lanyard swinging lazily from her neck. She didn't have much to do—just a quick follow-up on the final media selects and a check-in with graphics.

She cut through the back hallway near the weight room and spotted Trae mid-stretch, hoodie tugged over his head, headphones loose around his neck. He was sitting on a yoga mat, one leg bent under him, the other extended, resistance band wrapped around his foot.

"Damn," she said, dropping her bag beside him. "You live here now?"

He looked up and grinned. "Gotta get the old man stretches in."

"You're twenty-five."

"Exactly."

She crouched beside him, tugging on the resistance band until his calf flexed. He hissed a little.

"Stop fighting it," she said.

"You stop being so aggressive."

"I'm barely pulling."

"You're built like vengeance."

She snorted. "And you're built like excuses."

They fell into silence after that, the kind that came easy between them. Theresa helped him through his stretches, counted without looking, steadied his foot when it slipped. She knew his routine better than most of his trainers—where he cut corners, where he needed pushing, where he tried to pretend nothing hurt even when it did.

"You good?" she asked after a minute.

"Yeah," he said. "You?"

She nodded, still focused on adjusting the band. "Same old."

"Long week?"

"Every week is long."

Trae didn't press. But he didn't let it go either.

"You always play things so chill," he said after a second. "Doesn't mean you don't feel stuff."

Her hands stilled. Just for a moment.

"Where's this coming from?" she asked.

"Nowhere," he said with a shrug. "Just saying."

She glanced at him sideways. "You hear something?"

"I hear everything."

"Then you should know I'm fine."

"Sure."

He didn't sound convinced. But he also didn't call her out.

Instead, he leaned forward to switch legs, letting the tension settle in the air between them without forcing it to break.

"You know," he said, like it had just occurred to him, "you don't gotta be bulletproof all the time. You can just be... whatever."

Theresa didn't answer right away. Just sat back on her heels, eyes softening slightly.

"I'm not bulletproof," she said quietly. "I'm just good at not bleeding in front of people."

Trae looked at her. Not long. Just enough.

"Alright, poet," he muttered.

She cracked a smile. "Go stretch your hamstring."

"Bossy," he grinned. "You hear from Nike yet?"

Theresa narrowed her eyes. "Why are you asking like that?"

"Just wondering," he said, casual. Too casual.

She stared at him. "Trae."

"What?"

"You know something."

He blinked like he was offended. "I'm literally just asking."

"No, you're poking," she said, arms folded. "And you only poke when you know something I don't."

He gave a small shrug. "You're the one always talking about being ten steps ahead."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Tell me now before I walk into something dumb."

"I'm not saying it's dumb," he replied slowly, dragging out the last word. "Just saying... don't be shocked if you get a curveball."

Theresa paused. "Like... what kind of curveball?"

Trae didn't answer right away. Just picked up a Gatorade, twisted the cap with one hand, and took a slow sip like he wasn't dodging her question.

"That's not helpful," she muttered.

He gave her a look—half warning, half apology. "Just stay locked in. And if something feels off, don't let it throw you."

She studied him. He wasn't just being annoying. There was something behind his words—something knowing.

"Trae."

"I'm serious, Tess," he said. "You work too hard to let someone mess with your peace. Whatever comes through, don't flinch."

Her stomach tightened, just a little.

He was never this vague unless he was trying to protect her from something. Unless he already knew.

She didn't ask again. Just nodded once and grabbed her bag.

"Love you," she said, softer now.

He bumped her shoulder with his. "Love you too."

And she left before he could say anything else.

By the time Thursday rolled around, she was already tired—and she hadn't even gotten to the part that required makeup.

Her phone buzzed mid-morning while she was sorting graphics with a Hawks social lead.

Jalen: Dinner thing tonight. Team crew. You pulling up?

Theresa stared at it longer than she needed to. It wasn't an invitation. Not really.

It was just a check-in. A thread he tugged sometimes. Not because he wanted her there, but because he liked having her close.

She told herself it didn't mean anything.

Theresa: Maybe. What time?

Jalen: 7. Don't flake.

That was it.

She didn't answer again.

Dinner was downtown—low light, high ceilings, one of those private setups with too many drinks and not enough air. Music played low over the hum of conversation, and half the team was already halfway into their plates.

Theresa showed up ten minutes late, as planned. Black trousers, a cropped sweater, boots with a sharp toe. Just enough edge to remind people she didn't get paid to blend in.

Jalen was already there—corner booth, drink in hand, shoulder leaned back like he was exactly where he wanted to be. He spotted her before anyone else did. His mouth curved. Not a smile exactly, just a shift in the way he looked at her, like something had clicked into place.

She slid in next to him, brushing off her coat and nodding a lazy hello to the table.

"Didn't flake," he said under his breath, mouth near her ear.

"You told me not to."

"You always listen that well?"

She looked at him. "Depends who's talking."

He chuckled, slow and warm, then rested his arm along the back of the booth—casual, easy, but unmistakably close behind her shoulders.

The night unraveled like it always did—too many plates, half-finished drinks, rookie dares, bad stories, retold wins. The energy was loud, but loose. Controlled chaos.

Jalen leaned closer just once. "You're quiet."

"I'm listening."

"You always do that."

"What?"

"Act like you're not paying attention until someone needs you."

She gave a soft smile. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

He didn't answer.

But his hand stayed near hers on the table—close enough that their fingers brushed when they reached for the same napkin.

Neither of them moved away.

Jalen stuck close. Not clingy. Just steady. Like a shadow that knew its place. He handed her a fork when she didn't reach for one. Took the olives off her plate without asking. Smirked every time she leaned away from a hot take.

Across the table, a rookie clocked the way their knees brushed under the table. The way Jalen leaned in like he was used to the space she took up.

"Yo. Y'all together or what?" the rookie asked suddenly, too loud, too casual, just enough to make the whole table pause.

Theresa blinked.

Jalen didn't skip a beat. "That's a bold question."

The rookie shrugged, grinning. "I mean... c'mon. You been on her all night."

Someone else chimed in from the far end. "Don't ruin it for the rest of us, bro. Reesa off the market?"

Laughter. Elbows knocking into each other. Trae, two seats down, didn't laugh.

Jalen didn't look at her. Didn't deny it either. He just sipped from his glass and let the silence stretch—let the implication hang there, casual and unbothered.

And Theresa sat there, half-pinned by the weight of his arm behind her, by the heat of his leg against hers, by the way no one corrected the assumption.

She didn't speak. She didn't pull away.

Trae leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching. Not angry. Just... taking it in. His eyes were steady, mouth unreadable, fork paused halfway to his plate.

And for a moment, just a beat too long, he didn't blink. His eyes flicked to his sister, then back to Jalen.

Nobody else noticed.

Except Theresa, who felt all of it—the question, the non-answer, the way Jalen's hand stayed close enough to hers to count.

It wasn't about the rookie. Or even the question.

It was about how Jalen didn't say yes. Didn't say no either. Just let her sit there in the silence. In the maybe.

Next to her, Jalen bumped her shoulder with his. "You good?"

"Always," she said, soft but flat.

He didn't push.

And Trae didn't look away.

When she stood to leave, he stood with her. Walked her outside. Quiet again.

They stood on the sidewalk just long enough for the door to shut behind them, soft music still spilling out into the street.

Theresa opened her car door. Jalen leaned against the frame.

"Good seeing you," he said. Like he hadn't just sat next to her for an hour.

She nodded. "You too."

He hesitated a beat. Like maybe he'd say more. Maybe he wouldn't. In the end, he just stepped back.

And Theresa drove off wondering why one text from Jalen still had the power to make her show up, even when he never asked her to stay.

It was late when she got home. Her boots came off before she made it past the hallway. She was halfway into her kitchen routine—filling her water bottle, setting down her keys—when her email buzzed.

Subject: NIKE Youth Campaign: Incoming – Charlotte Hornets Talent Confirmed

She scrolled through the usual—location updates, call times, notes on wardrobe availability. She skimmed over the media release template, the pre-cleared captions, the delivery date for the short-form promo. She was halfway to closing the tab when her eyes caught on something tucked halfway down the crew notes:

"Add-on: Ball confirmed. Will arrive Friday."

Theresa stared at the name for a second too long. Read it twice.

There it was. Right there.

Not a game. Not a tunnel. Not the background of a photo.

A room. With him.

Then she clicked out of the email entirely.

Just exited.

As if the words would vanish if she didn't look at them too long.

She stood in the middle of the kitchen, water bottle still in one hand, and stared at nothing. The only sound in the apartment was the low hum of her fridge. The stillness felt loud.

She reached for her phone again. Opened the email a second time. Scrolled slower now, just to make sure she hadn't misread it.

But there it was.

Clear as anything. As official as it got.

Ball confirmed.

LaMelo Ball.

Of all the people. Of all the weeks. Of all the projects.

Her fingers twitched on the screen. "This has to be a joke," she muttered.

But no one laughed.

She didn't throw her phone. Didn't yell. Didn't storm around the kitchen like some over-dramatic reality TV meltdown. That wasn't her.

Nike had been planning this shoot for months. It wasn't supposed to be complicated—just a cross-campaign between select athletes from different teams, all shot in staggered blocks. Clean. Efficient. Predictable.

LaMelo Ball was not predictable. And he definitely wasn't part of the original list.

The confirmation had probably just come through. Last-minute PR move. Buzzworthy, clickworthy, chaos-worthy. Of course they'd want him. And of course they hadn't bothered to flag it in advance.

She exhaled once through her nose, fingers already poised over the keyboard.

She could say no.

She could dodge it.

But this was easy work. Logistics. Soft touches. A couple of players, a couple of hours.

She wasn't twelve. She didn't avoid people.

She just stood there, exhaling through her nose, already recalibrating her mood board.

Because now? She had to deal with him.

Again.

And if LaMelo Ball thought he was getting away with doing too much on her set?

He had another thing coming.

Chapter Text

Friday morning came quietly, the kind of soft, still air that felt borrowed—temporary calm before everything sped up again. Theresa stood at the sink, pouring hot water over her tea bag, still in her hoodie, barefoot on cool tile.

It was past eight when Serena let herself into the apartment like she lived there. She didn't knock. She never did. Just walked in with a bag of takeout and enough chaotic energy to stir whatever calm Theresa had left.

"I brought dumplings, gossip, and questions you're not gonna wanna answer," she called from the kitchen.

Theresa didn't look up from the couch. "Take off your shoes."

"They're slides."

"They still touched the street."

Serena kicked them off with a dramatic sigh and dropped onto the couch beside her, unpacking the takeout like she was laying out a game plan.

"Big shoot day," she said lightly, stirring her drink. "You feel ready?"

Theresa nodded once. "Everything's scheduled. We're on time. Teams confirmed."

Serena tilted her head. "That's not what I asked."

"I know."

"You're being quiet," she said, eyes flicking to Theresa's face. "And I know that look. That's your I'm calm but mentally preparing for the apocalypse look."

The shoot wasn't for another few hours. It wasn't formal. No press. No lights blinding anyone. Just branded content, some off-court segments, a few behind-the-scenes reels for sponsors to slice up and post later.

She'd done it before—more than once.

But something about this one buzzed louder than the others.

Maybe it was because Trae wouldn't be participating—travel schedule conflict. Maybe it was because it was just her, repping behind the scenes for the Hawks side. Maybe it was because Jalen would be there.

And LaMelo.

But mostly? It was that she hated not knowing how the room would feel until she was standing in it. Still, she didn't treat it like a big deal.

Theresa rolled her eyes. "It's just a shoot."

Serena raised a brow. "With him."

"He's not that important."

"To who?"

"To me."

Serena grinned, but didn't argue. Just handed her a container and grabbed her chopsticks. They ate in silence for a minute, the sound of the TV humming in the background—a cooking competition neither of them were really watching.

Finally, Serena leaned back and said, "So what are you wearing?"

"I haven't picked anything."

"You laid out a blazer."

Theresa looked at her sideways. "Are you stalking me now?"

"I have eyes. And a gift for reading people who pretend they're not spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling."

"Not yet," Serena said with a mouthful of noodles. "But you laid out a blazer for a sponsored shoot. That's emotional prep."

Theresa didn't answer. She took a slow sip of her tea, eyes on the screen.

"I just don't want to be caught off guard," she said finally.

Serena nodded. "Fair."

They didn't say much after that. The silence between them wasn't heavy—it just was. But when Serena left a couple hours later with a container of leftovers and a wink, Theresa stood at the door a little longer than usual.

She didn't know why her chest felt tight. Didn't know why she hadn't picked that blazer up and put it back in the closet. She just knew she was walking into that shoot with her head high.

And she wasn't going to blink first.

The studio was tucked into a quiet corner of the city—one of those warehouse-turned-production-spaces with high ceilings, exposed beams, and lighting rigs that made everything look cinematic before anyone even stepped in front of a camera.

Theresa arrived early.

Professional. Unbothered. Hoodie zipped up, clipboard in hand, headset looped around her neck even though she didn't need it yet. She greeted the Nike reps, nodded at the producer she'd worked with three times before, and checked off the player list one by one.

It was routine.

The Hawks crew rolled in slowly—Jalen among the first, easy smile in place, a fist bump ready as soon as he spotted her.

"You're in boss mode today," he said.

"I'm always in boss mode," she replied.

He laughed and leaned a little closer. "I like it."

She didn't answer. Just gave him a once-over and moved on to logistics.

Everything was in motion. Lights tested. Backdrops changed. Cameras adjusted. She was in it. Focused. Sharp.

Until—

"Hornets just pulled in," one of the assistants called out.

Theresa didn't flinch. Just nodded.

"Put 'em in holding for now. We're starting with individual stuff."

But her pulse skipped anyway.

She didn't look toward the door when it opened. Didn't glance up when the sound of sneakers hit the polished floor. But she knew the exact second he walked in.

LaMelo.

His voice was easy to pick out—low, half-laughing at something one of the other players said. He sounded comfortable. Like this wasn't weird. Like he hadn't been frozen mid-step in a hallway just days ago while she brushed past him without a word.

She kept her head down, flipping through the shot schedule like it needed her attention. She'd see him soon enough. No need to start now.

LaMelo didn't acknowledge her. Not directly.

He moved through the studio like he was built for it—light on his feet, hoodie half-zipped, chain peeking out, water bottle in one hand, all swagger and ease. The kind of ease that would've impressed anyone who didn't already know the act.

Theresa didn't watch him. She just noticed.

How he laughed with the lighting guy like they were old friends. How he posed for the behind-the-scenes camera like it wasn't even there. How every woman on set suddenly seemed to remember how to smile wider, stand straighter, exist louder in his line of sight.

She rolled her eyes and returned to her checklist.

Jalen brushed past her shoulder as he stepped into frame. "You good?"

She nodded. "Always."

"You're giving 'murder someone with kindness' energy."

"I'm fine."

"Alright." He glanced toward the back of the studio where LaMelo had just stepped into wardrobe. Then looked back at her.

"You two know each other?"

Her pen paused. Just for a second.

"Barely," she said, eyes on the clipboard again.

Jalen didn't push, but the air shifted. Something unspoken passed between them—a flicker of awareness, brief but pointed.

The shoot moved quickly—photos first, then short-form video clips, then a few seated interviews.

Theresa kept her distance, hovering just out of frame, headset finally in place now. Giving feedback. Moving talent along. Doing her job.

And still... She felt it.

The weight of a glance she didn't catch. The shift in the air every time he entered a frame.

LaMelo wasn't close. He wasn't even trying to be. But he was present.

Loud in his silence. Steady in her periphery.

And for the first time all day, Theresa realized that pretending he didn't exist wasn't the same as him actually being gone.

By midday, everyone had settled into the rhythm.

Theresa stayed behind the lens, directing from a calm, careful distance. There was always a sweet spot on shoots like this—when the lighting was right, the players were relaxed, and the content came easy. 

She kept her voice even. Gave light cues when needed. Nodded at the Nike rep when it was time to swap out jerseys.

Nothing broke.

No one noticed the extra seconds she took flipping the page when LaMelo stepped in front of the camera. No one saw the way her eyes skimmed past him just fast enough to make it look like she hadn't registered him at all.

But she had. Of course she had.

He was in black Nike tech fleece now, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a chain sitting just under his collar. Not too flashy. Just enough to remind everyone who he was.

The producer asked him to run through a couple off-script lines—game-day mindset, locker room routine, best off-court fit.

He answered clean. Unbothered.

Theresa didn't flinch. Didn't look up. But she heard every word.

The break came late afternoon.

Catering rolled in, and everyone loosened up—sitting on coolers, leaning against folding chairs, slipping out of set shoes. The playlist got louder. Someone passed around a basketball and a few of the guys started shooting into a makeshift trashcan hoop.

Theresa found a quiet corner near the monitors, sipping her water and checking footage logs.

She thought maybe she was done. Maybe she could slip out before the next round of clips. Let the rest of the team close it. Then the coordinator walked over.

"Hey," she said, all bright and casual. "So we've got one more segment for the social team. Something light. Pair-up Q&A. You pick cards, ask each other dumb stuff. Real easy. We want to get a couple cross-team pairs on camera."

Theresa nodded slowly. "Okay. You want me to help pair them?"

"Actually," the coordinator smiled, "we kind of thought you might jump in for one."

Theresa blinked. "Me?"

"Yeah. You've got a great presence on camera. It's just for fun."

She hesitated. "Who's the pair?"

The coordinator didn't miss a beat. "LaMelo."

Theresa blinked once.

Twice.

She didn't react outwardly—no dramatic scoff, no visible eye roll. But inside? Every cell in her body stiffened.

"LaMelo," she repeated.

"Yeah," the coordinator said, still cheerful. "You two haven't done anything together yet, and we figured it might be fun. Like... unexpected."

Unexpected. Sure.

She swallowed once, jaw working slightly. "I'm not talent."

"You're kind of both," the coordinator said, breezy. "Besides, you know the team. You're great with banter. You'll make it easy for him."

Theresa's jaw twitched.

Of course, she thought. Because God forbid the superstar have to work too hard. God forbid someone like him be asked to show up with something other than charm and a chain.

Theresa pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek. She could say no. She had every right to say no. But behind the coordinator's smile was a silent plea—the look of someone trying to finish a long day without setting off a fire alarm.

And Theresa? She was not in the mood to be difficult.

Not now. Not over him.

She forced a tight smile. "Sure. Wouldn't want him to strain himself with too much personality."

"Exactly! It'll be easy." The coordinator laughed, completely missing the undertone. "They're resetting the lights now. Five minutes?"

Theresa nodded once. "Got it."

The coordinator walked off, relieved.

Theresa stood there for another beat, water bottle tight in her hand, the corner of her mouth twitching like it wanted to curse out loud.

"Yo," a familiar voice said behind her.

She turned to see Jalen stepping out from a group of players near the catering table, brows raised like he'd been watching.

"You good?"

"Yeah," she said, voice clipped.

"You looked like you were ready to throw that water bottle," he joked, nodding toward her grip.

She gave a tight smile. "Long day."

He eyed her for a second. "What's the next setup?"

"Q&A segment," she said. "Last one."

"You running it?"

She paused. "I'm in it."

Jalen's expression shifted—subtle, but there. "With who?"

Before she could answer, someone called from across the set, "LaMelo, you're up!"

Jalen looked past her, then back.

Theresa didn't blink. "Just a fun clip," she said.

He gave a slow nod, jaw ticking. "Right."

She turned before he could say anything else. Exhaled. Straightened her spine. Then walked toward the camera setup like she wasn't about to sit across from the one person she'd spent the entire day trying to pretend didn't exist.

The set was simple.

Two chairs. One table. A stack of cards between them.

Soft lighting. One fixed camera. Someone with a clipboard signaling "rolling" with two fingers and a nod.

Theresa sat first. Straight-backed. Controlled.

LaMelo walked in two beats later.

He didn't sit right away. Just looked at her for half a second like he was still waiting for her to pretend she didn't see him. But she didn't flinch.

"Hey," he said, low.

She nodded once. "Let's get it over with."

He gave a short breath of a laugh—more exhale than amusement. Then he dropped into the chair across from her, long legs stretched out, one arm slung lazily over the back of the seat. Relaxed. Like this was just another clip, another camera, another moment for people to eat up.

The producer clapped once behind the lens. "Alright! Cards on the table. You each take turns pulling one and asking. Doesn't matter who goes first. Be casual. Banter's good. Keep it light."

Theresa reached for a card without waiting. Read it flatly: "What's your worst fashion moment?"

LaMelo didn't even pause. "That's easy. My rookie year. Preseason tunnel fit. Black pants, red vest, white turtleneck. Whole thing made me look like a magician's assistant."

Theresa gave him a blank stare. "Was that before or after you started dressing like a Pinterest board?"

He smirked. "Before I had people dressing me like one."

She slid the card aside. "Next."

He leaned forward, pulled one from the stack. "What's something people think you care about but you actually don't?"

She tilted her head. "Public opinion."

"Cap."

"Is that your answer or your commentary?"

He grinned. "Commentary."

She didn't smile. Just lifted a brow. "You done?"

He held her gaze a second too long. "Not even close."

Another card. Another question. They kept going.

"What's something you regret saying?"

Theresa didn't blink. "Nothing."

"Liar."

She pulled the next card before he could press. "What's your biggest ick?"

"People who take themselves too seriously," LaMelo said, eyes not leaving her face.

She arched a brow. "So, yourself?"

He gave a slow grin. "You wish."

He drew a card. "What's a red flag you ignore?"

She looked straight at him. "Men who think they're charming."

He laughed once—short and sharp. "You're exhausting."

"You're predictable."

He leaned in a little, voice low. "You really don't like me, huh?"

Theresa picked another card without answering. "What's your worst habit?"

"Interrupting people," he said immediately. "And saying things I know I shouldn't."

She didn't respond. Just set the card aside like she was keeping score.

The questions got faster. Snappier. One after the other like jabs.

And as the stack got smaller, the space between them got tighter.

It wasn't flirtatious. It wasn't kind. But it was real.

The camera didn't miss the way her jaw clenched when he leaned forward. It didn't miss the way his eyes tracked her even when she looked away.

They weren't arguing. But they weren't relaxed either.

The room around them was still. Focused. Like everyone could feel something happening—they just didn't know what it was yet.

"Last one," the producer called. "Make it a good one."

Theresa drew a card from the stack like she was picking her next move in a game of chess. She read it without looking up. "Who's someone you underestimated?"

There was a pause.

LaMelo didn't lean back this time. Didn't smile. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes narrowing in that calm, unreadable way she hated.

"You want an honest answer?" he asked.

She looked up. "Is that a choice?"

He held her gaze. For the first time all day, something shifted.

The sarcasm dropped out of his voice. The edges softened—but not enough to call it vulnerable. Just real.

"I underestimated how much you don't like me," he said.

It wasn't a joke. And it wasn't a question.

Theresa blinked once. It wasn't the answer she expected. But it wasn't wrong.

She set the card down. "That's not personal."

"Felt personal."

She tilted her head, expression unreadable. "Everything feels personal when you think you're the main character."

That got him. Just barely. His smile flickered, but didn't stay. The room was quiet for a beat too long.

Then—

"Cut!" the producer called. "That's a wrap. Gold, you two. Really good stuff."

Theresa was already standing, straightening her chair, brushing past the set crew like she hadn't just been looked at like that.

LaMelo stayed seated a second longer, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the spot where her hand had just been on the table.

He didn't say anything. Didn't follow her.

But his jaw ticked once before he stood.

The crew moved quickly after the wrap call—mics unplugged, lights dimmed, camera carts wheeled away. Theresa didn't linger. She was already halfway down the side hallway that led to the service exit, wanting nothing more than air, space, quiet.

She turned the corner—sharp, purposeful—and nearly walked straight into him.

LaMelo.

Again.

This time, it was just the two of them. No producers. No clipboard buffer. Just one narrow hallway and bad timing.

She stopped short, eyes narrowing slightly.

He didn't move. Didn't smirk. Didn't step back. Just looked at her—steady, unreadable, like he'd been waiting for this moment to happen without planning it.

"You always walk like you're about to fight somebody," he said, voice low.

Theresa didn't blink. "You always stand around like you're hoping it'll be me?"

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. But something. They stared at each other for a breath too long.

And then—

"I didn't mean to get under your skin back there," he said.

Her brow arched. "Is that an apology?"

"No," he said. "It's an observation."

She shook her head. "You think everything's about you."

His expression didn't shift. "Not everything."

She folded her arms. "Just me, right?"

LaMelo let out a low, amused breath. "You said it, not me."

She scoffed under her breath, turned like she was done with the whole thing—done with him.

LaMelo didn't say anything else. Didn't stop her. Just stayed leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other running slow circles along the edge of his chain like he had time to kill and nothing to prove.

Theresa walked. Down the hall, past the stacked crates and folding chairs, out the side door where the cool air hit sharp against her skin.

The sun had dipped behind the buildings. The city buzzed somewhere beyond the alley. She took a breath and leaned against the concrete wall, letting the noise settle somewhere below her collarbone.

She hadn't expected the interview to bother her. Hadn't expected him to bother her.

Her phone buzzed, interrupting her almost spiral.

Jalen: you gone already?

She didn't answer. Didn't even open it.

Inside, people were still packing up. Lights shutting off. Crew laughing at something someone said too loud.

Out here, it was quiet. Steady.

Theresa closed her eyes for half a second and pressed her thumb into the bridge of her nose. She didn't care what anyone saw—or thought they saw—in that interview.

She had a job to finish. And a silence she wasn't ready to break.

The tension didn't spark. It stretched.

And now it would sit—quiet and unfinished—until the next time the universe decided to drop them in the same room again.

Chapter Text

LaMelo didn't think twice about the shoot until his phone buzzed with a reminder that morning.

He was still in bed, face half-buried in the pillow, when the calendar alert lit up the screen: Nike x NBA Content Shoot — 11:00 AM.

He blinked at it, rubbed a palm over his face, and sighed. Not because he didn't want to go. Shoots were easy. Light work. Show up, smile, talk a little shit, leave with a check.

But this one was in Atlanta. And that meant Hawks people. Hawks PR.

Which meant... maybe her.

He didn't get out of bed any faster. But he wasn't half-asleep anymore either.

He closed the notification and tossed the phone back onto the mattress, face down. Rolled over. Tried to sleep for another ten minutes like it would make a difference.

It didn't.

Because his brain was already in that studio—already scanning the room for things that hadn't even happened yet.

He wasn't nervous. That wasn't the word. But he wasn't calm either.

Instead, he dragged himself into the shower, let the hot water wake him up, and stood in front of the mirror longer than usual. He put on his chain, then took it off. Put on a louder one, then swapped it again. Settled on something understated. He didn't want it to look like he was trying.

By the time the SUV pulled up to the studio lot, LaMelo was loose. Hoodie on. Chain tucked. Headphones in. He slid out of the back seat with that same slow ease he carried everywhere—like time was never something that applied to him.

The studio looked like every other converted warehouse he'd shot in before: high ceilings, blacked-out windows, racks of gear stacked against the walls. Smelled like lights, coffee, and the faintest hint of anxiety from a crew that didn't want to run behind.

He recognized a few faces. A Nike rep he'd worked with in Portland. A producer from last year's draft promo. A camera guy who greeted him with a dap and a joke about his last shoot running long.

LaMelo had done a hundred shoots like this.

Branded, polished, half-scripted—all of it second nature by now. He knew how to smile without thinking, knew how to give the answer that sounded casual but clipped well for a highlight reel. He could shoot these in his sleep.

But today?

Today something felt different.

And it wasn't the lights. Wasn't the gear. Wasn't even the camera pointed at his face.

It was her.

He'd seen Theresa the moment he walked in. Not because she made it obvious—but because she didn't.

He'd seen her walk through press tunnels before, usually at a Hawks game—clipboard, black jeans, eyes that skipped right over him like he wasn't even there. Same look now. Except this time, they were in the same room. And she still didn't see him.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

That wasn't just cold. That was deliberate.

She moved like she had something to prove.

Clipboard. Composure. Calm.

But she didn't so much as glance his way. Not once.

And somehow that said more than anything else.

He kept it light.

Laughed at the right things. Talked stats with the guys. Didn't let on that he noticed when she rerouted every path to avoid walking near him. Didn't let on that he saw her note something every time he was on camera but never once met his eye.

He didn't chase that. Not here.

But he felt it.

She hadn't looked at him, but her awareness was loud.

He tried to remember the first time he noticed her. Not just clocked her—but really saw her.

It might've been last season. Charlotte played Atlanta at State Farm, and she'd been courtside near the tunnel, headset on, black blazer, zero expression. The kind of steady presence you miss if you're not looking close enough.

But he remembered that game.

Not because of the score. But because when he jogged off the court at halftime, water bottle in hand, she'd been standing near Trae—just talking, totally composed. She hadn't looked at him then either. Just shifted slightly so he could pass by.

No double-take. No glance. Nothing.

And for some reason that nothing stuck.

The first half of the shoot was basic. Stills, close-ups, a couple jersey swaps. LaMelo hit his marks. Knocked out his segments. Dapped up a few guys. Threw a mini basketball at a trashcan hoop.

But in between frames, his eyes kept drifting.

She was everywhere. Moving between set pieces, checking light meters, nodding at the Nike reps.

Everyone deferred to her. Subtle, but clear.

The Nike reps nodded when she spoke. The producers checked her notes. Even the players—guys who didn't usually listen to PR—waited for her signal before stepping into frame.

It wasn't loud. But it was power.

And somehow, she wielded it without raising her voice once.

He tried not to watch her. But he noticed everything.

How she barely looked at him. How she only spoke when necessary. How she lingered near Jalen for a second longer than anyone else.

He wasn't watching. He was just... aware.

Then came the curveball.

It wasn't until the break that someone said, "You're doing the Q&A next. With the Hawks rep."

LaMelo looked up from his phone, already knowing where this was going.

"Which one?" he asked anyway, voice casual.

"The one running point," the assistant replied. "Theresa Young."

He took a sip from his water bottle, nodded once. "Cool." Then, a beat later, added under his breath, "Should be fun."

A quick segment, off-script. Cards. Banter. Across-the-table setup. And they wanted her. With him.

He didn't ask why. Didn't push it. Didn't smirk or make it weird. He just waited.

When she sat down across from him—perfect posture, blank expression, walls so high he swore she'd built them just for him—he knew he wasn't imagining it.

"Let's get it over with," she said when he got close.

He laughed under his breath. Not because it was funny. Just because she was already trying to win a game he hadn't agreed to play.

He sat down opposite her, leaned back in the chair like he had all day.

Then the questions started. And suddenly, he was in it.

This wasn't neutral. This was pointed.

Every answer she gave came clean, clipped, calculated. Every jab she slipped in was subtle but sharp.

She wasn't trying to entertain. She was trying to survive it.

Halfway through, he started wondering if maybe he'd read the whole thing wrong.

Maybe she didn't hate him. Maybe she just didn't care at all.

Which, somehow, was worse.

Because he could handle being the villain. He could even play into it.

But indifference? That was harder to wear.

And for the first time in a while, he didn't know how to match her tone.

Because she wasn't teasing him. She wasn't challenging him. She was unimpressed.

He couldn't remember the last time someone looked at him like that and meant it.

And that made him want to push.

Not cruelly. Not loudly. Just enough to crack the surface.

So he leaned in. Took up space. Fired off lines like bait.

Watched her eyes. Watched her hands. Watched the way she never really relaxed—not once.

He caught a shift in the room.

A crew member leaned into another and whispered something. Someone stifled a laugh when he called her exhausting. Even the cameraman cleared his throat like he didn't want to be caught watching.

And that only made LaMelo sit up straighter.

When the question landed—Who's someone you underestimated—he said what was already sitting on his tongue.

"I underestimated how much you don't like me."

And when she fired back?

"Everything feels personal when you think you're the main character."

Yeah. That landed.

Not because she was wrong. But because she wasn't playing. She wasn't trying to cut him. She was just telling the truth.

And that hit harder than anything else.

"Cut!" someone called. "That's a wrap."

She stood fast. Didn't look at him. Didn't say a word. And walked off like he was just another prop in a set she never asked to be part of.

LaMelo stayed in the chair a beat longer. Didn't move. Didn't react. He just stared at the card still sitting between them on the table.

Unread. Unspoken. Just like everything else.

A chair scraped behind him. The sound of footsteps—hers—fading toward the exit.

No words. No glance back. Even the air she left behind felt colder.

The rest of the crew moved around him, laughing, clearing things like nothing happened.

But something had.

He hadn't meant to run into her in the hallway. But when she turned the corner, and it was just the two of them? He didn't move.

He liked the way she bristled. The way her eyes cut through him like she was ready to fight.

He didn't say much. Didn't need to.

She said her piece. And he let her go.

But he didn't stop thinking about the look on her face when she did. Didn't stop thinking about the way her voice never shook.

Didn't stop wondering what it would take to make her say something she didn't mean to.

Something real. Something just for him.

The set cleared out fast once the shoot wrapped.

Players peeled off toward the exit with leftover smoothies in hand. The crew broke down lighting and rolled out racks of gear. Laughter echoed in the distance—low, easy, fading with each passing second.

LaMelo moved slower than usual.

He grabbed his phone from the greenroom counter, pulled his hoodie on, and didn't say much to anyone.

Normally, he'd stay back. Chop it up with the Nike reps. Shoot something extra for socials. Be the guy that gave them more than what was asked.

Today? He couldn't be bothered.

Not after the way she looked through him. He hadn't expected warmth. Or even a truce.

But damn—the ice in her voice.

And she didn't even say anything cruel. That's what got him. It wasn't drama. It wasn't petty.

She just... didn't want anything to do with him. That was a different kind of cut.

When he finally left the building, LaMelo wasn't smiling anymore. He didn't know what to call the feeling sitting behind his ribs. But he knew one thing for sure:

He wanted another round.

He slid into the back of the black SUV waiting outside the studio, pulled the door shut, and leaned his head back against the seat.

He should've been shaking it off by now.

He'd had colder interviews. Tougher media days. He knew how to brush off bad vibes.

But Theresa?

She hadn't given him bad vibes. She'd given him nothing.

Somehow that stuck harder.

He scrolled his phone absently. Watched a clip from the shoot pop up on one of the tagged pages.

It was just a second—him leaning forward to answer a question, her face half-turned, completely unreadable.

The comments were already wild.

Why does this feel like the start of a rivalry romance?

Enemies-to-lovers energy?

She's not impressed and he doesn't know what to do with that lmaooo

LaMelo locked his phone. Didn't smile. Didn't even roll his eyes. He stared out the window, city lights flashing across his face in quick, quiet intervals.

It was stupid. They weren't anything.

She didn't even say his name the whole time. Not once. Not during the segment. Not in the hallway.

Like she'd edited him out of her script before he ever made the page.

It wasn't the silence that got him. It was how easy it looked for her to keep it.

He didn't even want them to be anything.

But whatever just happened back there? It didn't feel like nothing.

And the worst part? He had no idea what to do with that.

The driver asked if he wanted to stop for food. He said no.

The hotel lobby was quiet when he walked in, hoodie up, earbuds in—no music playing, just noise cancellation. The kind that let him be alone without the world pressing in too hard.

Elevator ride up. Keycard beep. Door shut.

He dropped his bag without unpacking it. Left his shoes where they landed. Stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, palms pressed to the back of his neck like he was trying to hold something in place.

Eventually, he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his phone out again. Still muted. Still buzzing with tagged content. He didn't check the mentions.

He opened the team schedule. Looked at dates. Travel. Practice. Eyes flicked to the next time they'd be in Atlanta. Then away.

He didn't even realize what he was looking for until he caught himself scrolling back to that clip again—the one from the shoot. The second where she didn't react. Didn't lean in. Just existed, still and composed, like he couldn't touch her even if he tried.

He remembered the way she sat—back straight, shoulders square, like nothing could shake her. He remembered the moment their hands almost touched reaching for the same card, and how she didn't flinch. Like he wasn't even there. Not in the way people assumed.

He wondered what she would've said if the cameras hadn't been there. If it had been just them, in a room without lights and lines and producers circling with notes.

Would she still have been that calm That clipped? That sharp with every word? Or would she have cracked?

Maybe not all the way. Maybe not in a way anyone else would catch. But he wondered if she would've rolled her eyes and told him to shut up.

Or said his name. Just once. He didn't realize he wanted that until now.

It was irritating.

He couldn't figure her out, and that made him want to try—just to prove he could.

Because no one dismissed him like that. Not without a reason. Not without something.

And yet... she had.

Flawlessly.

Repeatedly.

And he hated that it stayed with him.

He got up and walked to the bathroom. Washed his face. Turned the water to cold on purpose.

It wasn't deep. He didn't care. She didn't like him. Cool. Not everyone had to.

But...

Something about the way she looked at him—like she saw through the game and didn't even bother to play back—that bothered him.

Not because he wanted her attention. But because she made him feel like he wanted to earn it.

And that? That was a problem.

The hotel room was dark now.

No TV. No music. Just the low hum of the city outside and the glow of his lock screen flashing once every few seconds from the nightstand.

LaMelo lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held answers. He wasn't tired. Not really. But there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere to be.

He turned onto his side, then onto his back again. Adjusted the pillow. Reached for his phone. Put it down.

It wasn't like he liked her. It wasn't that deep.

She just had a way of making him feel like every word he said echoed back empty. Like even his best shots didn't land. That messed with him more than it should've.

He could win a game and forget about it the next morning. Take a loss and move on by lunch.

But one five-minute segment with Theresa Young, and now he couldn't even sleep right?

That wasn't normal.

He thought about calling someone. His brother. A teammate. Anyone. But what would he even say?

"Yo, Trae's sister keeps looking at me like I'm dirt and now I can't stop thinking about it."

Yeah. No. He wasn't saying that out loud. Not to anyone.

Instead, he turned his phone over so the screen faced down and closed his eyes.

She'd probably already forgotten the shoot. Filed him away. Unbothered.

And the part that bugged him the most?

It was the fact that for five straight hours, she made him feel small.

He didn't know how to let that go. Not when he hadn't felt that in years. Not when she didn't even blink doing it.

The lights from the street threw shadows across the ceiling. His chest felt tight, like something had sunk in and stayed stuck.

And for the first time in a long time, LaMelo didn't know how to make it go away.

Chapter Text

Theresa didn't speak the entire ride home.

Not to the driver. Not to Serena, who texted her "How was it?? 👀" three times. Not to anyone on the production team, even though a few of them gave her those you killed it grins on the way out.

She didn't feel like she'd killed anything.

Just survived it.

And not even in the triumphant way—more like in the scraped-knees, clenched-jaw, count-every-second way. Her jaw still ached from how hard she'd been biting down on every reaction. Her skin buzzed like the air conditioning had been too cold, too loud, too sharp. And somehow, she'd walked out of there without letting it show.

She dropped her bag by the front door as soon as she walked in, kicked off her shoes, and made a beeline for the fridge like cold water could rinse the static out of her system.

It didn't.

She drank it anyway. Twice.

Then changed into sweats, washed the makeup off her face, and pulled her hair down, combing her fingers through it until it felt like her again.

Only then—only then—did she finally sit.

The couch welcomed her like it always did, soft and familiar. She tucked her knees under herself, wrapped a blanket around her, and stared at the black screen of the TV for a full minute before even bothering to turn it on.

A rom-com. Something forgettable. She needed noise, not emotion.

The movie played, background noise she didn't absorb. Her brain kept drifting—not to the questions. Not even to the way he leaned in like he already had a response loaded.

Just the moment he sat down. That first second. How quiet the air felt between them before anyone said a word.

She hated that she remembered that part most.

Her phone buzzed somewhere in the kitchen. She didn't check it. Didn't want to see if the clip was up yet. Didn't want to know if her name was trending.

Didn't want to deal with texts from Serena saying YOU ATE HIM UP 😭🔥 or worse—a DM from someone asking if the tension was real.

It wasn't. Not the kind they'd assume.

It was irritation. Pressure. The feeling of sitting across from someone who made a room smaller just by being in it.

And her? She hated being cornered.

The night stretched long and slow, the movie playing through without her ever knowing what it was really about.

When the credits rolled, she muted the sound and finally reached for her phone.

Still buzzing. A few missed calls. Some texts. A message from Jalen—u good?

She didn't answer.

She clicked over to Instagram and saw a clip already making the rounds—just three seconds.

LaMelo leaning forward. Her leaning back. That look in her eye.

Captioned with: "She does NOT fold under pressure 😮‍💨"

She locked the phone again. Tossed it face-down on the coffee table.

Let people read whatever they wanted. Let them project whatever story made the most noise.

She knew the truth.

She didn't like him. Didn't trust him. Didn't even think about him.

Not now. Not anymore.

So why was her chest still tight? Why did silence feel heavier than it had last night? Why did she feel like she'd left that set with something she didn't carry in?

She laid back on the couch, arms folded over her stomach, eyes on the ceiling.

It wasn't a spiral. Just a moment. It would pass.

She just had to stop replaying the look on his face when she said the one thing he didn't have a comeback for.

"Everything feels personal when you think you're the main character."

Yeah. It wasn't personal. Except maybe now it was.

Theresa woke up to sunlight cutting across the floor.

Not loud, not harsh—just steady. Slow and golden. The kind of light that filled a room without asking. It crept past the edge of the blinds, spilled across the hardwood, warmed the sheets she hadn't bothered to fix. Her eyes opened, but her body didn't move. She stayed still, staring up at the ceiling like she could convince her thoughts not to follow her into the day.

The apartment was quiet.

No buzz from the group chat. No podcast playing from her phone. No Serena on FaceTime yelling about brunch spots or nail appointments or some man she was about to block.

Just quiet.

Mornings like this were rare—no schedule, no call times, no press circuits or locker room chaos. She should've liked it. Silence used to be her power.

But it didn't feel like peace. Just the absence of noise.

Theresa exhaled slowly, rolled to the side, and reached for her phone.

Fourteen notifications.

She blinked. Unlocked it. Scrolled.

Nike content tags. NBA fan pages. Clips from the shoot. Her name trending—again.

She dropped the phone face down on the mattress. Didn't open anything. Didn't need to.

The scene was already burned into her brain: the table, the cards, the stare-down. His voice. Her answers. The silence afterward.

She wasn't thinking about him. Not really. But the energy from yesterday hadn't quite left her either.

So she got up, stretched her arms overhead, and shook it off.

Coffee first. Groceries after. Maybe a drive. A Saturday that looked like a Saturday.

Even if it didn't feel like one.

Theresa walked the aisles of Whole Foods with her hoodie pulled up and headphones in. She didn't need anything specific. Just movement. Something to do with her hands.

The shelves blurred past. Almond milk. Grapes. A bottle of her favorite hot sauce. She moved like muscle memory. Checked things off that weren't even on a list.

When she reached for a jar of olives, her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She glanced at the name.

Serena

A second later, a message came through:

Serena: tell me why you look like a Bond villain in this screenshot 😭

Theresa sighed and opened the message.

It was a screen grab from the Q&A. She was mid-glare, arms crossed, completely still while LaMelo leaned in across the table.

Serena: u didn't even blink

Serena: my girl said immunity to charm and contagiously cold

Serena: when are u gonna admit u rattled him

Theresa: rattled who

Serena: u know who

Theresa: that man is allergic to shame

Serena: and yet you gave him symptoms

Theresa smiled despite herself. Just barely. But it passed quickly.

What Serena didn't see was how tight her fists were under the table. Or how many times she had to remind herself that cameras were rolling. That every blink, every twitch, every glance could be clipped and captioned before she even stood up.

She turned off her phone. And didn't turn the music back on.

Trae was already at the kitchen island when she got home, halfway through a smoothie and scrolling through his iPad. He looked up as soon as he heard the door click open, watching as Theresa kicked off her shoes without a word.

Before he could even ask how she was doing—she walked straight over and wrapped her arms around him.

No warning. No explanation. Just a hug.

Trae blinked, caught off guard for half a second—then hugged her back instantly, like instinct.

"Hey," he said softly, one hand rubbing slow circles along her back. "You okay?"

She nodded against his shoulder. "Just missed you."

For a second—just a flash—she wondered what it would've felt like to let someone else be this safe space.

But the thought vanished just as fast.

This was Trae. Her constant. The one thing that never needed translation.

He didn't say anything else. Didn't need to. He held her a little tighter. Because she was his little sister. And if she needed to fall apart—even just a little—he was the one person who could hold her steady through it.

When she finally pulled back, he gave her a once-over and tilted his head. "Shoot go alright?"

"Fine."

He nodded slowly, watching her grab a bottle of water from the fridge. A small pause. Then, casually:

"LaMelo looked tense last night."

Theresa's brow arched. "You watched the shoot?"

"Nope. Just saw a clip on my feed. Looked like something happened."

She shrugged. "It's media stuff. Nothing deep."

Trae gave her a look. Didn't press. He never did unless she needed him to.

"You coming to dinner tomorrow?" he asked. "Foundation's hosting something for the rookies."

She nodded. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"Cool."

They lapsed into silence again. Comfortable. Unspoken things resting just beneath the surface.

That night, Theresa sat on the couch in a sweatshirt three sizes too big, curled into the corner with her knees tucked to her chest.

Her phone lit up from the coffee table.

Another tag.

She reached for it. Watched the clip play on silent. Him leaning in. Her unmoved. That single beat of tension stretched thin across the frame.

The comments were still rolling.

Why does this feel like enemies to lovers in real time?

She didn't even flinch. MVP.

I need the fanfic immediately.

Theresa closed the app.

She wasn't part of anyone's fantasy. Not his. Not theirs.

She pressed her phone to her chest for a second, then set it back down and leaned her head against the armrest.

She told herself it didn't matter. Told herself she was fine. Told herself she would sleep just fine tonight.

But even with the lights off, and the night quiet, and her body still—her mind kept circling the same thing.

Some people mistake silence for weakness.   That's how you win.

She repeated it like a mantra.

By morning, the tightness in her chest had dulled to a quiet pressure—like the kind that lingered before a storm, not loud enough to panic, but impossible to ignore.

She got up early. Not because she had to. Just because sleep had never really come.

The apartment was still quiet, sunlight stretching soft across the kitchen floor as she moved through her routine—coffee, calendar, quick inbox check. The itinerary for the road trip stared back at her from the top of her unread emails. She ignored it for now.

The dinner was tonight. The Rookie Foundation thing Trae had mentioned. Formal-ish. Nothing too over the top, but enough to warrant something clean and classic.

Theresa stood in front of her closet, staring at hangers like they owed her answers, one heel already dangling from her fingers as she scanned the rack for something that said effortless without trying too hard.

She reached for a dress. Paused. Swapped it for a different one. Stared at it for a beat longer, then laid it across the edge of the bed. It was late afternoon, sun slanting in through the blinds just enough to paint her floor gold. Her hair was clipped back. Half her makeup done. Music low, phone on the dresser.

She wasn't stalling. Just... pacing herself. She didn't feel like being seen tonight, but she was going anyway.

A soft knock came from the hallway.

"Yo, you in here?" Trae's voice, casual.

"In the closet," she called back, stepping aside so he could lean against the doorframe.

Trae gave her a once-over. "You going somewhere or auditioning for a Dior commercial?"

Theresa rolled her eyes. "Rookie Foundation Dinner."

"Right. Forgot that was tonight." He shifted his weight, eyed the heels on the floor. "You good?"

"I'm fine." She paused. Held the hanger a beat longer than necessary. "Trae?"

He answered from down the hall. "Yeah?"

"You still going tonight?"

"Yeah."

She hesitated. "Walk in with me?"

Trae poked his head into the doorway. "Everything alright?"

"Just... don't feel like making a solo entrance."

He didn't push. Just nodded. "Alright. What time we leaving?"

"Seven."

"I'll be ready."

And that was it. No questions. No overthinking. Just her brother doing what he always did—showing up.

The city slipped into evening like it knew how to keep its voice down.

By the time Theresa stepped out of the apartment, the sky was already streaked in navy and amber, the air thick with that warm, late-October hush. She wasn't overdressed, but she still felt the weight of her outfit like armor—clean lines, sharp neckline, nothing too loud. Her heels clicked with purpose but not urgency. She didn't wear perfume, just the faintest hint of something she borrowed from her favorite body oil. It was subtle. Strategic.

The black SUV waiting outside idled quiet by the curb. Trae was already in the back seat when she slid in beside him, scrolling through something on his phone, dressed in tailored black and the kind of chain that didn't need to prove anything.

He looked over, then gave a low whistle. "You tryna steal a rookie's NIL deal or what?"

Theresa smirked. "No. Just making sure no one forgets who the face of Hawks PR is."

Trae nodded like that made perfect sense. "Feeling good?"

She nodded back. "Yeah."

The car rolled forward. Nothing else was said.

By the time they pulled up to the venue—an upscale downtown restaurant draped in soft lighting and foundation signage—there were already flashes going off outside. Media. Team photographers. A few fans who always knew where to show up.

Trae stepped out first.

Theresa followed, heels hitting pavement with crisp, deliberate clicks. Her dress was structured, black, sleeveless—sharp without being severe. Hair slicked back into a smooth ponytail. No necklace. Just lip gloss, a pair of delicate studs, and the kind of presence that didn't need accessories to be noticed.

They didn't pause for photos, but the flashbulbs caught them anyway.

A few murmurs rippled out as they passed—soft, speculative, familiar.

"Trae Young and his sister—"

"That's the Hawks' PR director, right?"

"Yeah, Theresa Young. First Lady of the front office."

She didn't react to any of it. Didn't blink. Didn't shift her posture.

They walked in like they'd done it a hundred times before—because they had. A unit. Not flashy. Not rehearsed. Just steady. Composed. The kind of calm that said nothing could shake them, even when it could.

Inside, the space buzzed with quiet elegance. Hardwood floors, deep green booths, tables with white linen and curated centerpieces. Rookies were scattered in clusters—some in stiff suits, others already loosening their ties. Nike reps, team execs, a few coaches. Everyone sipping something sparkling and trying to look like they belonged.

Trae leaned in as they checked in at the host stand. "I think you're overdressed."

"I think you're underdressed," she replied, smoothing the side of her dress with a quick hand.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Fair."

Their names were already on the list. They didn't wait. Didn't hover. Just nodded once at the greeter and slipped into the event like a clean cut through noise.

Theresa spotted a few familiar faces. Nodded to a couple staffers. Clocked Jalen across the room with a drink in his hand and a lazy grin on his face. He looked good—he always did—but tonight there was something performative about it. Like he knew she'd see him, and wanted her to.

She didn't flinch. Just turned to Trae and asked, "You want to find seats or mingle first?"

"Mingle," he said. "You got backup if anyone gets weird."

She gave him a look. "You act like I don't handle weird daily."

"Yeah, but you shouldn't have to." He tipped his glass up in a mock toast. "Cheers to protective big brother privilege."

She laughed under her breath. "I'll allow it."

They broke off into the crowd, slowly—her pace unbothered, gaze steady. It was easy to move through the room like this, all poise and precision. But underneath the surface, her thoughts still skimmed the edges of something else. Someone else.

She hadn't thought about LaMelo since—actually, she had. But not here. Not now.

Not while she was about to be pulled into yet another game of emotional keep-away with the man across the room who only texted u good when he thought she might be slipping out of his orbit.

Theresa held herself together. Not tense, exactly. Just... unreadable.

She moved with that same polished calm she wore everywhere—a silk-steady presence wrapped in good posture, careful eye contact, and the kind of smile that didn't give too much away. The kind people respected. The kind they didn't dare question.

She shook hands with a Foundation partner near the welcome arch. Spoke warmly to a rookie's mother who complimented her shoes. Paused for a short exchange with a corporate sponsor who remembered her from last year's media campaign.

All easy PR. Smooth. Unshakable.

"Theresa Young," someone said with a glass of champagne and a smile just a little too sharp. "Didn't expect to see you after that clip."

She didn't blink. Just tilted her head slightly, like she didn't quite hear it.

"I mean—" the woman went on, "—I wouldn't have been able to keep a straight face. That was cold."

Still, no reaction. Theresa just smiled. The kind that said nothing. The kind that killed softly.

She excused herself with quiet grace and walked away without a single note of tension in her stride.

Trae saw the whole thing.

From across the room, he clocked every beat—every practiced reply, every polite smile, every rerouted expression. It wasn't dramatic. She wasn't spiraling. But something in her energy sat just left of center.

He knew her baseline. And this wasn't it. Not quite.

She circled the outer edge of the event space again, collecting moments, keeping her hands lightly folded or one arm rested at her side like a photo op might appear at any moment. She made it look effortless.

But her silence said more than any answer could have.

And Trae? He just kept watching. Because whatever she wasn't saying—he was pretty sure someone else had something to do with it.

She was mid-conversation with a rookie's sister when she felt it.

That shift in energy. The pull. The way the hairs on her neck rose before she even turned.

He was already there—Jalen—casually close, not interrupting but not exactly waiting either. Standing just outside the edge of the circle, hands in his pockets, smirking like he knew she'd feel him before she saw him.

Her breath caught in that familiar, frustrating way it always did when he was near.

"Didn't think I'd see you tonight," he said once they were alone, voice low, head tilted like he was letting himself look just a little too long.

She shrugged. "I go to the things I say I'll go to."

"Yeah, but you don't usually dress like that when you do."

She arched a brow. "Meaning?"

Jalen let his gaze linger another second—just enough to land. Then he smiled.

"Nothing," he said. "You just look good."

Theresa didn't answer. Didn't bite.

She adjusted the strap of her dress instead, eyes flicking around the room like she had somewhere else to be—something else to focus on.

But her feet didn't move.

And he knew it.

"So what," he said, a little softer now, "you ghosted me last night?"

"I didn't ghost you."

"You didn't answer."

"I was tired."

"Too tired to text?"

She finally looked at him. Not annoyed. Just... calm.

"I didn't have anything to say."

Jalen grinned, slow and smug. "That's a first."

She rolled her eyes and turned slightly, like she was about to leave.

But then—he stepped closer.

Not too close. Just enough to keep her standing still.

His voice dropped. "We good?"

Her pulse skipped. Not because she cared what he thought—but because this was his pattern. The soft check-ins. The near-apologies. The crumbs that kept her orbiting.

"Yeah," she said after a second. "We're good."

Jalen nodded like that was enough. Like that was always enough.

The night moved in quiet pulses—conversations blending, music low and smooth, glasses clinking softly against linen-dressed tables. The crowd had thinned just enough for space to open between the clusters. Theresa found herself drifting, steps slower now, until she reached the far end of the restaurant, near the patio doors.

A quieter corner. Dimmer lighting. Breathable.

She leaned one elbow against the edge of the bar, gaze skating over the skyline just visible through the glass. The air out there looked cooler. She almost stepped outside.

Trae found her first.

"Thought I lost you," he said, sliding in beside her.

"You always know where I'll be," she replied, soft.

He glanced at her sideways, then reached past to grab a water from the bar. "You good?"

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then, "Fine."

A beat passed.

Then she glanced at him and added, "You looked sharp tonight."

He smiled. "You too. But don't pivot."

"I'm not."

"Theresa."

She sighed. Leaned her back fully against the wall, letting the cool press of it settle her spine.

"I'm not fine," she said, quietly this time. "But I will be."

Trae nodded once. Didn't push further.

He tapped his water glass lightly against hers.

A soft clink. A silent pact. She appreciated that.

A few rookies drifted over as the night went on, drinks in hand, post-speech energy loosening their shoulders. One of them—Noah, a guard they'd picked up in the second round—grinned as he approached.

"You really had LaMelo on his heels, huh?"

Theresa turned slightly, drink in hand, expression unreadable.

Another rookie chimed in, nudging Noah's arm. "Yo, I watched that clip like five times. You didn't even blink."

Theresa smiled faintly. Just enough to register.

"Wasn't hard," she said, voice light, tone cool.

The group laughed, scattered and easy, clearly impressed.

"She hit him with that main character monologue," one joked.

"Bro didn't even know what to say."

Theresa just sipped her drink and let the noise roll off her. None of this mattered—not really. They didn't know what the silence had felt like under the lights. Didn't know how loud his stare had gotten. How close it had come to tipping something real.

Another rookie leaned in, more sincere. "For real though, you handled it like a pro. He looked rattled."

"He wasn't rattled," Theresa said without looking up.

The words came too quickly. Too sharp.

The rookie blinked. "My bad. Just looked like—"

"It's media stuff," she cut in, gentler this time. "People project what they want."

The conversation shifted, but her thoughts didn't. That was the thing about projection—it didn't stop when the cameras did.

Someone brushed past her. She glanced over, ready to pivot—it was Jalen.

Again.

Close enough to make her pause. Casual enough to pretend he hadn't been watching her all night.

"Didn't think I'd have to fight off rookies tonight," he murmured, voice low just for her.

She didn't look at him right away.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," she replied, her tone flat, practiced.

"Wasn't jealous," he said, stepping in just slightly. "Just observing."

Her eyes met his now, even, challenging. "You always observe from this close?"

His smile deepened, slow and infuriating. "Only when I'm trying to remember something."

"Like what?"

He took a small step closer. "How you taste."

Her heart stuttered. She hated how it did that.

"Careful," she said quietly. "You're not as charming as you think."

"Maybe not." His voice dipped lower. "But I think you missed me."

She should've walked away. Should've said something that ended it.

Instead, she looked up. And didn't move.

He leaned in. And kissed her.

His mouth brushed hers soft at first, testing, teasing, like he knew exactly how long she'd hold out before kissing him back.

And she did. Just barely. Just once. But it was enough.

Enough for his hand to find her waist. Enough for her fingers to curl in his jacket. Enough to remind her why he was so good at keeping her here—right here, suspended in whatever this was.

That's what they did. That's what this always was.

Not clarity. Not commitment.

Just heat. And hunger. And history.

Her breath caught as she broke the kiss, eyes half-lidded, pulse thudding against her ribs.

Jalen smirked like he'd won something. Like her silence meant yes.

"You always taste like trouble," he murmured against her mouth.

And maybe that should've broken the spell. But it didn't.

Because Theresa hadn't moved. And neither had he.

She hated this part—the part where she always let him linger. The part where it still felt good to be wanted, even when it wasn't real.

When she finally pulled away, her chest tightened.

"Still ignoring me?"

Theresa stepped back. Smoothed her dress. Fixed her expression.

"Don't get used to it," she said.

And just like that, she turned.

But she could feel it—the weight of his stare still clinging to her.

And across the room, out of the corner of her eye?

LaMelo.

Chapter Text

LaMelo Ball wasn't supposed to still be in Atlanta.

He should've flown out yesterday. That was the plan—do the shoot, dip out, get home before the weekend even really started. But plans were loose when it came to him. He didn't like structure unless he made it. Didn't like clocks unless he was running them.

And truth was—he hadn't felt like leaving yet. Charlotte was a quick flight. He could be back before midnight if he wanted.

So he stayed. Booked another night at the hotel. Slept in. Woke up late to the kind of Atlanta light that made everything look gold for no reason. Slow morning. Room-service coffee. SportsCenter running in the background on mute. A hoodie with no shirt under it. Not in a rush for anything.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up with another text from Miles.

Miles:  You deadass let her cook you on camera???  😭

Miles:  She said "main character" like it was your zodiac sign.

LaMelo didn't reply.

He let the message sit on the lock screen, backlight dimming slowly as it timed out. He wasn't thinking about her.

Not really. He just... hadn't stopped thinking about the energy in the room.

He sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling, thumb lazy against the screen. The clip was already everywhere. Edited. Cropped. Zoomed. Reposted. Slowed down and captioned by fan accounts that moved faster than any PR team ever could.

He tapped the volume up and watched it once.

Three seconds. Her stillness. His lean. Just her looking at him like she'd already decided he wasn't worth the argument.

He smirked, not because it was funny—just because it was exactly the kind of clip that would go viral. The internet loved a face-off.

That wasn't stage presence. That wasn't media polish. That was... something else.

What was it Trae said once about her? She doesn't flinch unless she chooses to.

He didn't realize how true that was until he'd seen it for himself.

He didn't replay it. Didn't need to. Everyone else was doing that already. Comments flying. Tweets spinning. Memes popping up like popcorn. He tapped it once, shook his head, and set his phone face down.

People were calling it tension. He called it media.

Whatever it was, it was done. He said his lines, kept his tone measured. She said hers, barely moved. He didn't take it personally. Didn't have a reason to. It was just funny how quick people got loud when they didn't know what quiet meant.

He tossed his phone onto the mattress and leaned back on his elbows. Let the silence settle for a second. Then sat up again, stretched, and grabbed his hoodie off the back of a chair. He had no reason to leave the hotel. Could've stayed all day. But around five, his phone buzzed. A text from one of the league's community reps.

Dinner tonight at the Foundation venue if you're still in town. Come through—low-key thing for the rookies.

He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the text for a second. Almost passed. But then he remembered Theresa Young was around.

Not that he was checking on that. He just happened to know her name was on the RSVP list.

He wasn't sure why he wanted to go all of a sudden.

Scratch that—he knew.

He was curious. That was it. Nothing deep. Not pressed. Just... interested.

So he texted back.

Bet. I'll pull up.

He showered. Threw on clean sneakers, dark jeans, a black tee under an open button-down. A watch that caught the light. One chain. One ring. Cologne, subtle—expensive. Something you only noticed if you leaned in close. Nothing loud. Nothing performative.

He wasn't trying to prove anything. He just wanted to see something for himself.

The restaurant wasn't far. He drove himself. Parked quiet. The venue was warm light and clean wood. Wide booths. White linens. A buzz in the air like everyone was half-whispering their best PR versions of themselves.

He walked in solo. Didn't announce himself. Didn't look around. Just slid into the space like he belonged there—because he always did.

And there she was. Near the welcome arch.

Talking to someone in a black dress that fit too well and heels that didn't even make her waver. Her hair was pulled back sharp. Makeup soft. Nothing extra. Just precise. Clean. Like she knew how to take up space without having to raise her voice.

And yeah—she looked colder in person than she did in the video.

Melo kept walking. Didn't pause. Didn't stare. But he did clock the way her hand rested lightly against her hip. The way her lashes didn't move when the camera flash hit. The way she didn't check the room, because she didn't need to know who was watching.

He didn't say anything. Didn't make a move. Just eased into the space, calm and quiet, taking in the energy. Letting her orbit the room like she didn't know he was there. He didn't need her to see him yet. He just wanted to watch.

He found the nearest wall and leaned on it. Watched, casual. Detached. Until a voice pulled him sideways.

"Didn't know you were still here."

It was a Nike rep—young guy in a clean suit, drink in hand.

"Didn't feel like bouncing," Melo said. "Quiet day."

"Quiet," the guy grinned. "Not the word I'd use for Friday."

Melo smirked, but didn't reply.

The guy lowered his voice. "You and Young—y'all planned that back and forth?"

LaMelo raised a brow. "Nah."

"Damn." The rep shook his head, impressed. "Looked like a chess match."

LaMelo just shrugged. "She got a good poker face."

"She got a death stare," a third voice said—Noah Sampson, standing just off to the side, holding a water with both hands like he was afraid he might spill it.

LaMelo turned to him. "Noah."

"Yo." Noah gave a short nod, nervous but trying to hold it together. "That clip's insane."

"Yeah?" Melo said, feigning nonchalance.

"You didn't even blink either," the other boy said. "But she—man. She looked at you like she already beat you three moves ago."

LaMelo let that sink in, then smiled—slow and real. "She probably did."

Noah looked confused. "You're not mad?"

"Nah." He tipped his glass toward the crowd. "She's good at what she does. And I don't mind getting checked if it's clean."

The rookie nodded, almost reverent. And just like that, Melo peeled off again.

He made the rounds. Light talk. Easy nods. Dapped up a couple players, clinked glasses with a sponsor he only half remembered. He wasn't here to network. He was here to see.

And what he saw? Jalen was there too.

Of course he was. Drink in hand, all lazy grin and easy charm like he'd already decided how the night was going to go. He hovered close without hovering. Made himself visible just enough to stake a claim.

LaMelo clocked that too.

He didn't know what the story was between them, but he could read the body language. The tension. The beats between words. Theresa didn't look tense, exactly. Just unreadable. Too polished. Too still.

LaMelo leaned against the far wall, arms folded, watching the way she moved. He'd seen a hundred girls freeze under pressure. Seen even more try to outplay it.

But she didn't freeze. She didn't flinch. She just was. Unbothered. Or trying to be.

And he could respect that.

A rookie broke into their circle then—Zaccharie, tall and still a little stiff in his dress shirt, eyes wide like he wasn't sure if this was a conversation he could enter. LaMelo glanced over.

"Yo," Zacch said. "That video..."

LaMelo raised a brow. "What about it?"

Zacch hesitated. Looked like he wanted to ask a real question, then bailed halfway through. "You, uh... held your own."

LaMelo laughed, short and warm. "You mean she didn't cook me."

Zacch chuckled, relieved. "I didn't say that."

"She got her licks in," Melo shrugged. "It was fun."

The rook nodded. "You two looked like you were in a different league."

"We are," LaMelo said without flinching.

And he meant it.

He wasn't out here playing games. He didn't fold easy. And maybe that's what made the whole thing itch at the back of his skull—that she hadn't either.

He dapped Zacch on the shoulder. "You gonna be alright this season?"

"Trying to be."

"Just don't let the media throw you," LaMelo said. "They see everything. Even the stuff you don't show."

Zacch nodded like that was the best advice he'd heard all week.

Melo started to move again but paused when he caught a glimpse of Theresa near the back corner—different this time. She was with Trae.

Nothing flashy, nothing loud. Just a hug that lingered half a second longer than usual, a low word he couldn't hear, and a small smile—soft, real. The kind she hadn't given anyone else in the room.

LaMelo should've looked away. It was something he wasn't supposed to see. Too private. Too... intimate.

That version of her didn't belong to the media. Or Jalen. Or anyone else trying to orbit her. That version was earned.

Not cold. Not composed. Just... her.

He stopped for a quick drink at the bar, letting his fingers curl around a cold glass of something still fizzing. From across the room, laughter rose and fell. A mix of nerves and polish. Everyone trying to impress, trying to belong.

Except her. She didn't try. She didn't have to.

He didn't walk toward her yet. There was power in staying still. Power in watching the room work around her—how people leaned in a little too far when they spoke, how she made rookies nervous even when she smiled. It wasn't calculated. Just how she moved.

She made the air feel expensive.

LaMelo took a slow sip of water, leaned one shoulder against the wall, and let the room keep moving. He watched Theresa talk to a Foundation partner, poised and warm, then pivot smoothly into a conversation with one of the rookies like she'd been running media tables since birth. There was something dangerous about her composure. Something addictive about watching people try to crack it and fail.

She moved like a closed book with a lock on every page. He wondered what it'd take to read past the first chapter.

Eventually, she drifted toward the back. A bar. A window. Quieter light. He moved then. Not directly, not on a collision course—just in that direction. Like gravity.

By the time he reached the edge of the room—Jalen. Again. Of course.

That same lean-in posture. That same orbit. She wasn't just cold. Wasn't just clean lines and clipped words. There was softness somewhere in there. Realness. Something Jalen probably didn't even know how to hold.

LaMelo didn't need to hear what they were saying. He could see it in the way she shifted her weight. The way Jalen leaned in like he'd never had to ask for space. Like he already knew she'd give it.

Her laugh—soft. Not fake. And that? That was interesting.

He didn't flinch. Didn't interrupt. Just kept his place at the wall, gaze steady.

A minute passed. Two. Then it happened.

The kind of kiss that looked like a secret. Like a history. Like something no one planned but both of them had already allowed.

It wasn't long. But it was enough. Enough for LaMelo to register what it meant.

Jalen kissed her like it was familiar. But Theresa... Theresa kissed him like it still hurt a little. Like she was hoping it wouldn't.

And LaMelo saw that. Saw the part Jalen didn't even bother clocking—the way her body stilled a second too long after, the way her mouth didn't quite settle back into a smile.

That's the thing about people like her: they don't show it unless they're feeling more.

He didn't react. Didn't blink. Just pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and let the moment land.

He wasn't mad. Why would he be? He wasn't even supposed to be here. He should've flown out yesterday.

Instead, he was standing in the corner of a Foundation dinner, watching a girl he wasn't thinking about kiss a man who didn't know what to do with her.

And all he could think was: Interesting.

Because now he'd seen it. Now he knew.

And now? He was curious in a whole new way.

Theresa

The kiss hadn't even cooled on her lips when the air shifted.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just enough to make her chest tighten in that way it only ever did when something off-script was happening.

And just as she thought this night couldn't get any worse, he stepped in front of her.

LaMelo Ball.

She blinked, once, sharp—then froze.

He was supposed to be gone. The shoot was two days ago. The schedule said nothing about him still being in town. So why was he here?

He didn't speak. Didn't smirk right away. Just stood there, casual as ever, like the moment wasn't heavy, like he wasn't entirely out of place.

Theresa's arms were still folded from the kiss. She didn't drop them. Instead, she looked him up and down with the most professional brand of suspicion she could summon.

"You shouldn't be here." she said, deadpan. Not playful. Not flirty. Just the kind of clipped tone she reserved for event crashers and unwanted surprises.

LaMelo raised a brow, hands tucked into his pockets like he hadn't just materialized out of nowhere and decided to make himself a problem. "Probably not."

"You should've gone home."

"I didn't."

Another silence. Theresa didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't even breathe for a second. She just stared at him, arms still crossed, jaw tight like she was two seconds away from grabbing a clipboard and escorting him out herself.

LaMelo didn't look fazed. Of course he didn't.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, weight balanced easy on his heels, like he belonged there. Like this wasn't wildly inappropriate timing. Like he didn't just show up post-kiss with that stupid, unreadable expression and a voice too calm to be legal.

"Are you even on the list?"

That almost made him smile. Almost.

"You think I showed up to a league-sponsored dinner without an invite?"

She tilted her head. "It's not out of the question."

He laughed once—soft, like she was a little funnier than he remembered. Then tilted his head, amused. "You check everyone's name at the door?"

"Just the ones who make it a habit of showing up uninvited."

"Guess I'm special then."

Theresa didn't dignify that with a reply. She exhaled sharply through her nose instead and looked away, scanning the room like she could find the exit and disappear before this got worse. Spoiler: it was already worse.

"Relax," he said. "I got the text. Came through last minute."

"Mmhmm."

"I can go back to the host stand if you want."

Theresa gave him a look so blank it bordered on polite disdain. "I just might."

"Didn't know you were that pressed about RSVPs."

"I'm that pressed about random people appearing in rooms they don't belong in."

He let that hang. Just for a second. Then said, "You think I don't belong?"

She smiled tightly. "I think your hotel was probably real peaceful before you decided to get cute."

His grin widened—infuriating, amused, like he liked how much she was pretending not to care.

"I wasn't trying to be cute," he said, stepping just barely into her space. "But thanks for the feedback."

Theresa narrowed her eyes. She could walk away. She could excuse herself. She could go check the damn list just to make a point.

But instead—she stayed. And that was the worst part.

He tilted his head, slow and smug, like he had time to burn.

"Didn't realize you were working security tonight," LaMelo added, voice low, lilting.

"I'm working a lot of things," she snapped. "Security isn't one of them."

"Could've fooled me," he said, eyes dragging down, slow and deliberate. "You've been guarding that energy all night."

She blinked. Hard. Then took one small, sharp step forward, voice even flatter now. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," he said, too fast. Too easy. "Just passing through."

"Right," she said. "Just passing through a dinner you weren't invited to in a city you don't live in."

"Damn," he said, laughing under his breath. "You always this fun at parties?"

"Only when people like you show up."

There it was. A beat. A shift in the air that almost crackled.

He didn't stop smiling. In fact, it widened. Real, sharp, boyish—like he knew exactly what buttons he was pushing and was more than happy to press all of them at once.

"People like me, huh?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don't, actually," he said, stepping in closer now—just enough to make her straighten her spine. "But you seem real sure of whatever story you've made up about me."

Theresa's jaw ticked. She hated how tall he was. Hated how even now, when she knew he was being annoying on purpose, part of her still noticed the cologne and the chain and the very specific way his voice got under her skin like secondhand smoke.

"You're not charming."

"Didn't say I was."

"And you're not cute."

He leaned in, just enough to tilt his head and lower his voice. "Didn't say that either."

Theresa didn't take the bait. She just sipped her drink with the elegance of someone deeply unamused and deeply considering filing a noise complaint.

Then she smiled. But not the warm kind. Not the polite kind. The kind that said you should stop talking before I make you regret it.

"You're wasting my time," she said.

"That's funny," he said. "'Cause you're still here."

She stared at him.

"I'm still here," she echoed, "because I'm trying to figure out how the hell you ended up in my city, at my event, stepping in front of me like you've got clearance."

"I don't need clearance," he said smoothly. "I got curiosity."

"You can keep that to yourself."

He chuckled—low, deliberate.

"You always this cold, or am I special?"

"Special would imply effort," she replied. "You're not worth that much energy."

That actually made him laugh—real, low in his chest.

"Damn. So this is what happens when I don't fold?"

Theresa's jaw ticked, just once. She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. But God, he was so close to getting under her skin. So she straightened, chin tilted just slightly higher.

"If you came here for a second round, you're not getting one."

"Who said I came here for you?" he said, smiling slow.

Her gaze narrowed. "You mean to tell me this event was just coincidentally happening the day after you didn't fly home?"

He shrugged, infuriatingly casual. "Maybe I got stuck in traffic."

She deadpanned, "From Charlotte?"

"Could happen," he said. "You make time stop, so maybe distance too."

Theresa blinked, stunned for half a second—and then rolled her eyes so hard, she saw her own past mistakes.

"Oh my God," she muttered. "You're so exhausting."

"Yeah?" LaMelo said, stepping back with a grin. "You look good exhausted."

She turned to walk away. And he followed.

She pivoted, heels clicking sharp against the floor, jaw set like she was ready to eject him from the venue herself.

And of course—of course—he followed. Like gravity. Like chaos.

She didn't stop until she was halfway down the side hall, away from the main crowd, near the edge of the terrace doors. Cool air snuck through the gaps. Not enough to cool her temper.

"You know," she said, turning just enough to glare at him, "some of us actually have jobs to do. You remember what that's like?"

He leaned casually against the wall like she hadn't just dragged him into exile.

"Relax. I'm just attending dinner like everyone else."

"You're not like everyone else," she shot back. "You show up late, wear the smirk of a man who's been dared to get under my skin, and act like your presence is some kind of gift."

He grinned. "Isn't it?"

She exhaled so sharply it could've knocked him off balance.

"I will literally go check the guest list right now."

"Go ahead."

That stopped her. For a second.

"You're serious?" she asked.

"I'm always serious," he said, even though he absolutely was not.

She narrowed her eyes. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, glaring at him like the very act of breathing near her was a federal offense.

LaMelo didn't blink. Didn't budge. His posture didn't falter, his voice didn't dip. If anything, he looked even more amused. Like he had all the time in the world.

"I know what you're doing," she said finally, quiet and steady, like a warning wrapped in silk. "And it's not going to work."

"Didn't realize I was doing anything," he murmured. "You're the one who dragged me into a hallway."

"I was trying to get away from you."

"And yet here we are."

Her jaw locked.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" she said, voice rising now, sharper at the edges. "You show up out of nowhere like this is a game. Like you're in control. Like I'm just here to entertain you."

LaMelo tilted his head, easy. "I never said that."

"You don't have to," she snapped. "Because you move like the rules don't apply to you. Like showing up after—" She caught herself. Bit down. Hard.

He caught it anyway. Filed it away without saying a word.

Theresa exhaled, slow and sharp. "You don't care who you inconvenience. Or whose night you derail. You just waltz in like your presence is a privilege."

His mouth curved, not quite a smirk. "And yet you're still standing here."

"You're exhausting," she said, flat. "You're arrogant. You're—"

A tap.

One tap on her shoulder. Soft. Familiar. Her entire body stilled.

She turned slowly. Trae.

His expression was unreadable—neutral with a thread of understanding woven through it. Calm. Solid. The kind of calm that said I don't know what just happened, but I know enough to step in now.

"You good?" he asked, voice low but not intrusive.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then nodded. Just once.

Trae looked past her to LaMelo—still leaning against the wall like the hallway was built for him.

"Yo," Trae said easily, stepping forward to dab him up. "Didn't know you were still in town."

LaMelo met him halfway. "Last minute thing."

"Bet. Good to see you, though."

Theresa's jaw ticked. That? That right there? That's what made her blood pressure spike. Her brother dapping him up like this wasn't borderline psychological warfare. Like this wasn't LaMelo.

She didn't say a word. Didn't trust herself to. She just inhaled slow through her nose and stepped back into position beside Trae, expression smoothed out into something tight and neutral. The kind of expression that said I'm going to scream into a pillow later but for now I am composed.

Trae glanced between them once. Didn't ask. Didn't need to.

"Come on," he said, nodding his head toward the main floor. "Let's head out."

Theresa didn't look back. Not at LaMelo. Not at the space where the air still buzzed from the words she hadn't said. She walked away, heels sharp against the marble, Trae by her side.

LaMelo stayed behind. Didn't follow. Didn't move. Just watched her leave. Watched her walk away like it didn't matter. Watched the back of her shoulders like they were the punchline to a joke he hadn't finished telling. And he smiled. Just once. 

Because now? Now he knew exactly how far she'd go to pretend she didn't care.

And he was going to have so much fun unraveling that.

Chapter Text

She didn't remember walking out. Not exactly.

One minute, she was staring LaMelo Ball in the face, trying not to commit a felony. The next, her body was moving—heels sharp against the floor, breath tight in her chest, the memory of his voice still lingering around like the heat from a fading fire.

She'd gone off. She knew that. Not loud, not dramatic, but in her way. Tight. Controlled. Devastating. She gave him everything but her hands.

And then—tap.

Just once, soft on her shoulder.

She knew the weight of it before she turned. Trae.

No words. No big-brother monologue. Just that steady kind of presence she'd known her whole life. A low breath, a nod toward the door.

The car was quiet.

Not awkward. Not cold. Just... still.

Trae didn't say anything right away. He never did. That was the thing about him—he gave her space. Knew her rhythms. Let her stay silent for as long as she needed.

Theresa sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her phone buzzed once—she didn't check it. Probably Jalen. She didn't want to know what the message said. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Her head tilted against the window, eyes on the soft blur of city lights outside. Atlanta at night always looked too pretty for nights like this.

"I'm fine," she said finally, voice low.

Trae didn't look over. Just gave a small nod, eyes on something outside the window. "Didn't ask."

She huffed a quiet laugh. Almost smiled.

They hit a red light. Her reflection flickered back at her in the window—sharp eyeliner, lipstick still intact, but something in her eyes looked tired.

Too tired.

"You were gonna kill him," Trae said casually, drumming his fingers against the arm rest. "Like actually, for real. I had to step in."

Theresa didn't respond.

He glanced over. "What'd he say?"

She blinked slow. "Nothing important."

"Didn't look like nothing."

She shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line. "I hate how calm he is," she muttered. "Like the whole room could be on fire and he'd still be smirking, asking if it's warm enough."

Trae snorted. "Sounds about right."

"I mean, who does that? Who shows up out of nowhere, in my space, talking in riddles like he's the one who got played?"

She was spiraling again. She knew it. But Trae didn't interrupt. He just let her keep going.

"And then—then you dap him up like he didn't just crash the entire night."

"I like Melo," Trae said.

Theresa turned to him, betrayed. "Trae."

"What?" He shrugged. "He's cool. Been solid with me since day one."

"He's chaos with a chain on."

"Yeah," Trae said. "But you like a little chaos."

Theresa stared at him. He didn't flinch.

The light turned green and they rode in silence again. By the time they pulled up to her place, the quiet had settled deep. Not heavy, just... full. The kind that filled every corner of the car and pressed against her chest without asking.

"Thanks," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

"You sure you good?"

She nodded. Too fast. "Yeah."

Trae didn't move. Just looked at her for a second, steady. "You don't have to act like it didn't mess with you."

"I'm not."

"You are."

She paused, hand on the door handle. Didn't say anything.

Trae let the silence stretch again, but not too long. "Just breathe, Tess. You don't gotta win every room. You don't even have to stay in 'em."

Theresa's throat tightened. That was the thing with Trae—he never needed the full story. He could read the silence better than anyone.

She nodded once. Quiet. Measured. Then slipped out of the car. The door clicked shut behind her. She didn't look back. Her heels clicked up the steps like punctuation marks. One-two. One-two. Each one sharper than it needed to be.

Her keys hit the entry table with a clatter. The door slammed behind her with a little more force than necessary.

She was still in her heels. Still in the damn dress. Still vibrating from the way LaMelo Ball had somehow turned a quiet post-event moment into a full-scale psychological assault.

She didn't even make it past the hallway rug before pulling out her phone and jabbing out a message with surgical fury.

Theresa:
he is the most arrogant
insufferable
unbearable
delusional
egotistical
chaotic
nuisance of a man i've ever met
and he won't shut up
and he won't leave
and i hate him
i hate him i hate him i hate him

She hit send. Then she stood there.

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

Serena: baby girl you good?? 😭😭

Serena:  wait who's "he" because if you're talking about Jalen I'm coming over with a taser and a list of your better options

Serena:  WAIT. no. don't tell me it's Charlotte.

Theresa stared at the screen. Jaw clenched. Back of her neck hot.

Theresa:  It is Charlotte.

Serena:  CHARLOTTE???

Serena:  what the hell was HE doing there???

Theresa:  great question. still waiting on the universe to answer it.

Serena:  omg. omg. he pulled up unannounced???

Serena:  he just showed up at a league dinner like he was on the planning committee???

Serena:  girl. G I R L.

Serena:  what did he say. what did he DO. give me everything.

Theresa:  he said "you think i don't belong?" like he wasn't five seconds away from being escorted out BY ME.

Theresa:  and then he smiled like he knew I wasn't going to do it.

Theresa:  i literally wanted to strangle him with his own chain

Serena:  oooh that's foreplay

Theresa:  i'm blocking you

Serena:  did you slap him? kiss him? ...both?

Theresa:  NO. and NO.

Serena:  booo tomato tomato throwing tomatoes

Theresa:  he just he has this face. and that voice. and the way he stands there like he's not the problem.

Serena:  yeah i've seen the face. i'd still kiss it.

Theresa dropped the phone on the couch like it was cursed and let out a strangled noise. Somewhere between a scoff and a scream.

She kicked off her heels, and muttered—

"I'm gonna kill him."

Then:

"I'm gonna kill you," she yelled in the direction of her phone.

But she didn't mean it.

And she absolutely didn't mean it when she reached for the phone again thirty seconds later, thumb hovering, waiting for Serena's follow-up text. Or maybe his.

She didn't know which one would piss her off more.

She stood there for a second, arms folded tight across her chest. The night still lived under her skin, coiled and electric. Every time she tried to shake it, it just settled deeper.

LaMelo Ball wasn't supposed to get to her.

Not like this. Not at all.

And yet—here she was.

Standing barefoot in the middle of her apartment like the floor might crack open if she moved too fast, heart still pounding from a conversation that shouldn't have mattered, with a man she didn't even like.

Didn't like.

Didn't like.

Her jaw flexed.

She crossed the room, phone still in hand, and sat on the edge of the couch like her thoughts were too loud to carry all the way to bed. The silence stretched. Long. Loaded. Full of everything she didn't say to him.

Of course he didn't mention the kiss. Of course he just stood there like nothing happened. Like he hadn't walked in right after it—or maybe right before. She didn't know. Couldn't be sure. He didn't give her anything. No look. No comment. No shift in tone.

Just that unreadable calm. That maddening stillness. Like he was the one holding the cards. Like she was the one fumbling.

She should've said more.

She should've walked away sooner.

She should've told Trae to drag her out ten minutes earlier—maybe even fifteen.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn't check it.

Instead, she finally stood—slow, like her own body wasn't sure she was done spiraling—and walked toward the bathroom. If there was any hope of getting her balance back before the road trip, it was going to take steam, water, silence, and absolutely no more thinking about LaMelo freaking Ball.

But the second she closed the door behind her, her phone buzzed one last time from where she left it on the kitchen counter.

This time, she did glance back. Not because she was expecting it. Not because she wanted it.

But because now she needed to know.

Two messages.

Jalen: You good?

Jalen: Come over.

She stared at the screen.

Didn't answer. Didn't move. Just stood there, the glow of her phone burning into her palm like it might brand her with the wrong decision.

It wasn't the first time he'd sent that text. Wouldn't be the last. But tonight—tonight it felt different. Offbeat. Like background noise trying to be a soundtrack.

She read it again. Once. Twice. Let it sit. Let it echo. The problem wasn't that she didn't want comfort. She did.

The problem was that comfort wasn't supposed to feel this conditional.

She knew what going over meant. What it would turn into. And maybe a different version of her—one that didn't still feel like LaMelo Ball had rearranged the molecules in her body just by existing—maybe that version would've gone.

But tonight?

She dropped the phone back on the counter. Didn't reply.

Not because she was angry. Not even because she was hurt.

But because for the first time in a long time, she didn't want to be someone's convenience. And if she left that text unanswered, maybe—just maybe—it would start meaning something.

She turned away, dragged herself to the bathroom, and let the shower roar to life—steam rising, fog bleeding across the mirror.

She stood under the water until her skin burned and her breath leveled out.

And still—none of it helped.

His voice stayed. Cool, calm, unbearable.

"You always this cold, or am I special?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. God, she hated him.

But she hated that he got to her more.

The sun hit too early.

Theresa rolled over, groaning into her pillow, hair half-damp and tangled from falling asleep before it fully dried. Her limbs ached like she'd run sprints in heels all night—which, metaphorically, she had. The dress was crumpled in a pile near the foot of the bed, one heel still tipped over sideways like even her shoes had enough.

Her phone was still face down on the kitchen counter. She hadn't checked it again after the shower. Didn't want to know if Jalen had followed up. Didn't want to risk seeing a name she couldn't stop thinking about.

She lay still for a second longer.

Then sat up. Stretched. Tried to breathe through the emotional hangover settling into her chest.

The clock said 8:12 a.m. The flight was in three hours.

First stop of this road trip: Brooklyn.

Theresa pulled herself out of bed and moved like she had somewhere to be—which she did, emotionally and literally. Quick shower. Sweatpants. Black hoodie. Minimal makeup. Hair pulled back in a claw clip. The armor of indifference.

By the time she tossed her suitcase into the back of the Uber, she almost felt steady again.

Almost.

The airport was its usual chaos. TSA lines, headphone shuffles, early morning yawns. The Hawks' travel group moved like a practiced storm—staff, players, reps all gliding through the terminal with quiet precision.

Theresa stuck to the edges. Clipboard in hand. Coffee in the other. She made her rounds. Checked names. Tracked bags. Gave a half-smile to Zaccharie when he waved nervously from a row of seats near the gate.

She hadn't seen Jalen yet. Didn't want to.

But of course—

"Morning, T."

His voice slid in behind her like it belonged there.

She turned, measured. Polite.

"Morning."

Jalen was dressed like he hadn't just sent her a late-night text. Like the words you good? come over didn't still sit unanswered in her inbox.

He didn't bring it up. Just gave her that lazy smile—the one he always wore when he was too comfortable.

"You sleep alright?" he asked.

Theresa looked him dead in the eye. "Eventually."

Then she walked past him before he could say anything else. She had a plane to catch. And too many thoughts she refused to carry onboard.

The plane smelled like leather seats, strong coffee, and too many colognes trying to outdo each other.

Theresa walked the aisle like she always did—calm, focused, headphones around her neck and an iPad in hand. The team was already halfway settled, laughter bouncing between rows as they slipped into travel rhythm.

Trae caught her eye from a few rows up, nodding toward the seat beside him. She smiled, but kept walking—three more rows, one left turn, window seat.

The one next to her wasn't empty for long.

"You don't even look excited to see me," Jalen said, dropping his bag at his feet with that same cocky grin.

Theresa slid her eyes sideways. "Do I need to be?"

He laughed like he missed her. Like they were fine.

She didn't stop him from sitting there. Didn't stop him from bumping her arm when the tray table wouldn't open or watching whatever podcast was paused on her screen.

It wasn't a declaration. It wasn't even a choice. It was just familiar.

He tapped her knee with his own as he stretched out. "You mad at me?"

She exhaled a laugh, eyes still on her screen. "Should I be?"

"Dunno. You tell me."

She didn't answer. Didn't need to. Jalen got comfortable beside her, and for a while, they sat in the quiet hum of takeoff—his presence familiar, her boundaries firm but not unfriendly. He leaned closer at one point to see what she was reading. She didn't push him away. But she didn't lean back, either.

Above the clouds, the distance between them still felt grounded.

And even then, even as the plane cut clean through blue sky and thin air, Theresa couldn't quite unclench her jaw.

Jalen had a way of slipping into her space without knocking. Of sitting too close, talking too soft, laughing just loud enough to make her remember all the nights she said yes to him—without ever getting one in return.

And it wasn't fair.

Not to him, not to her. But it was what it was.

The quiet between them wasn't hostile. It wasn't tender either. It was just... worn in. Comfortable in the worst way. Like a hoodie that didn't fit right anymore, but you still kept it because it used to.

Theresa stared straight ahead and tried not to think about anything. Not Jalen. Not the kiss. And especially not—

"Yo."

Zaccharie's voice came from a row up, cutting into the quiet like it didn't belong there. He was half-turned in his seat, peering back with a crooked, nervous grin.

"You good?" he asked. "After last night, I mean."

Theresa blinked, caught off guard. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Zacch scratched the back of his neck. "No reason. Just—you know. Looked intense."

Jalen glanced over, eyebrows raised. "What looked intense?"

Theresa didn't answer right away.

Zaccharie backpedaled fast. "Nothing. Just the dinner. The whole vibe. A lot going on."

Jalen's attention shifted fully now. "You talking about the Foundation thing?"

Zacch nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, it was just... crowded. You know?"

Theresa inhaled through her nose and leveled the rookie with a look so sharp it could've cut through turbulence.

"I'm good," she said flatly. "Thanks for checking."

Zacch nodded, already sinking back into his seat.

Jalen looked at her. "You sure?"

She met his gaze. "Peachy."

He didn't say anything else. Just leaned back, draped an arm over the back of his seat like nothing had shifted.

But it had.

She crossed her arms. Pressed her back deeper into the headrest. The cabin buzzed faintly around them—conversations, headphones, the low hum of altitude.

And beneath it all, the weight of everything unspoken still pressed against her chest.

The hallway. The way LaMelo had looked at her. The maddening calm in his voice, like he hadn't just detonated something between them and walked away like it didn't matter.

She closed her eyes.

And tried—really tried—not to replay the moment.

The city greeted them like it always did—loud, busy, blinding in the way only Manhattan could be. The team bus rolled through mid-afternoon traffic, everyone half-listening to the rookie playlist blaring off someone's speaker in the back.

Theresa sat near the front. Hoodie still up. Phone face down. Mind in six places at once.

New York was supposed to be one of her favorite stops.

Good food. Familiar streets. A quick breather before the chaos of a full road stretch.

But today?

Today, everything felt one layer too sharp.

The PR schedule was light—just a shootaround and media availability before the game. She moved through it like muscle memory, making notes, answering questions, watching Trae slip into interviews like he didn't carry the weight of an entire franchise on his shoulders. He made it look easy. Theresa knew it wasn't.

Afterward, she ducked into a side hallway while the players wrapped up. The lighting was harsh. Her phone buzzed.

Serena:  heard y'all were playing tug of war with eye contact last night. should i be worried or entertained?

Theresa stared at the screen, jaw tight. The audacity. The reach.

Theresa:  i don't know what you think you  heard
but it wasn't that

Serena:  girl it was a stareDOWN. tension so loud it needed its own press badge

Theresa:  pretty sure i was just squinting. the lighting was aggressive

Serena:  oh okay so your eyes almost caught fire because of the ambiance?? not because of him???

Theresa:  exactly. glad we're aligned

Serena:  be so serious. you were staring at him like you had him on your prayer list and hit send too hard

Theresa:  i was staring at him like i was mentally filing a restraining order. don't confuse the two

Serena: sure. and he was looking at you like you were his problem. his favorite one

Theresa:  he was probably just trying to remember if we've met. we haven't. and i'd like to keep it that way.

Serena:  yeah okay. tell your blood pressure that.

Theresa:  my blood pressure is fine. his outfit wasn't. that's what almost killed me.

Serena:  you are so annoying LMAOOOO

Serena: just admit you're in emotional peril and we can all move on

Theresa:  there is no peril. only peace. i'm thriving. enlightened. above it all.

She locked her phone without another word, shoved it into her hoodie pocket like it owed her money, and exhaled through her nose.

Peace, she told herself. She was at peace.

Even if her pulse hadn't slowed down since Thursday.

She stayed there a second longer, back pressed to the wall, pretending the fluorescent lighting wasn't slowly cooking her sanity. From around the corner, she could hear the tail end of Trae's interview—his laugh, a reporter thanking him, the soft thud of sneakers over polished floor.

A few seconds later, the door cracked open.

"Hey." Zaccharie poked his head around the corner. "They're wrapping. You need me to grab anyone else?"

Theresa straightened, nodded once. "Nah, I got it. Thanks."

He hesitated. "You sure?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Zaccharie immediately backed up, hands raised like he'd tripped a silent alarm. "No reason. Just asking. You seem—uh—composed."

"Wow," she said, dry. "The concern is overwhelming."

He offered a weak grin and disappeared.

Theresa rolled her eyes and pushed off the wall. Composed. She was fine. If one more person asked if she was good, she was going to start swinging.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn't check it.

Instead, she made her way down the hallway toward the exit doors. The team had a few hours before tip-off. Just enough time to reset, eat, and—if the universe had any mercy—go a full afternoon without anyone mentioning the name LaMelo Ball.

But as she stepped outside, her phone buzzed again, and this time, her fingers twitched.

No. Nope. She wasn't checking it. She was so far above it, she could see clouds.

And still—God, she hated curiosity.

She reached for her phone. Just to clear her notifications. Not because she cared. Not because it might be him. That would be insane. She just wanted to be organized.

She tapped the screen.

Serena:  also i heard jalen tried to act normal this morning. tell me you roasted him. lie if you have to.

Theresa:  he sat next to me on the plane and acted like the words "come over" don't exist. i deserve financial compensation

Serena:  oh he's so unserious. you know what? both of them. throw the whole roster away.

Theresa: already started. recycling bin full.

Serena: queen of emotional waste management ♻️

Theresa:  don't do that

Serena: i'm just saying. one of them sends late night texts and the other shows up uninvited. they are fighting for worst behavior

Theresa:  it's not a competition. but if it was. he'd be winning

Serena:  which one is "he"

Theresa didn't answer.

Because if she had to pick between Jalen and LaMelo in a contest for who was taking up more of her mental real estate lately...

She really didn't like the answer.

The arena was already buzzing.

Not loud, not chaotic yet—but pulsing in that low, anticipatory way that only a game night could. Lighting crews were adjusting backdrops. Security moved like shadows through side hallways. The scent of fresh popcorn was already seeping through the vents.

Theresa knew the rhythm by heart.

She'd run enough of these to walk it in her sleep—clear the tunnels, update the schedule, coordinate press with arena reps. It was muscle memory. She didn't have to think.

Which was good, because she didn't want to think.

She ducked through a back hallway near the tunnel entrance, checking her clipboard one last time before the players started their warmups. The roar of the court was still muted from here—just the thump of a basketball in the distance and the low shuffle of sneakers over hardwood.

And then—

"Yo."

She looked up.

Trae stood against the wall, arms crossed, one ankle stacked over the other like he'd been waiting.

"Need somethin'?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

He shrugged. "Didn't like your face when you walked in."

Theresa blinked. "What's wrong with my face?"

"You tell me," he said, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside her. "It's the same one you used to make when Coach benched you in AAU."

"I didn't make a face," she muttered.

"You made a whole face."

She sighed, tugging her hoodie sleeve down to her wrist. "It's just been a long day."

"Yeah," Trae said. "I heard."

Her head snapped toward him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Zaccharie's not good at keeping things to himself."

"I'm gonna kill him."

"Please don't. I like him."

They reached a small side corridor—out of the way, out of earshot—and Trae leaned against the wall again, this time quieter.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," he said. "But if you want to, I got time."

Theresa looked at him. Really looked.

He was already in warmups, that calm sort of energy settling over him like it always did before a game. There was something about the way he carried himself in those moments—focused, soft, still him.

She exhaled slowly.

"I'm not gonna lie," she said, voice lower now. "I might've lost it a little bit last night."

Trae just nodded.

"Like... fully spiraled," she added. "Internally. Mostly. Maybe."

Another nod.

"I didn't hit him."

"Progress," he said.

"I wanted to. I still might."

Trae smirked. "Let me know. I'll hold your earrings."

Theresa laughed, finally. The sound surprised her. It surprised Trae, too.

"You know," she said, voice lighter now, "you're a good brother. Even when you're annoying."

"Thanks," he said. "You're kinda terrifying. But in a cool way."

She bumped his shoulder with her own. He didn't move. Just stood there with her for a little longer, holding space like he always did. No advice. No judgement. Just presence.

"I'm fine, you know," she said after a beat.

Trae didn't flinch. "You don't have to be."

Theresa leaned back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Trae, eyes fixed on the opposite side of the hallway where a utility cart stood parked beneath a flickering light. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. Not right away.

There was something sacred about the space before a game—before the noise, the cameras, the pressure. It was a liminal kind of calm. And in that sliver of time, it was always just them. Trae and Theresa. Brother and sister. Two kids who grew up chasing the same dream from different angles.

He nudged her sneaker gently with his.

"Still thinking about him?"

"No," she lied, automatic.

He snorted.

Theresa rolled her eyes. "I'm thinking about work."

"Mhm."

"I'm thinking about logistics, press passes, halftime talent, jersey swaps—"

"And chaos with a chain on?"

She elbowed him, not hard.

"Let it go," she said.

"I'm just saying," Trae shrugged, lips twitching, "for someone who hates him so much, he's got prime real estate in your head."

"He's squatting," she muttered. "Illegally."

"Call the league," Trae deadpanned. "Get him evicted."

Theresa laughed again. This one came easier.

A moment passed.

"You know," she said, quieter now, "sometimes I think I've got everything handled. Like, every moving part in perfect order. And then—boom."

"Someone knocks it over."

She nodded.

"Yeah," he said, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. "Life's like that. Especially when you care more than you're willing to admit."

She tilted her head to look at him. "How'd you get so wise?"

Trae grinned. "You forget I've been watching you run circles around the league since college?"

She didn't answer, but the edges of her mouth curved, slow.

Another moment passed—long, still, full.

"You got me, you know," he said softly. "Even if you do try to throw your clipboard at me once a week."

"Twice, if you don't hydrate."

He laughed. "Seriously though. If anything ever really messes with you—like, really—you don't gotta handle it alone."

She looked at him. Eyes soft. Heart a little too close to her throat.

"I know," she said. And she meant it.

He checked the time on the watch wrapped over his sleeve and straightened up.

"Come on, sis. Let's go pretend we're normal people in front of twenty thousand fans."

She huffed, falling into step beside him. "God forbid they see the truth."

"Yeah," he said, flashing a grin. "That you're secretly a softie and I'm your emotional support sibling."

Theresa didn't dignify that with a response, but she didn't argue either. They walked toward the court together, steps synced without trying.

And for the first time since the dinner, the weight in her chest felt... lighter. Still there. But not unbearable.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

Barclays was already pulsing.

Lights sharp. Music loud. Energy bigger than it had any right to be for a Monday night.

Theresa kept her pace steady behind Trae as they hit the tunnel, clipboard tucked to her chest like a shield, eyes scanning the periphery for anything that needed fixing. She liked this part—the calm chaos before tipoff. Everything in motion. Everyone moving with purpose.

She was good at this. The rhythm, the control. The sense that even when everything else in her life was spiraling, here she was solid. Tethered.

Jalen jogged past, shooting sleeve pulled high, grin easy. He bumped Trae's fist, brushed Theresa's elbow without a word. Just like always. Too casual to be nothing. Too familiar to be anything else.

She didn't react. Didn't have to.

She spotted Zaccharie in the warmup line, bouncing on the balls of his feet, nodding along to whatever beat was blasting through his headphones. He caught her eye and gave a small thumbs up like a kid turning in a test he wasn't sure he passed.

She smiled back. Just a little.

A tap on her headset.

"Media check-in complete," one of the interns said beside her. "All clear up top."

Theresa nodded. "Thanks. Let me know if they start crowding the baseline again."

"Copy that."

She turned, looked toward the court just as the lights dimmed—spotlight on the Hawks bench, player intros rolling.

Her brother's name hit the speakers, and the crowd responded like they'd been waiting all week. Trae jogged out, hand raised, chin lifted, like the stage had been built just for him. Maybe it had.

Theresa watched him take his spot, settle into the rhythm. Everything about him screamed ready. Like none of the weight ever touched him. Like he wasn't carrying a whole city on his back and still making it look light.

She knew better. She always had.

Her headset buzzed again.

"Ten till anthem," someone said. "You good down there?"

"Yeah," she replied, eyes still on the court. "We're good."

Sort of. Mostly.

The anthem came and went. Cameras flashed. Fans roared. And then—it was time.

Tipoff.

Game on.

She stood on the sideline, headset static in one ear, clipboard balanced against her hip and tried not to think about all the things that weren't her job to carry. The ones she still did anyway.

The first quarter moved fast.

Theresa watched with trained detachment, eyes flicking from the court to the bench to her clipboard and back again. The team looked good—sharp. Focused. Trae was moving like he'd slept for twelve hours and drank rocket fuel for breakfast. Zaccharie hit a smooth corner three that made the bench light up.

Theresa didn't flinch. Just made a quick note on her pad and took a measured sip of water. She wasn't courtside for the thrill. She was there to make sure nothing cracked.

But every so often, her gaze drifted. Not toward the action—but toward the spaces between it. The small exchanges. The body language. Jalen's subtle looks. The way he threw a no-look pass and glanced toward her, just to see if she'd seen it.

She had. She didn't react.

Across the court, media cameras lined the baseline. A few recognized her—some local coverage teams, familiar faces with press passes. One raised a hand. She gave a curt nod back.

Trae checked out for a timeout and made his way toward the bench. As he passed her, he reached up and tapped her clipboard lightly with the back of his hand. She glanced down, then up at him.

"You good?" he asked, voice low, out of range of the boom mics nearby.

She nodded. A beat. Then:

"Peachy."

He didn't look convinced.

"You don't gotta be cool all the time, you know," he said.

Theresa narrowed her eyes. "Says the man who just dropped ten in six minutes and winked at the camera."

"That was for Mom," he said without missing a beat. "Relax."

She let out a small laugh despite herself.

Trae lingered for half a second longer, just long enough to add, "You know if I need to beat someone's ass, just say the word."

Theresa blinked at him. "Do you want another fine?"

"I'll put it on your tab."

Then he jogged off before she could fire back.

She stood still for a second. Smiling without meaning to. He always knew when to check in. Not push. Not pry. Just show up, say enough to remind her she wasn't carrying all of it alone.

The buzzer blared again. Timeout over. The game snapped back into rhythm.

Theresa tapped her pen twice against the clipboard and pulled her hoodie sleeves down to her knuckles. Then she exhaled slow—steady—and got back to work.

But the edge of her mind still itched.

She wasn't sure if it was LaMelo.

Or herself.

Either way, she didn't like it.

The second quarter crept in quieter.

Slower, steadier. The initial adrenaline settled into rhythm, and the crowd buzz leveled into background noise. Theresa rotated closer to the bench, headset low in one ear, half-listening to the game while managing a handful of behind-the-scenes check-ins—camera crews, floor reps, a note about halftime scheduling.

Everything was moving the way it was supposed to.

And still, she felt... off.

It wasn't loud. Wasn't even dramatic. Just that itch again. Like the moment right before a storm hits—sky too still, air too sharp. Like something was waiting to unravel and she didn't know what thread would pull first.

Jalen checked back in with three minutes left in the half. He passed by her on the way to the scorer's table, brushing her arm lightly with the back of his fingers.

She didn't look up. Didn't flinch. But her breath caught. Just for a second.

He was playing well. Focused, dialed in, all soft floaters and clean footwork. A couple assists. One quiet three from the wing that made the crowd hum. He wasn't showboating. Wasn't playing for the cameras.

But she knew when he was playing for her.

Trae dropped a slick behind-the-back pass to a cutting forward, the bench jumped, and Theresa used the distraction to pull back toward the tunnel entrance—somewhere quieter, where she could regroup.

Halfway there, her phone buzzed.

Serena: tell me why your boy just looked at you mid-game like he was in an A24 film

Theresa closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.

Theresa: he's not my anything

Serena: he's giving "if i score you're the one i think about" energy

Serena: i felt secondhand tension through the screen

Theresa: you're a menace

Serena: and you're in denial. twinsies

Theresa didn't respond. Just slid her phone back in her pocket and leaned against the wall, one hand gripping the edge of the clipboard like it could ground her.

It was easier when she had things to do. Calls to make. People to manage. But standing still? Stillness was dangerous.

Stillness made space for thoughts she didn't want to unpack. Like why Jalen suddenly felt more present. Why his attention tonight didn't feel like comfort—it felt like a test. A pressure point. Like he was trying to prove something, or remind her of something, or maybe just win back territory he hadn't even noticed was his to lose.

And she didn't know what made her angrier—the effort or the fact that it was working.

The buzzer sounded, loud and jarring.

Halftime.

She straightened, adjusted her headset, and moved like nothing had shifted at all.

Halftime in Barclays had its own kind of rhythm.

Security swept through. Media huddled near the tunnel. Staff reset the court while a local dance crew took over for the crowd's attention, bright outfits and sequined sneakers flashing under the overhead lights.

Theresa moved through it all like fog—quiet, unnoticed, untouchable. Clipboard clutched tight, headset muted for a second just so she could breathe.

She hovered near the tunnel entrance, just outside the locker room hallway, waiting for the players to clear before heading back to coordinate the halftime segment.

A few media heads passed her with clipped nods. One of the arena interns gave her a thumbs up from the scorers' table. Everything was fine. Everything was moving.

She wasn't.

"Yo."

She turned.

Jalen.

Sweat-slick, jersey untucked, shooting sleeve rolled low. There was a towel around his neck and that look in his eyes—low heat and something unreadable.

He didn't say anything else right away. Just stopped beside her like he had every right to.

"You alright?" he asked, voice low. Barely above the buzz of halftime.

Theresa lifted a shoulder. "You're asking a lot for someone who ghosted his own text."

He smirked, but not fully. "Didn't ghost. You just didn't answer."

She didn't say anything.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside her. Close. Too close.

"I meant it," he added. "You good?"

She looked straight ahead. "I'm working."

"That's not what I asked."

Theresa exhaled slowly through her nose, jaw tight.

"Why now?" she said, still not looking at him. "Why ask now?"

Jalen didn't answer immediately. And when he did, it wasn't flirty. Wasn't smug.

"Because you looked like you needed someone to."

Her eyes flicked toward him. Just once.

And maybe that was a mistake—because when she did, he was already looking at her. And for once, there wasn't a smirk in sight.

"You don't have to say anything," he said. "I just... figured I'd check."

A beat passed.

Then—

"You free tomorrow night?"

Theresa blinked. "Why?"

"Team's doing dinner after media. Nothing big." He shrugged. "Figured you'd want to come."

"Why?" she asked again, slower this time.

Jalen gave a half-laugh. "Because we haven't hung out in a minute. And maybe I miss you. Is that a crime?"

She tilted her head. "That depends. Are you asking as a teammate, a friend, or as someone who only remembers I exist when it's convenient?"

He winced. Just a little.

"I deserved that."

"Mm."

"But I'm asking as me," he said, quieter now. "Not perfect. Not with all the answers. But here."

Theresa looked at him again. And for one terrible, fleeting second—she almost softened.

Then the buzzer blared again. Loud. Final.

The end of halftime.

Jalen pushed off the wall and nodded. "No pressure. Just think about it."

And then he was gone—back to the tunnel, back to the game, back to whatever version of himself he thought she still wanted.

Theresa stood there for a second longer. Unmoving. Quiet. Then she tapped her headset back on, flipped the page on her clipboard, and walked the opposite direction.

Because thinking about it was the exact problem.

The second half moved faster.

Brooklyn came back with a vengeance—tight defense, faster transitions. It wasn't a blowout, not yet, but the momentum had shifted, and everyone felt it.

Theresa stood behind the bench like usual, notes in hand, face unreadable. Trae was locked in, barking out plays, dragging the game back by the throat. Jalen looked sharp too—quick on the switch, cleaner with his decisions. She watched him a little too closely. Hated that she noticed the difference when he was trying.

Still. No one was looking at her, so she let her eyes linger longer than they should.

When the buzzer finally sounded, the Hawks were up by six. Narrow win. Hard-earned. Theresa exhaled like she hadn't taken a real breath in twenty minutes.

The players peeled off the court, crowd roaring around them. Media started to gather again, cameras flicking on like a swarm of fireflies.

She handed her clipboard to one of the staffers and slid out of the main path, ducking through a side hallway as the postgame swirl began.

Inside the locker room, the usual noise buzzed—music bumping low, sneakers squeaking against tile, voices overlapping. Theresa waited just outside, headset off now, phone buzzing in her pocket.

She didn't check it. She was tired. She was buzzing. She didn't know what she was.

Jalen emerged first, jersey changed, hair still damp. He didn't say anything. Just looked at her.

She looked right back. For a second, it felt like the hallway narrowed. Like everything fell away.

Then Trae appeared behind him, towel around his shoulders, grin crooked.

"You see me go off in the third or are you still mad at me for being friends with someone from Charlotte?"

Theresa blinked. Jalen glanced down at his shoes, biting a smile.

"I blacked out at halftime," she said, deadpan. "Can't confirm."

Trae laughed and bumped her arm as he passed. "Bet."

Jalen lingered.

"You think about it?" he asked.

She knew what he meant. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Proximity she wasn't sure she wanted.

"I'm considering," she said.

"Can I check in later?"

Theresa raised an eyebrow. "When has that ever stopped you?"

He smirked, but it didn't land as smooth this time. He looked... off-balance.

"Right," he said, nodding once. "I'll text."

Then he left, leaving her alone in the hallway with nothing but the fading scent of victory and questions she didn't feel like answering.

The hotel room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Theresa stepped inside, toeing off her sneakers by the door. She tossed her hoodie across the desk chair and let her bag slump to the floor. The glow from the city outside leaked through the curtains—soft, gold-tinted. It cast long lines across the carpet, turned the whole room a shade too still.

She didn't turn on the TV. Didn't turn on music either. Just stood there for a beat, breathing like it was a new language.

Her phone buzzed again.

She ignored it again.

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, hands folded. Just sat there.

Her hair was still pulled back from the game. She tugged out the clip and dropped it beside her on the sheets. Ran her fingers through the loose waves once, twice, and then let them fall.

She didn't feel bad. Not exactly. Not angry. Not soft either.

She just... didn't know what came next.

Theresa never liked feeling in-between. She liked certainty. Schedules. Control. She liked knowing the weight of every choice before it was made. But this?

This thing with Jalen. This non-thing with LaMelo.

It didn't feel weighted. It felt tilted. Like something was off-center and she was the only one who noticed.

She sighed, leaned back, stretched across the comforter with a soft thud. Her phone buzzed again, this time from somewhere deeper in her bag.

She let it.

For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like answering anyone.

There was a knock on the door.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just a soft, steady knock-knock like someone who knew she was in, but wasn't trying to push.

Theresa stayed on the bed for a second, eyes on the ceiling.

She didn't ask who it was. She already knew.

When she opened the door, Jalen was leaning against the frame, hotel keycard still in his hand like he hadn't decided whether to knock again or go back to his room.

"Didn't text first," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "Wanted to see if I'd get cussed out in person."

Theresa crossed her arms. "You still might."

He smiled. "Fair enough."

For a second, neither of them moved. Then,

"I'm not trying to mess with your night," Jalen said, quieter now. "I just figured... we're here. Same floor. Thought I'd see if you wanted to chill. Grab food. Something."

Theresa tilted her head. "You hungry?"

"Starving," he said. "And room service here is trash. Thought maybe you'd want to sneak out."

Her eyebrow rose. "You want me to sneak out for fries?"

Jalen grinned. "I want you to sneak out for fries with me."

Theresa didn't move. Didn't smile. But the smallest spark lit behind her eyes.

"Fine," she said, grabbing her hoodie off the chair. "But if I get recognized, you're paying for therapy."

"You're not even famous," he muttered, already turning for the elevator.

She didn't answer. Just followed, quiet steps behind him, hoodie half-zipped, eyes sharp.

Not a date.

Just a walk.

Just food.

Just them.

And still—something in the air felt shifted.

They didn't go far.

Just down the block from the hotel, hoodies up, heads low, the late-night kind of quiet settling around them like a secret. The city was still awake—this was New York, after all—but in their little pocket of it, things felt... still.

The diner they landed in was barely lit. Fluorescent hum. Red vinyl booths. A laminated menu that hadn't changed in a decade.

Theresa slid into the booth first, tucked into the corner where her back could stay to the wall. Jalen dropped into the seat across from her, like they'd done this a hundred times before.

The server came by without fanfare. Jalen ordered pancakes. Theresa, fries and a black coffee.

When the server walked away, Jalen leaned back, arms stretched across the top of the booth.

"You always eat like you're on the third shift of a heist."

Theresa blinked. "You're eating pancakes at midnight."

He pointed. "Pancakes are a neutral zone."

She cracked a smile, but didn't let it spread too far.

Jalen watched her. Not too obviously. Just enough that she felt it.

"You good?" he asked, finally. Not the casual kind of question either. The real kind. The kind with weight behind it.

Theresa looked down at the table. Traced a line in the laminated menu with her fingernail.

"I'm tired," she said. "That's all."

"Yeah," he said, low. "You looked it."

She lifted her gaze to meet his. "Thanks."

"You know what I mean."

She did. But she didn't want to sit in it too long.

The fries came quick. So did the pancakes. Theresa ate in small, careful bites, eyes on her plate. Jalen cut into his food like he hadn't eaten since lunch—focused, a little quieter than usual, the weight of the day still sitting in his shoulders. The silence between them stretched easy, not uncomfortable, but not weightless either. It was the kind of quiet that had gravity. The kind that asked questions without raising its voice.

Theresa could feel him watching her sometimes. Not constantly. Just... moments. Like he was trying to memorize something before it slipped. Or maybe trying to read something she wasn't letting him see.

"You good?" he asked eventually. Again. Not casual. Not in passing. Just that kind of quiet that meant he'd been thinking about it longer than he wanted to admit.

Theresa didn't answer right away. She didn't look up. Just nudged a fry through ketchup, slow and precise. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Jalen leaned back against the booth, arms stretched wide across the top. "You've been quiet."

"You've been loud enough for both of us."

That earned a small laugh. A genuine one. It settled between them like a breath.

"I missed this," he said, almost too quickly. Then, slower, like he needed to say it right: "Not just the fries. You."

Her fork paused against the rim of the plate.

The words weren't dramatic. Not overblown. Just simple. Honest. The kind of thing that used to come easy between them, back when nothing was complicated.

She didn't lift her head. Just reached for her coffee instead, fingers curling around the warm ceramic like it could anchor her in place.

"Wasn't sure you noticed I'd been gone," she said, the words low, careful.

"I notice more than you think."

Finally, she looked at him. Not long. Just enough.

And there it was—that quiet, charged thing between them again. The thing that hadn't gone away. Not even when she tried to starve it out.

He wasn't smirking. He wasn't pushing. Just watching her like he wanted to say more, but was willing to wait.

"You didn't say anything," she said.

"I didn't know if I had the right to."

A pause.

"You always do," she said, a little softer than she meant to. She hated the crack in her voice. Hated how honest it felt.

Jalen leaned in, elbows on the table. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough to shift the air.

Theresa didn't move. Her fingers curled around her coffee cup like it might keep her steady.

His hand rested beside hers on the table, close enough to touch. Close enough to count the space between their knuckles.

And then—barely—his pinky brushed hers.

A small thing. Stupid. Quick.

But it didn't feel small.

Neither of them moved. Not right away.

Her eyes flicked to where their hands touched. His stayed on her. She didn't pull away. Not this time.

Jalen didn't say anything. Didn't smirk. Didn't try to fill the space. And somehow, that silence said more than anything else.

They sat there for another moment—one second too long to be casual, one breath too short to be a decision.

Then Theresa blinked, slow. Pulled her hand back. Not abruptly. Just... enough. The spell didn't break. It just paused.

Jalen flagged the check, dropped cash on the table. She didn't stop him. He didn't ask her to.

"You coming?" he said.

She nodded. Quiet. Measured.

Outside, the city had softened.

The streets hummed low. The neon bled into puddles. They didn't talk, but the silence was different now. It wasn't empty. It was full of everything they didn't say.

At her door, she hesitated. Keycard between her fingers, body angled toward him without meaning to.

Jalen stood close. Not pressing. Just there. Present.

She looked at him. He looked back. They didn't move. Not yet.

For one second—maybe longer—it felt like something was going to happen. A step forward. A kiss. A confession. Something.

She thought he might do it. She thought she might let him.

But instead, her hand reached out—gentle, slow—and brushed his sleeve. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath the fabric. Just enough to say I'm here. Just enough to mean Don't go yet.

"Thanks for the fries," she said.

He smiled. A soft one. The kind that stayed.

"Thanks for saying yes," he said. "Even if it wasn't a date."

She smiled, just a little. "You would've called it that if I'd let you."

"Maybe," he said. "But I liked it better like this."

Theresa didn't let go of his sleeve right away. Neither of them did anything with the space that followed.

It stretched. Quiet. Full.

And when she finally turned, when she finally let the keycard beep and the door click open, it wasn't because she wanted to end the moment. It was because she wasn't ready for what might happen if she didn't.

She stepped inside. Paused. Looked over her shoulder—just once.

Jalen hadn't moved. He looked like he wanted to. But he didn't.

She didn't ask him to. The door closed soft behind her. And the silence it left felt louder than anything either of them could say.

The city was muted at dawn.

Brooklyn streets still half-asleep, sky just starting to turn from steel to lavender. Theresa sat curled on the hotel room window seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, legs tucked beneath her. She hadn't meant to wake up this early. She'd hoped to sleep through the weight in her chest. But her body had other plans.

So here she was.

Coffee in hand. Phone face down. Hair still tied up from last night.

The fries were long gone. Jalen had walked away. And she still hadn't figured out what she was supposed to do with any of it.

It hadn't been a date. She was sure of that. The lighting had been too bad, and her mouth had been a little sharp, and Jalen had looked at her like he wanted to ask a dozen things he didn't know how to say.

But it hadn't been nothing, either. That was the problem.

It was always almost something. And almost had started to hurt.

She stared at the skyline a beat longer, then stood. She had a bus to catch and a face to put on.

Boston was up next.

Chapter Text

Boston was cold.

Gray skies. Sharp wind. That New England kind of chill that sank into your joints and stayed there. Theresa wore all black again. Slim turtleneck. Structured trench. Hair slicked into a low bun so tight it didn't dare move. It wasn't quite armor, but it helped.

The team hotel had history in its walls—gold-plated elevators, heavy curtains, the kind of carpet that muted every footstep like a secret. Theresa checked in fast. Gave the front desk a smile with no softness. Keycard in hand, she went upstairs, dropped her bag by the door, and didn't stop moving.

No time. No room. No breath. Just prep.

Pregame responsibilities, walk-through reminders, a media schedule to retype. She set up in the corner of her hotel room with her laptop balanced on her knees and a to-do list that didn't leave space for whatever was still tangled up in her chest.

Dinner wasn't until later. Casual team hangout. Nothing big. Not mandatory. Jalen hadn't followed up, but she hadn't expected him to.

Theresa kept her head down most of the day.

She floated between press check-ins and facility runs like a ghost in sneakers—quiet, fast-moving, never quite lingering anywhere long enough to be asked how she was doing. She didn't want to be asked. Didn't want to answer.

Trae tried, once.

"Need anything?" he asked mid-morning, leaning against a wall with a protein shake in hand, hoodie pulled over his head.

She didn't even look up from her tablet. "I'm good."

"You sure?" he asked.

She nodded, sharp. "Yup."

Trae watched her for a second longer—just long enough to clock the speed in her voice and the way her jaw stayed set. But he let it go. Gave her a pat on the shoulder and peeled off to shootaround.

That was the thing about her brother—he knew when to ask, and he knew when to wait.

However, Boston didn't wait for anyone.

By the time they got to the arena, the wind had picked up, biting through her coat like it was nothing. Theresa didn't flinch. She adjusted her scarf, tightened her grip on the clipboard, and moved through the tunnel like she had somewhere to be. Because she did.

TD Garden was alive. Not Barclays-level chaos, but charged in a different way—tense, gritty, unflinching. Boston had that kind of energy. Loud without theatrics. Ruthless without warning.

She stuck close to the staff, circled the media row, checked in with ops. The Celtics were already on court for warmups. Hawks trickled in behind her. Music thumped low. Everything felt a little too calm. Too measured. Like the night was holding its breath.

She spotted Jalen from across the court—head down, hoodie up, headphones in. Not looking at her. Not trying to. It didn't matter. She saw him anyway.

She looked away first.

She was efficient. Detached. Cordial when she needed to be and invisible when she didn't.

It was a job. That's what she kept telling herself.

It was a job, not a war.

The pregame moved in rhythm. Predictable. Safe.

Until it wasn't.

Jalen passed her on the way to the bench—slow, steady, all coiled ease. He didn't say anything. Just brushed her hand with the back of his fingers as he moved past.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

She didn't flinch. She didn't follow. But the air around her got just a little bit thinner.

Tipoff came fast.

Boston's crowd was rowdy—loud in the way only Boston knew how to be. Theresa stayed close to the bench, headset clipped to her collar, clipboard in hand. Her posture was calm. Professional. But her pulse was humming beneath the surface.

The first half was ugly. Sloppy defense. Missed assignments. The Celtics started strong. Fast transitions. Clean ball movement. The Hawks kept pace, but barely. It was one of those games that felt personal even if it wasn't. Trae kept his head down and played like he had something to prove. Jalen was playing well, sure, but the rest of the team looked like they'd landed in Boston half-asleep.

She rotated closer to the baseline during the second quarter, cross-checking press passes and scanning the sidelines. Her headset buzzed, someone asking for a media update, and she answered without thinking. Everything about her moved like muscle memory—on the outside.

Inside? Everything was a little off-kilter.

Trae hit a stepback three before the half, and the bench erupted. Zaccharie stood up first. Jalen followed. He clapped once, barked something at the floor, and then glanced across the court—for one breathless second—right at her.

Just one look.

Quick. Measured. Unreadable.

Then he turned back toward the bench, chest rising and falling like he'd been holding in air since New York.

By halftime, she needed air.

She ducked into a side hallway and leaned against the wall, letting her headset fall to her neck. Her phone buzzed.

Serena:  you look like you're gonna throw a clipboard at someone and honestly i support it

Theresa:  i'm restraining myself. barely.

Serena:  jalen playing like he's trying to make eye contact every five seconds

Theresa:  tell him to stop

Serena:  he's not the one looking away every time

Theresa locked her phone.

She hated Serena. She loved her. She hated that she was right.

The second half was better.

Trae found his rhythm. Zaccharie hit a three in transition that nearly took the roof off. And Jalen? Jalen was on. Every cut clean. Every look sharper than it needed to be. He wasn't playing loud. He wasn't playing showy, but Theresa clocked it early.

The pace. The precision. The way he moved like he had something to say and the stat sheet was the only place he trusted to say it. Playing like someone who needed someone to notice.

And she did. She noticed everything.

Twenty-three points. Five assists. One very intentional no-look pass that made the crowd erupt.

The game ended tight. Hawks by four. Hard-earned. Gritty. Every play fought for.

When he found her by the tunnel after the game, sweat-slick and smug, she was already waiting.

"You see that pass?" he asked, chin tilted just slightly, like he already knew the answer.

Theresa didn't look up from her clipboard. "I see everything."

Not quite teasing. A compliment buried in detachment.

Jalen leaned closer. Reached for the clipboard like he had every right to. "Nothing about me on here?"

"Page seven," she lied.

He grinned. "You're not as cold as you act, Young."

She arched an eyebrow, finally glancing up. "And you're not as smooth as you think."

That grin didn't falter. If anything, it deepened.

But she didn't walk away. And he didn't stop watching her. He stepped closer.

"I didn't follow up," he said.

She tilted her head. "Noticed."

"I figured if you wanted to come, you would."

Her mouth twitched. "That how it works now?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her like he was trying to find the edges of something invisible.

"You coming?"

A simple question. Loaded as hell.

Theresa looked past him, toward the quiet of the tunnel. Then back.

"I'll meet you there," she said, even though she didn't know if she meant it.

But Jalen just nodded.

And in the beat that followed—something shifted.

He took a half step closer, like he didn't want to leave yet. Like he might say something else. But he didn't. He just stood there.

And so did she. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Not anymore. Just... there.

Then, his voice—lower this time.

"You looked good tonight," he said.

Theresa's pulse jumped, but her face didn't move. "Thanks."

It wasn't a truce. It wasn't a flirt. It was something else. Something that might come back to bite her later.

He nodded once, soft. And walked away.

Theresa didn't go to the team dinner right away.

She needed a minute. Maybe more than that.

Back at the hotel, the room felt warmer than it should've. Not cozy. Not soft. Just close. Like the walls had been waiting for her.

She peeled off her coat, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed without turning on a single light. The glow from the window was enough—Boston blinking back at her in cold blue and gold.

Her phone buzzed twice from the nightstand. She didn't check it.

She sat still instead. Let the silence settle in her shoulders. Let her brain quiet down from the noise of the game, the tunnel, Jalen.

God, Jalen.

He hadn't even done anything, really. Hadn't crossed a line. Hadn't made it weird.

And that was the problem.

He was calm now. Steady. Like he finally knew how to be around her again without playing games. Without pulling back the second she leaned in.

It should've been a relief. But it felt like a setup. Like the ground under her feet might still shift any second.

She stood. Changed into something easy—dark jeans, soft sweater, a coat that didn't ask for attention. Pulled her hair loose from the bun, shook it out just enough to soften the tension at her temples.

One last look in the mirror. Even she couldn't tell what she was doing.

She grabbed her room key. Slipped her phone in her pocket. And walked out the door before she could think too long about any of it.

The restaurant wasn't fancy. Not a reservation spot, not a scene. Just one of those low-light places with cracked leather booths and music that stayed in the background. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind of place you could pretend you didn't feel like a walking contradiction.

The team took up two tables in the back—rookies already half-loud, veterans still settling in. Jalen was at the far end, leaning back in his chair, drink in hand, laughing at something Trae said. He hadn't seen her yet.

Theresa stepped in, unzipped her coat, and scanned the room like it didn't matter who she was looking for.

She felt his eyes before she found them. Jalen straightened when he saw her. Just a little. Not obvious, but enough.

She gave a small nod, walked toward the group. Trae waved her down to the seat beside him, and she slid in without comment.

They ordered food.

The conversation bounced—stats, travel, memes, inside jokes from the flight. She was present, enough to keep anyone from asking if something was wrong. But her gaze drifted. Occasionally. Toward the other table. Toward him.

Jalen didn't push. Didn't stare. Just kept glancing like he didn't mean to.

Eventually, he stood. Wandered over. Casual.

"You good?" he asked her, voice low, just for her.

Theresa didn't look up. "You already asked me that."

"Doesn't mean I got an answer."

She didn't give him one now either.

Serena wasn't on this part of the trip, but one of the rookies' girlfriends slid into the seat beside her and started asking about internship programs. Theresa was fine. Cordial. Focused.

The food came fast. Bowls passed down the table. Forks clinked. Someone told a story about practice that had half the rookies groaning and Trae shaking his head.

Theresa picked at her plate, half-listening. Nodding when it felt appropriate. Laughing once or twice, but the kind that didn't reach her eyes.

Jalen hadn't moved back to his table. He stayed where he was, leaned against the back wall like he belonged there. Arms crossed. Watching the room without looking too obvious about it.

But she felt him. The weight of his presence. The way his gaze landed on her like muscle memory.

"Want some?" Trae nudged his plate toward her—extra fries stacked high.

Theresa shook her head. "I'm good."

"Liar," Trae said, but let it go.

Across from her, Zaccharie was deep in a debate with one of the assistant coaches about sneakers. Someone else was trying to get the aux. The room was buzzing in that warm, off-duty kind of way.

Theresa shifted in her seat, sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair loose. She was trying to stay light. Disconnected. She wasn't trying to feel anything.

But then Jalen leaned closer, voice low, only for her.

"You remember this place?"

She blinked.

He nodded toward the bar. "Rookie year. You made me split garlic fries and told me they were non-negotiable."

She blinked again. "I was right."

"You were always right about food."

Theresa bit back a smile. It tried to tug at the corner of her mouth anyway.

"You told me the booths made you feel like you were in a mob movie," he added, and she hated that he remembered that too.

"I was being dramatic," she muttered.

He leaned in a little more. "Yeah, but it stuck."

The warmth between them shifted. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... closer.

Familiar.

She glanced at him then. Really looked. And for a second, the noise of the room faded around them.

He was looking at her like he didn't want to be anywhere else.

Like this moment—this exact version of her—was the one he'd been missing without knowing it.

And then someone called his name.

He straightened, not fast, but enough. Like he had to remember he wasn't supposed to be here too long. Not next to her. Not like this.

"Come back later," she said, voice soft enough to miss if you weren't listening.

He froze.

Then nodded once.

"Yeah," he said. "I will."

Drinks came and the vibe cracked open.

Someone started telling stories from the last road trip. Someone else interrupted to correct the details. The table brimmed with laughter, spilling into every corner. The rookies sat up straighter when the older guys talked. Theresa leaned back in her chair, sipped her water, listened.

She didn't need to say much. She rarely did. Her presence was enough—steady, grounded, impossible to ignore. Even without the clipboard.

Across the table, Jalen had leaned into a conversation with one of the trainers, but every so often, his eyes found hers again. Quick glances. Barely-there shifts in attention. Like he was keeping track of her without trying.

Or maybe trying too hard.

She didn't return it. Not every time. But the pull was there. Subtle. Consistent.

At one point, Zaccharie leaned toward her with a soft whisper, "You good?"

She nodded, small. "Yeah. Just soaking it all in."

He smiled, relieved.

And maybe she was. Soaking it in, that is. The noise, the warmth, the part of this world that didn't demand anything from her heart, just her presence. It helped. Even when it didn't fix everything.

Jalen laughed at something a few seats over. That real kind of laugh—the one that came out low and a little too honest.

Theresa didn't mean to look. But she did. He was already looking back. This time, he didn't look away. Neither did she.

One of the rookies knocked over a water glass, and the table broke into noise again. People shifted, napkins flew. A brief chorus of "bro, seriously?" and "rookie tax!"

It passed quickly. But something in the room felt different after. Like a countdown had started.

Trae leaned back, stretched, and said to no one in particular, "Hotel's like a five-minute walk. Don't act like you can't handle it."

Someone groaned. Another cursed under their breath. People started grabbing coats, finishing drinks, dapping each other up.

Theresa stood last. Adjusted the sleeves of her sweater. Took her time.

By the time she stepped outside, the group had mostly thinned—rookies rushing ahead, vets lingering behind, Trae already halfway down the block with two guys from the bench mob.

But Jalen? He was waiting.

Not obvious. Not lingering in her space. Just near enough. Just facing the right direction. Just close enough to catch her eye and tilt his head like a question.

She didn't nod. Just walked and he fell into step beside her.

The night was cold. Still.

That kind of quiet that only came in cities after midnight—when the horns died down and the world stopped trying to impress itself.

Theresa walked with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, each step measured. Boots sharp against the sidewalk, breath fogging faintly in the chill. Her eyes stayed ahead, steady.

Jalen didn't speak at first. Just matched her pace. Shoulders squared. Hands in his pockets too. Every so often, their arms brushed.

Not on purpose. Not really.

"You didn't like the food," he said after a while, voice soft.

She blinked. "What?"

"Your plate," he said. "Barely touched it."

She shrugged. "Wasn't hungry."

He nodded. Quiet for a beat. Then, "Long day?"

She didn't answer right away. Just exhaled slow, like the air in her lungs was heavier than it needed to be.

"I didn't love today," she admitted. "That's all."

He glanced at her, but didn't push.

They walked in silence for another block. Boots over pavement. Streetlights flickering above.

"You looked solid out there," she said finally. "Tonight. Game felt good."

Jalen smiled, a little crooked. "Was hoping you'd say that."

She shook her head, eyes still forward. "Of course you were."

He let out a soft laugh. "You think I'm always trying to impress you."

"You are."

"Is it working?"

That made her glance at him. Not long. Just long enough to mean maybe.

They crossed a street. The light changed late, but they didn't run. Just kept walking like nothing could touch them.

Jalen stuffed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "I was gonna sit next to you at dinner."

"You didn't."

"You didn't sit next to me either."

"I didn't owe you that."

"I know."

She didn't mean to slow down. But she did.

They passed a storefront with the lights still glowing soft inside—dim gold, stacks of books pressed to the glass. A coffee shop that doubled as a used bookstore. Her pace shifted again.

Jalen noticed. "Want to stop?"

She shook her head. "Just liked the window."

He didn't say anything. But when they passed it, he looked at it too. Like he wanted to remember it in case it mattered later.

They were two blocks from the hotel now. The wind had picked up just enough to make her eyes sting.

Jalen glanced sideways. "Cold?"

She didn't answer.

He didn't offer her his jacket. He wasn't stupid. She'd throw it back at him. But his hand twitched slightly like he'd thought about it—and maybe that was worse.

They walked the rest of the way like that. Not talking. Not pretending. Just side by side.

When the hotel came into view, both of them slowed. A little. Like they weren't quite ready for what came next. They stopped just outside the hotel entrance. Not abrupt. Just... slower steps until they weren't moving at all.

The wind cut down the street in sharp little slices, catching the edges of Theresa's coat. Her hair had started to float slightly, a few strands running away from being tucked in her collar. She didn't fix it.

Jalen stood beside her, just close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him in waves, like he hadn't cooled off from the game. Or maybe it was something else. Something older. Something still lit.

"You going up?" he asked, low.

Theresa's eyes didn't leave the glass doors. "Eventually."

He nodded. Didn't move.

The wind whipped again. She rocked slightly on her heels. And for a second, she thought—this is the part where we go in.

But he didn't budge. Neither did she.

Instead, Jalen's voice dropped again, quiet and unhurried. "It was good seeing you tonight. Like that."

She turned to him then. Just enough. "What do you mean, like that?"

His gaze held hers, steady. "Not working. Not walking away. Just... you. Sitting across from me."

Her throat tightened. She hated when he said things like that—so plain and without defense. It made it harder to stay sharp.

"You could've had that anytime," she said. "You just never asked."

"I'm asking now."

The words didn't rush. They landed.

Theresa inhaled slow. "You're late."

"I know." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Still here, though."

For a second—longer than it should've lasted—she didn't respond. Just looked at him. Looked through him.

And then, she reached for the lapel of his coat.

Fingers brushing the edge, featherlight. No real reason. No need. Just an excuse to touch something that wasn't hers.

Jalen stilled. Let her.

When she dropped her hand, she didn't step away. Instead, she murmured, voice quiet enough to disappear in the wind, "You sure this isn't just one of your moods?"

He looked at her like she'd just asked the wrong question entirely. "Does it feel like a mood?"

She didn't answer. Didn't have to. Because that was the problem—it didn't.

And she hated that.

"I'm going up," she said, finally.

"Want me to walk you?"

"No."

A pause. Then, softer, "But you can come with me."

His brows lifted. Just barely.

She turned for the door, didn't wait for his response.

He followed.

They didn't say anything else as the glass doors whispered open behind them, the city swallowed by silence, and the night followed them in.

The elevator was empty when they stepped in.

Theresa hit the button for her floor without a word. Jalen leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders relaxed in that way that wasn't actually relaxed at all.

The doors slid shut. Silence.

Not the awkward kind—just tight. Pressurized. Like the air between them was too aware of itself.

Theresa kept her eyes on the glowing numbers above the door. Jalen watched her instead.

The lights ticked up. One floor. Two.

"You're quiet again," he said finally, voice low in the small space.

"So are you," she said, not looking.

Jalen shifted just enough for the fabric of his coat to rustle. "Trying not to mess it up."

That made her glance over. "What do you mean?"

"This," he said. "Tonight. You."

Theresa blinked. "You think you can mess me up that easy?"

His mouth curved. Not a full smile—just the beginning of one. "You make it sound like that's a challenge."

The elevator dinged. Still one floor away.

Theresa crossed her arms. "It's not."

"I know," he said, stepping closer. Not touching—just close enough for her to feel the pull. "But it kinda feels like everything with us is."

The next floor lit up.

Theresa stared at the doors, jaw tight. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Act like you want to mean something—right up until it matters."

He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just looked at her like the words didn't scare him.

"I do want to mean something."

The elevator stopped. The doors slid open. Neither of them moved.

"Theresa," he said, voice almost a whisper. "Let me walk you the rest of the way."

She looked at him. Really looked. Then—barely, just enough—she nodded.

She stepped out first and he followed.

The hallway ahead was quiet. Long. Full of tension so thick it felt like it echoed with every footstep. They didn't touch, but every step felt like the space between them was about to collapse.

Halfway down the hallway, she stopped.

Right in front of her door. Fingers curled tight around the keycard, thumb resting on the edge like she might swipe it. Like she might not.

Jalen stepped up beside her. Close. Closer than he'd been all night.

The quiet stretched again. Not empty. Full. Loaded.

She didn't look at him. Not yet. Just stared at the door like it might give her an answer she wasn't ready to ask for.

Then—his voice, low. Barely there.

"You gonna let me say goodnight?"

She finally turned. Slow.

Her eyes found his in the dim hotel light, and suddenly the hallway felt way too narrow. Too quiet. Her heart kicked up once—sharp and traitorous.

"You always say goodnight like it's a dare," she said.

He didn't smile. Not this time. He just looked at her like he'd been trying not to all night. Like he was seeing something he'd been circling for weeks. Like if he looked away, he'd lose it.

Her hand still rested on the card reader. Still hadn't moved.

And then—Jalen leaned in. Not fast. Not hesitant either. Just... decided.

His hand found her jaw—light at first, then firmer as he tilted her face toward his. Like he couldn't help it. Like this had been a long time coming and he'd finally run out of ways to hold back.

He paused an inch away.

Let her feel it.

Let her breathe it in.

And then he kissed her.

Immediate. A little too hard. Pulled from the center of something they'd both been pretending didn't exist.

All teeth and breath and something sharp that'd been building for months. A pressure valve blown wide open.

She gasped into his mouth—caught off guard, just for a second—and then pulled him closer like her whole body was on fire.

She grabbed the front of his coat and kissed him back like she'd been waiting for a reason to stop thinking—finally, finally, finally.

Jalen pressed her back against the door.

His fingers dug into her waist, then slid up—greedy, grounding. Like he had to remind himself she was real. Here.

Her lips parted again and he took it. Deep. Barely holding it together. Breath hitching hard against hers.

It wasn't gentle.

It was them—sharp edges and bruised tension and the kind of heat that made you forget where you were standing.

Then, her name.

"Theresa..."

Soft. Wreecked.

Like it broke something in him to say it.

And that was it.

That was the thing that shattered her.

She didn't freeze this time. Didn't pause.

She pulled him closer—fisted his jacket, dragged him into her like she needed him deeper, closer, more. Her mouth crashed against his again, open and hungry, lips bruising, teeth scraping just a little like she wanted to bite down on the silence between them.

And then she moaned.

Low. Breathless. Right into his mouth.

It wasn't sweet.

It was devastating.

It sounded like surrender. Like she didn't want to want him, but she did anyway. Like she hated how good it felt to break open for him, just for a second.

Jalen gripped her tighter, hand slipping up the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. He kissed her like he'd been starving for it. Like he didn't know how to stop.

He whispered her name against her lips again—broken, reverent. She answered with a sound he swallowed whole. Pulled him closer, closer, until there was no space left. She gasped into him, dragging his bottom lip between her teeth, and it nearly ruined him.

Her back hit the door with a thud, like he wanted to leave a mark she'd feel in the morning.

She didn't care. She kissed him back just as hard.

Like if he wanted to wreck her—he better earn it.

And maybe he was.

Maybe he already had.

His mouth moved like he knew her. Like he'd always known her.

The kiss turned messy—unsteady, searching, desperate. Like they were trying to make up for every second they spent pretending they didn't want this. Her fingers twisted in his shirt. His hands slid to her waist, then hesitated—like even now, even here, he wasn't sure how far she'd let him go.

That's when she pulled back.

Breathless. Lips parted. Eyes wide.

"Jalen," she whispered. Not a question. Not a plea. Just his name.

He stared at her. Devastated. Dazed.

Neither of them moved.

For one terrible second, she thought she might kiss him again. Might let him stay.

But she didn't.

She just stood there, lips swollen, heart wrecked, hand still on his chest like a tether.

"I should go," he said, voice wrecked.

She nodded. Just once.

He took a step back. Then another. Like it physically hurt to leave her.

"Goodnight," she said, voice soft. Final.

"Night, T," he said. Low. Almost reverent.

She turned, keycard shaking in her hand, and pushed into her room without looking back.

For the first time in a long time, the door didn't slam. It clicked quiet behind her.

Like the chapter had just turned.

And everything was quiet again—except for the sound of her own pulse still echoing in her ears.

Chapter Text

Boston had been cold.
But Miami?
Miami was something else entirely.

Theresa stepped off the plane like she'd been dropped into a postcard—sun too bright, air too thick, and everything around her moving three beats slower than it should've.

She barely spoke on the bus. Trae had headphones in. The rookies were loud. Jalen was quiet, too quiet, sitting just far enough away that she didn't have to feel his eyes unless she wanted to. Which, annoyingly, she kind of did.

She didn't go to team breakfast. Didn't answer the group chat when it started popping off before 9 a.m.

DON'T TELL COACH 🏀💥:
BOAT DAY??
somebody get tequila
we outsideeeee
[photo of Trae holding a lime like a mic]
who's got sunscreen fr
Reesa you in?
Reesa??

Theresa ignored it. If anyone needed her, they could go through Trae. If Jalen needed her, well. He'd find a way.

She opened the curtains in her hotel room just wide enough to let the sun pour in. Her phone buzzed again.

Serena. FaceTime.

She debated declining. Didn't.

"Damn," Serena said as soon as the screen lit up, squinting like Theresa's face was too serious to be legal in Florida. "You look like you're in witness protection."

Theresa blinked. "Morning."

"Barely. It's eleven. And you're in MIAMI."

"I'm aware."

"Girl." Serena's voice came in hot, camera angled low like she'd propped it on her lap mid-lounge. "...why do you look like that?"

Theresa blinked. "Like what?"

"Like you just kissed a man you weren't planning to kiss and now you don't know whether to block him or marry him."

Theresa let the silence stretch. Pulled the elastic from her bun and shook out her hair, still half-wet from the shower. Her skin had that sun-kissed glow already—like even her stress couldn't fight Florida.

Serena gasped. "No. No. Don't tell me he—"

"Boston," Theresa said softly. Just one word.

Serena sat straight up. "Boston?"

Theresa nodded.

Serena threw her head back like it physically wounded her. "You kissed Jalen in Boston?! What was the weather like? What were you wearing? What did he say—no wait, how did it happen? Was it soft? Was it messy? Did he say your name? T, tell me something!"

Theresa picked at the edge of the hotel blanket. "We're not talking about this."

"Reesa."

"We kissed," she said, quiet. "That's all."

Serena blinked. "That's all?"

Theresa looked away. "It wasn't planned. It just happened."

"Okay but was it good?"

Theresa dragged a hand down her face and sat on the edge of the bed. "It was... bad."

Serena blinked. "Bad like traumatizing or bad like devastatingly hot?"

Theresa looked down at her hand. "He said my name. And I didn't stop him."

There was silence. Just for a beat. Then Serena whispered, "You're doomed."

Theresa let out a low laugh. The kind that tasted too close to the truth.

"What happens now?" she asked, not even realizing the question had slipped out.

Serena shrugged. "You pretend it didn't happen and spiral in private until you see him again. Or—you go find him, make out in the Miami wind, and commit to the bit."

Theresa didn't say anything.

"Just answer one thing," Serena said, finger raised like she was being so serious now. "Do you regret it?"

Theresa paused. Looked out the window. Sun bouncing off car hoods below. Her heart still doing something stupid every time she thought about the way Jalen had said her name.

"No," she said. "I just don't know what to do with it."

Serena nodded like that was the most honest thing she'd ever heard. "You'll figure it out. In the meantime... Is this why your hair looks like you just walked through a Nicholas Sparks montage?"

"I didn't even brush it."

"You don't have to. You've got that 'regret is sexy' glow going."

Theresa sighed and tilted her head back, eyes on the ceiling.

"Oh my god." Serena leaned into the screen like it physically pained her. "You kissed him for real and then fled the city like it was a crime scene."

Theresa groaned. "Goodbye."

"Nope. I'm staying. This is my Roman Empire now."

"Don't you have a job?"

"I am doing my job," Serena said. "I'm investigating mess. Yours specifically."

Theresa smiled despite herself. "I'm hanging up."

The knock on the door came a second later.

Soft. Steady. Familiar.

Serena froze. "No. You're joking."

Theresa didn't move.

Another knock.

Serena's eyes went wide. "Theresa. Is that him?!"

Theresa stood slowly, robe cinched tighter at the waist, phone still in her hand. "I'll call you back."

"You better not hang u—"

Click. The screen went black.

The knock came again.

This time, she didn't hesitate. She crossed the room, hand resting on the doorknob, breath caught somewhere halfway to steady. Then—quietly, finally—she opened the door.

And there he was.

Jalen stood in the soft Miami light like it hadn't ruined him to sleep at all. Hoodie zipped low. Hands in his pockets. Hair still a little messy, like he hadn't bothered to fix it. Or maybe hadn't known how to.

They didn't speak. Not at first.

He looked at her like he hadn't been able to stop, and she looked back like she was trying to pretend she hadn't memorized the way his mouth tasted.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey."

He scratched the back of his neck. "You weren't at breakfast."

"You weren't either."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Touché."

A beat.

"I just..." He shifted his weight. "I didn't know if you wanted space. Or if I should pretend like last night didn't happen. Or if you were gonna block my number and tell Trae I needed to be traded."

Theresa blinked slowly. "You think I'd ruin your career over a kiss?"

He shrugged. "You've done worse for less."

That earned him a twitch of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Just enough to break the air between them.

He leaned against the doorframe, shoulder brushing the edge. "I was gonna leave you alone."

"Were you?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

Jalen looked down at his shoes. "No. Not really."

A quiet moment passed before he glanced back up at her, tipping his chin toward the hallway.

"You know the guys are doing boat day," he said. "Tequila's already flowing. I think Trae brought a speaker he legally shouldn't be allowed to own."

Theresa didn't respond.

"Thought maybe you'd wanna come," he added, more gently this time. "Get some sun. Pretend we're not all in emotional purgatory."

She gave him a flat look. "You're really selling it."

Jalen cracked a grin, just a little. "What can I say? I'm a walking vacation brochure."

But she didn't move. Didn't laugh. Just leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, mirroring him.

"I'm good," she said softly.

He nodded, but didn't hide the flicker of disappointment.

"Right," he said, shifting his weight again. "No pressure. Just figured I'd ask."

Theresa glanced toward the hallway, then back at him. "Thanks."

Jalen lingered another beat. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he didn't want to go at all. But he didn't push. Just tucked his hands back into his pockets and took a slow step backward.

"If you change your mind," he said, voice low again, "we're down at the dock."

Theresa nodded once, eyes steady. "Have fun."

He gave her a look—something almost fond, almost regretful—and then turned down the hall, walking off without another word.

She closed the door gently behind him, exhaled like she'd been holding her breath the whole time, and let the quiet wrap around her again.

She didn't move right away.

Just stood there in the stillness of the hotel room, back against the door, breathing him out like a secret she wasn't ready to keep but couldn't let go of either.

Sunlight poured across the bed in golden strips. The blanket was still crumpled from when she'd sat there during Serena's call. Her notebook was open on the desk—blank. Spotify still paused mid-song from two hours ago.

She crossed the room and lay down carefully, arms folded beneath her head, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. It didn't.

What happened in Boston wasn't a one-time thing. Not anymore. It was a fault line now, splitting everything underneath her.

And Jalen at the door... that had made it worse. Or better. Or both. She didn't know.

Her phone was facedown on the nightstand. She didn't touch it. Just laid there, eyes tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling, heart still doing that thing it did when his name crossed her mind—fluttering too fast, too soon.

The group chat was probably still going off. Someone had probably posted a half-drunk Boomerang by now. Boat selfies. Sunglasses. Sunburns in progress.

She should've gone. Should've let herself forget for a few hours. Should've let him forget too. But she didn't.

She stayed here instead, soaking in the silence like it could somehow help her decide what the hell she wanted.

And just when it started to settle—just when her thoughts had quieted into something almost manageable—her phone buzzed.

Jalen:  You hungry?

So simple. Too easy. Dangerous in how casual it looked. Like they hadn't nearly set each other on fire in a Boston hallway 12 hours ago. Like he hadn't kissed her so hard it still echoed in her ribs.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Thought about pretending she hadn't seen it. About doubling down on her hermit energy and staying right here in the AC with hotel coffee and reruns of The Bear on mute.

But then—another ping.

Jalen:  Not a date. Unless you want it to be. I'll pick you up in ten.

She stared at the screen, one eyebrow arched, but her mouth tugged up the tiniest bit.

Of course he assumed she'd say yes. Because of course he knew she hadn't eaten.

Of course she went anyway.

Theresa stepped out of the hotel lobby and squinted up at the sky like it had the nerve to be this blue. Bright sun. Salt-heavy breeze. Palms swaying like they knew something you didn't.

She wasn't built for beach days. Not really.

Too much sun, too much noise, too many people who didn't know how to act.

But apparently she was built for walking down Collins Avenue at noon with a six-foot-something complication at her side and an iced coffee she didn't even remember ordering.

Sun was bouncing off the sidewalk—Miami in full bloom. Theresa wore sunglasses, hair pulled back, lips still bare. Jalen walked beside her in all black like it wasn't ninety degrees.

He hadn't said where they were going. Just showed up outside the hotel with sunglasses on and a smirk that said he'd won something. He hadn't—but she didn't tell him that.

Yet.

Now they were halfway down the block, warm breeze tangling the hem of her shirt, the sidewalk a minefield of flip-flops and tourists and overpriced boutiques.

Neither of them had said much. Which was weird. Or maybe just dangerous.

"So..." Jalen said finally, voice casual. "Still not a date?"

Theresa gave him a look over the rim of her straw. "You're really testing your luck."

He held his hands up. "Just asking. Could be important for the historical record."

She snorted. "For who?"

"My biographer. You think I'm not gonna put this in my Hall of Fame speech?"

She rolled her eyes but didn't answer. Just kept walking, head tilted toward the sun like she was trying to make peace with it.

He glanced over at her, quieter now. "You look good here."

Theresa slowed just half a step. "Here?"

He nodded. "Out of Atlanta. In the light. Like you're not carrying the whole team on your back."

She arched a brow. "Pretty sure that's your job."

"Yeah," he said, voice dipping. "But you carry more than you let people see."

That—that made her pause.

Jalen didn't look at her. Just kept walking like he hadn't said something that landed way too close to her ribs.

She didn't respond. Not out loud. Just followed him down the block, quiet again, that single sentence bouncing around her chest like a pinball.

They reached the corner and he stopped in front of a low-key spot with shaded tables and glass doors that opened out to the street. The kind of place that didn't need a sign because it had vibes.

He turned to her, hand on the door. "Food?"

Theresa blinked. "I guess I already said yes."

Jalen grinned. "You did. Just wanted to hear it out loud."

The place was cool and shaded inside, the kind of Miami spot where everything looked a little too curated—mismatched chairs that matched on purpose, plants hanging from the ceiling, glass bottles of water that no one actually ordered.

They got a table near the back. Not hidden, but quiet. Theresa slid into the seat across from Jalen and didn't take off her sunglasses.

"You know you're indoors, right?" he asked, one brow raised.

"I'm conserving energy," she said, sipping her water. "You're exhausting."

Jalen leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "So dramatic. I haven't even said anything yet."

"That's the exhausting part."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You always like this when you're hungry?"

Theresa looked at him over the top of her glasses. "You invited me. Remember?"

"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "I like a challenge."

That earned him the barest hint of a smirk.

A server came by. They ordered—Theresa asked for a chopped salad she was barely going to touch. Jalen ordered tacos like he had something to prove.

When the waiter walked away, he leaned forward, arms on the table. "You really weren't gonna come out today?"

She shrugged. "I didn't feel like being around people."

"Even me?"

Theresa raised an eyebrow over her glass. "And you? You ditched boat day just to chase me around Miami?"

"Technically, I texted you first," he said. "You chose to accept the mission."

She smirked. "Not an answer."

Jalen leaned back, eyes scanning the ceiling like he was pretending to think. "I don't know. Maybe I didn't feel like being around a bunch of dudes screaming 'we outside' on a dock for three hours."

"Sounds suspiciously like self-preservation."

He looked at her then. Really looked.

"Maybe I just didn't feel like being around everyone... if you weren't gonna be there."

That made her pause. Just for a beat.

He didn't push it. Just added, more lightly, "Also Trae's speaker gives me a headache and I didn't want to be the one that threw it in the ocean."

Theresa laughed once, quiet but real. "Coward."

Jalen grinned. "Survivor." He pause for a second, then said, "You've been quiet since Boston."

She gave him a look. "You kissed me in a hallway like it was the end of a movie. What did you expect?"

His jaw tensed. "I didn't plan it."

"I didn't stop you."

That hung between them for a moment. Heavy. True.

Then Jalen shifted gears like he couldn't sit in it too long. "Okay but like... do I get points for form? That was a good kiss."

Theresa blinked. "You're asking for feedback now?"

"I'm just saying, if I made the Hall of Fame speech, that kiss would be in the highlight reel."

She laughed before she could stop it. "You're insufferable."

"But you laughed," he pointed out, proud.

Their food came. They ate. Talked about nothing for a while—the rookie who got too drunk the night before, the Hawks' group chat memes, a bet Jalen lost to Trae involving a stupid shooting drill and ten pushups in a hotel hallway.

It felt easy. Too easy.

And maybe that's why it hit harder when Jalen set down his fork and said, softer this time, "I don't want to mess this up."

Theresa froze. Just for a second. Then pushed the last piece of lettuce around her plate. "Mess what up?"

"Us," he said, like it was obvious. "Whatever we are."

"We're not anything."

Jalen didn't look away. "Maybe. But I don't want to be the reason we're not."

She stared at him. No comeback this time. Just a quiet breath in. Because it would've been easier if he'd been cocky. If he'd brushed her off or acted like the kiss hadn't mattered. But he hadn't. He never did.

And that was the problem.

She looked down at her plate and Jalen didn't push.

After, they walked. Nowhere in particular. Just around.

The sun was starting to dip low, heat turning syrupy. The breeze coming off the water softened the edges of the day. The kind of weather that tricked you into thinking everything might be fine.

She talked about a documentary she'd watched on the flight—something about fake art dealers and stolen provenance. He fake-interviewed her with a plastic spoon like he was a sideline reporter.

"You're annoying," she said, eyes squinting against the light, smiling without meaning to.

"Yeah," he said. "But I'm your favorite kind."

She didn't correct him. Didn't push him away either.

When they stopped at the dock and just stood there—quiet, side by side, the whole city humming behind them—she didn't move. She let herself feel it. Just for a second.

They reached it just as the breeze picked up, soft and salt-warm. The water stretched out in front of them, glittering under the fading light, soft gold bleeding into ocean blue. It was the kind of moment that didn't feel real. That felt like it had been waiting for them.

Theresa didn't say anything. Just stood there, fingers curled around the edge of the railing, eyes locked on the horizon like it had answers.

Jalen stayed beside her. Quiet. Still.

The air between them shifted again—lighter this time. Looser. But charged.

Another breeze rolled through. Theresa's hair slipped out of place, a few strands floating up like they'd been summoned by the tension. She didn't move to fix it.

He did.

Carefully. Gently. His fingers brushed along her cheek, slow, deliberate, like he didn't want to rush the contact. Like he was giving her every second to move, to stop it, to say no.

She didn't.

He tucked the strand behind her ear, fingertips grazing her skin. Theresa's breath hitched. Just slightly. But Jalen caught it.

He didn't say anything. Didn't smirk. Didn't push. He just looked at her like this—her, now—was the only thing he'd ever wanted to get right.

And then he leaned in.

Slow.

Sure.

Her breath caught in her chest, lips parted, eyes not closing until the last second.

He kissed her.

Soft. Reverent. Nothing like Boston. No fire this time, no bruised mouths or stolen air. Just this.

Just her.

Just him.

His hand slid to her waist, her fingers caught the edge of his shirt, and the dock fell away. The city fell away. Time bent around them like it was always supposed to land here.

She kissed him back—slow at first, like she didn't trust it. Like she wasn't sure it would hold.

But it did.

It held.

When they finally pulled apart, forehead to forehead, breath shared between them, he whispered, "You're gonna be the death of me."

She whispered back, "You'll live."

And just like that, the whole world went quiet again.

Jalen didn't move at first.

He stayed close, forehead pressed to hers, their breath still tangled in the warm air between them. One of his hands rested at her hip, the other still ghosting her jaw like he couldn't quite let go. And Theresa... she didn't want him to.

Not yet.

The breeze kept coming, gentle and rhythmic. Like it was trying to cool the heat still simmering just beneath her skin. Like it knew something had cracked open—and it wasn't going back.

Theresa opened her eyes first. Jalen's were already on her. Soft. Focused. Like she was the only thing in his entire line of sight.

"What now?" she asked, quiet. Like she wasn't sure she wanted an answer.

Jalen leaned back just enough to look at her fully. "We don't have to figure it out tonight."

She blinked. "And tomorrow?"

"We'll still be here."

A pause.

Then she laughed—short and dry. "You make it sound easy."

His smile was almost shy. "Not easy. Just worth it."

And god—he meant it. That was the worst part. He meant every word and she could feel it in her chest like a bruise still blooming. She looked away first, just to catch her breath.

"Let's walk," she said.

He nodded and fell into step beside her.

They wandered slowly, steps light, fingers brushing every so often but never fully locking. The silence between them wasn't heavy anymore. It was... aware. Like it had witnessed something.

Eventually, they reached the edge of the dock and circled back toward the beachside path, neither one of them ready to go back to the hotel just yet.

"I forgot what it felt like to breathe like this," she said, voice barely above the waves lapping nearby.

"You mean without a clipboard in your hand?"

She nudged him gently with her shoulder. "You're not funny."

"I'm kind of funny."

He was. But she didn't give him the satisfaction.

When they finally looped back toward the boardwalk, she paused at a bench tucked beneath a cluster of string lights swaying in the breeze. She sat first. He sat beside her.

Theresa leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, gaze turned skyward. The stars were faint—Miami glow too loud to see them clearly—but she pretended they were there anyway.

Jalen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.

"This was nice," he said after a while.

She hummed. "I'll allow it."

Then she glanced sideways. Met his eyes. "I still don't trust you."

He nodded like he already knew. "That's fair."

"I don't know what this is."

He nodded again. "Me neither."

"But I know what it felt like."

He finally looked at her—really looked at her. And then, quietly: "So do I."

She didn't say anything else. Just let that truth hang between them, unspoken but undeniable.

They sat there for a little while longer.

When they stood, and she didn't stop him from walking her back to the hotel again, it wasn't because she'd decided anything. It was because something had already shifted.

Even if they didn't know the name of it yet.

The elevator ride back was quiet. Not tense. Not awkward. Just full.

Theresa stood at one corner, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the flickering floor numbers. Jalen leaned against the opposite side, hands in his pockets, sneakers planted like he wasn't in a rush to be anywhere else.

Neither said a word, but everything between them was still humming—residual and warm, like the kiss had slipped under their skin and refused to fade.

When the elevator dinged for their floor, she stepped out first. He followed, silent but steady. Their steps were in sync again.

The hallway was long, dim-lit, hushed by late night. She reached her door, paused, and turned halfway toward him.

Jalen slowed too—just enough to linger but not enough to press.

Theresa looked at him like she might say something. Like maybe she should. Instead, her voice came low. Careful. "Thanks for today."

Jalen's gaze swept over her, softening. "You make it sound like it's over."

She smirked—just a little. "It's late."

"I've stayed up for less."

She blinked once, slowly. "And?"

"And I'd stay up again. For you."

It wasn't a line. Wasn't flirtation. It was just... honest.

Her breath caught slightly, and he must've noticed, because he stepped closer. Not too close. But closer.

"Can I—" His voice faltered, just once. "Can I say goodnight like I want to this time?"

Theresa tilted her head, eyes flicking to his lips and back again. "Don't ask unless you mean it."

"I mean it."

So she let him.

He leaned in slowly, hands still in his pockets, restraint written into every line of him. She leaned forward just enough to meet him halfway.

This kiss was different.

Not desperate. Not explosive.

Just quiet. Like a promise.

His lips brushed hers once, then again—slow, soft, drawn out like he wasn't in a rush to stop kissing her anytime soon. And when she curled her hand gently around the front of his hoodie, steadying herself, he exhaled like it took the breath right out of him.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads touched. Neither of them moved. Not right away.

Then she blinked, stepped back just enough to breathe without sharing it, and turned toward the door. Her fingers hovered over the handle.

For a second, it felt like that was it. Like he'd walk away, and this moment would fold into memory before it had the chance to settle.

She didn't look at him when she said it. Voice low. Careful. "You don't have to go. If you don't want to."

It came out soft. Almost throwaway. Like she wouldn't care either way. But she did.

Jalen didn't say anything for a second. Just watched her. Then—quietly, evenly—he stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Theresa walked across the room without a word, grabbed a change of clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom. The light flicked on behind her. The door didn't slam, but it closed with just enough finality to make Jalen stop moving.

He stood in the middle of the room like he didn't know what to do with his hands.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

The glow of the hotel light softened the sharp edges, but she still looked like her—lips still a little swollen from the kiss, mascara slightly smudged, hair just messy enough to prove she'd let herself be soft for too long.

She breathed in. Out. Rolled her shoulders back.

This wasn't a plan. It wasn't a commitment. It was a moment. One she hadn't said yes to out loud but hadn't said no to either.

She changed into sleep shorts and an oversized tee—nothing suggestive, nothing flirty, just real—and splashed water on her face before flicking the light off and stepping back into the room.

Jalen hadn't moved far. He'd sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie still on, looking down at his hands like they were holding answers he didn't want to read.

She crossed the room without speaking, tossed her robe over the back of the chair, and crawled onto the bed like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Still not looking at him, she reached for the remote and turned on the TV. Something low-stakes. Background noise. A cooking show. Gordon Ramsay swearing at someone.

"Comforting," Jalen muttered.

Theresa smirked, not looking at him. "It was either this or a Dateline rerun."

He leaned back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head like he might actually relax. "You watch Dateline before bed?"

She glanced at him. "You don't?"

Jalen shook his head, eyes closing. "You're terrifying."

"Good," she said, settling back against the pillows. "Stay afraid."

He huffed a soft laugh but didn't say anything after that. The silence stretched—not awkward, just full. Familiar.

After a minute, she shifted slightly to face him. Still not touching. Still not leaning in. Just existing closer.

"You sure about this?" she asked, voice quiet now. Real.

"I'm sure about you."

And that—God, that was the thing. He always said stuff like that like it wasn't dangerous.

She didn't answer. Just reached to flick the lamp off. The room went dark. Only the glow of the television lit the space between them. The show kept playing. Neither of them were really watching.

And then—without a word, without asking—Jalen shifted closer. It wasn't bold. It wasn't sudden. Just... quiet movement. The kind that asked without asking.

His arm settled loosely around her waist, slow and uncertain, waiting for any sign of pushback.

There wasn't one.

Theresa let her body ease into his like it had already decided for her. Her head rested against his chest, one leg brushing his, her hand finding the fabric of his hoodie and curling just slightly into it.

Jalen didn't say anything. Didn't need to. He just exhaled into her hair like the weight in his chest had finally landed somewhere it could rest.

And they stayed like that—barely moving, not speaking, letting the night stretch long around them. Not planning. Not defining.

Just holding. And being held.

The room was quiet.

That thick, weightless kind of silence that only existed around 2 a.m.—when the air was heavy with sleep and everything felt more real in the dark.

Theresa stirred.

She didn't wake all at once. Just slowly blinked her eyes open, adjusting to the dim light spilling in under the curtain. The television had gone black, leaving behind the faint hum of electricity and the slow, steady rhythm of Jalen's breathing beside her.

Or... beneath her.

Somewhere between sleep and surrender, they'd ended up tangled.

His arm was draped around her waist, palm warm against her side. Her face was tucked against the hollow of his shoulder. One of her legs was slotted between his. His hoodie still smelled like him—clean laundry, cedar, something familiar she couldn't name.

She didn't move. Didn't want to. It should've made her panic, but it didn't.

She listened to the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way it brushed against her cheek every few seconds. The way their bodies had gravitated together like this wasn't their first time figuring out how to fit.

Her fingers were still curled into the hem of his hoodie. His thumb twitched against her hip.

She stared at the wall in front of her, eyes open, heart beating way too slow for how full it felt. She wasn't supposed to need this. Not like this. Not with him.

But still... she stayed.

Her voice didn't come out, but the thought whispered itself anyway, "I don't know what I'm doing with you."

And then, softer: "But I don't want you to go."

Jalen didn't respond. Still breathing steady. Still asleep. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was just letting her say it.

Either way, she let the silence settle again. Let herself fall back into it—into him, into this—and let the night hold them both a little longer.

Chapter Text

BANG BANG BANG.
Not a knock. A threat.

Theresa sat up like she'd just been drafted into combat.

From the other side of the door came Trae's voice, way too awake: "I'm missing a player for practice and my sister's location suddenly became a national security risk. So unless y'all are in there drafting wedding vows, open up."

Jalen groaned into the pillow. "This man needs help."

Theresa stood up, grabbed a hoodie off the chair, and muttered, "This man needs a hobby."

BANG BANG.

"Tess, you got a six-foot-nine power forward in there? Blinking twice if you're in danger works, just so you know!"

She opened the door just enough to glare at him. Trae stood there, in full warm-up gear, sipping on an energy drink like he was hosting a morning show.

He didn't even look surprised. He just blinked once, then said, "Look at this. Adam and Eve. Miami edition."

Theresa stared. "Do you have nothing better to do?"

"Oh, I do," he said cheerfully. "Like get to practice on time. Unlike this clown—" he tilted his chin toward the bed, "—who apparently decided to risk it all for an extra hour of emotional confusion."

Jalen appeared in the background, rubbing his face. "Man, go away."

Trae kept going. "You didn't answer your phone, you didn't show for walk-through, and I had to put two and two together. Guess what it equaled? Mess."

He looked back at Theresa. "And you. You really just let him stay like that? No pillow barrier? No floor option? Tessie. Standards."

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Trae clapped his hands. "Ten minutes. Then I start telling people y'all went ring shopping."

He started walking off, calling back: "Also, if I hear even one rumor from the staff about morning-after vibes, I'm filing a sibling grievance with HR."

She shut the door behind Trae with a groan, leaned her back against it, and closed her eyes like she was trying to mentally rewind the last five minutes and delete the whole file.

Behind her, Jalen finally sat up. His voice was hoarse, still carrying that morning rasp. "So... that your version of subtle?"

Theresa shot him a look. "You're lucky I didn't let him drag you out by the ankle."

He stretched, slow and smug. "He'd have to catch me first."

"Oh my god," she muttered.

"But your brother's kind of terrifying."

"You're just now realizing that?"

He chuckled under his breath and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep.

Theresa finally looked at him—hoodie rumpled, hair messy, eyes still soft from whatever sleep hadn't burned out of him yet. And for a split second, she felt that stupid thing again. That too-much-in-her-chest thing.

Jalen stood, grabbing his phone and slipping it into his pocket. Then he crossed the room, slow but steady.

"You sure you're good?" he asked, voice quieter now. More real.

She nodded once, but didn't say anything. He stopped in front of her. Reached out. Then—without asking—he cupped her face gently in both hands, like he didn't want to rush it, like he wanted her to feel the care in every inch of his touch.

Theresa's breath hitched. He leaned in. Kissed her once. Soft. Grounding. Then again. Longer. Slower. Like he knew this one would stick in her ribs.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers for a heartbeat. No pressure. Just... there.

"Thanks for letting me stay," he whispered.

She didn't answer. Didn't move. And then he was gone—hood pulled up, steps quiet, door clicking shut behind him like it never happened.

Except it did. And it was already too late to pretend it didn't.

The room felt colder when he left.

She didn't move at first. Just stood there, barefoot, hoodie sleeves too long, lips still tingling from the weight of his goodbye.

It wasn't the kiss. Not really. It was the way he'd held her face like she wasn't a maybe. Like she wasn't just something to walk away from.

She exhaled slowly and moved to the bathroom in a daze, flicking on the light and staring at herself in the mirror like she was hoping to see someone else.

But it was still her. Same eyes. Same mouth. Same mess behind the expression.

She splashed cold water on her face, tied her hair up, and got ready like it wasn't a big deal. Like it didn't matter.

Even if every part of her was still humming like it did.

The practice gym was already loud when Theresa arrived. Whistles. Sneakers. Bass from the aux echoing off the high ceilings. It should've drowned everything out—but it didn't.

Theresa walked in like it was any other day. Hair up. Hoodie on. Clipboard tucked against her chest even though she hadn't written a single note yet. She kept her head down, slipped into her usual corner behind the scorers' table, and planted her feet like she meant it.

She kept her head down. Didn't look at him right away. But she felt it. That pull. That you're-here shift in the atmosphere.

Jalen was already on the court, warm-up shirt gone, running shooting drills like he had something to prove. Sharp cuts. Quick passes. Easy buckets. But his eyes kept flicking to the sideline.

To her.

Not constantly. Not enough for anyone else to clock. Just enough to unravel her.

And Theresa? She watched him too.

Pretended not to. Hid behind the edge of her clipboard. But she saw the way his jaw clenched after a miss. The way he ran his hand over his face like he hadn't slept as well as he'd looked this morning. The way his eyes darted toward her again after a clean three—like he was checking if she'd seen it. If she still felt it.

She had. She did. It made everything worse.

"Your face is giving Greek tragedy," Trae's voice said from beside her.

She didn't jump—just shifted her weight. "Shouldn't you be warming up?"

"Already did." He folded his arms and leaned against the barrier beside her, chewing on the cap of his water bottle. "You look like you haven't blinked since he hit his first shot."

She didn't answer.

"He's locked in today," Trae said finally, watching Jalen drain a midrange.

Theresa nodded.

Another beat. Then Trae asked, voice low, "You good?"

She took a second. Then answered, still watching the court: "Yeah."

Another pass. Another glance.

Jalen's eyes caught hers for just a second too long. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't safe.

Trae clocked it too, glanced toward the court, then back at her. "Is this gonna be a thing now?"

Theresa's eyes stayed on the floor. "He's trying."

That made Trae pause. Not because he didn't know what she meant. But because she said it out loud.

He tilted his head. "And you?"

She didn't flinch. "Trying too."

And that was it. No jokes. No teasing. Just a brother standing still while his sister and the man she wasn't supposed to want kept stealing glances like they weren't already too far in.

It was late afternoon by the time the Hawks started filtering into the media zone. Same routine. Different city.

Players lined up for walk-ins. Branded walls. Cameras flashing. Quick tunnel videos for socials. A few promo segments.

Theresa stood off to the side, clipboard in hand, earbuds in, trying to keep things moving.

She was fine.

She was normal.

Until Jalen stepped in front of the camera.

Gray sweats. White tee. Chains out. Easy grin. Lazy posture. That thing he did with his voice when he was being charming on command.

It shouldn't have done anything. Except now she knew what he looked like when he wasn't on camera. What his mouth felt like. What his voice sounded like when it wasn't for show.

She looked away. Tried to focus on the camera operator asking about lighting. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance her way. Just once. Quick. Unreadable. Like it hadn't happened.

Jalen stepped out of frame, dapping up the camera guy as he walked off. He didn't look at her again.

Theresa kept her eyes on the screen in front of her, pretending she hadn't noticed the way he fixed his chain or adjusted his sleeves like he hadn't just kissed her with both hands on her face less than three hours ago.

She exhaled through her nose. Kept moving.

Next up—Zaccharie.

He jogged over, slightly out of breath, hoodie falling halfway off his shoulder, a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, pausing right in front of her. "Is this where I do the thing?"

Theresa blinked. "What thing?"

"You know. The look-away-then-look-at-the-camera thing."

She raised a brow. "The tunnel walk?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I practiced it in the mirror this morning."

Theresa couldn't help it—she smiled. "You did not."

Zaccharie lowered his voice, eyes wide with mock seriousness. "I have brand potential now."

She snorted. "Okay, superstar. Go stand on the X."

He took his place in front of the camera, did the look-away-then-look-back thing way too dramatically, and added a fake slow-motion wink for good measure.

The content team behind the lens burst out laughing.

Theresa just shook her head and muttered, "Never letting you near a mic'd-up segment again."

When he jogged back over, still grinning, he leaned in a little like he was telling a secret. "Hey... are you and Jalen, like, a thing now?"

Theresa blinked. "Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "He's been real quiet. And he only gets like that when he's either locked in or... y'know." He gave a vague, heart-eyed gesture that made her want to walk into traffic.

"We're not," she said flatly.

"Oh." Zaccharie paused. "But like, if you were, that would be fine. I support love."

She blinked. "Go hydrate."

He saluted her. "Oui, boss."

And ran off, leaving her standing there like the emotional weight of the entire day hadn't just been casually crushed under the words "I support love."

By the time they hit the court for pregame warmups, the sun had started to sink just behind the Kaseya Center rafters, casting soft gold across the hardwood. Game time was close. Routine was kicking in. Everyone was moving like muscle memory had taken over.

Theresa stood courtside with her clipboard in hand and a Hawks jacket draped over her frame like armor.

Jalen was running through his shooting routine. Hoodie off again. Arms flexing. Sweat glinting at his temple. The kind of locked-in look that would've impressed her—if it hadn't already wrecked hours ago.

He glanced her way between sets. Once. Then again. Then again.

She didn't look away this time. She watched him line up another shot, smooth as hell. And when he made it, he didn't even smile. He just looked at her like: You saw that? Yeah. I know you did.

Theresa's fingers twitched around her clipboard. Her heart kicked once in her chest and then kept beating in that same, too-fast rhythm it had all day.

She wasn't doing any better.

Every time he moved toward the top of the arc, her eyes followed without permission. Every time his shoulders rolled back before a shot, her breath caught like it needed a reason. Every time his shirt lifted slightly when he reached for a rebound—Yeah. She was cooked.

But so was he.

He watched her when she adjusted her headset. When she called something over the walkie. When she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and tried not to look like she'd been thinking about his hands on her face all morning.

And god, he felt it. Every second of it. The pull. The stare. The barely.

The moment when she turned just slightly to say something to the trainer beside her and her hoodie slipped off one shoulder—and he missed his next shot.

He missed.

Theresa's eyebrows flicked up slightly. Didn't say anything. But she saw it. He saw her see it. And they both looked away. Only to look back again.

The rest of the team didn't notice. Too focused on getting loose, staying ready. But Zaccharie did. He jogged by with a ball under one arm and muttered low, just to her, "Y'all are so obvious."

Theresa narrowed her eyes. "Hydrate."

Zaccharie winked and sprinted off.

Jalen caught that too. Didn't know what was said. But his gaze locked on her after that—longer this time. Hungrier. Like maybe he wanted her to say it. To say something.

But she didn't. Not yet.

She just stood there on the edge of the court, jaw set, clipboard tight to her chest, watching the man she wasn't supposed to want keep pretending he wasn't watching her back.

It was fine. It was normal. It was nothing.

Except it wasn't. It was everything.

The lights dimmed.

Not fully—just enough for the arena to shift into that pregame buzz. That electric hum that always came right before tipoff. The crowd was building. The music was louder now. Player intros were starting.

Theresa moved back, headset on, clipboard tucked tight against her chest. She stood off to the side of the tunnel entrance, just past the camera crew, scanning the court like she wasn't counting every breath in her ribcage.

Hawks huddle. Jalen at the center of it—arms slung around shoulders, chin tucked, voice low. Locked in. Like he hadn't been looking at her like a dare five minutes ago.

He was a different person out here. Less teasing. More teeth. She knew that version of him too.

Trae shouted something and the circle broke. Players jogged into position, bumping chests, tapping fists, shaking off nerves. The ball boy handed off the rock. Refs blew the whistle. Cameras zoomed in.

And then—tip.

The ball arced into the air and came down in the hands of a Hawks forward.

They were off.

The rhythm of the game started slow. Both teams feeling each other out. Jalen took the first shot—a clean jumper off the catch—and sank it like he was born for the moment.

Theresa didn't blink. Didn't clap. Didn't react. But felt it.

Felt it when he backpedaled down the court and his eyes found hers again. Just for a flash. A beat too long.

Like he wasn't just checking the scoreboard. Like he was checking her. She stared back. Didn't smile. Didn't look away. Let him have it. Let him know.

The game moved on. Crowd roaring. Shoes squeaking. Coaches yelling. Everything loud again. But the air between them? Still buzzing. Still sharp. Still not done.

By the second quarter, the game had hit its rhythm.

The Hawks were holding a slim lead. Jalen played like he meant every second of it—defense tight, handles smooth, jumper clean. Theresa stayed locked in, courtside just behind the bench, headset on, notes scribbled half-legibly in the margins of her clipboard.

She wasn't watching him.

Except—yeah. She was.

And the problem was... he knew. Every time he checked out, sweat-slick and breathing hard, he looked for her first. Didn't matter if he was mid-conversation with a coach or catching a water bottle from the trainer. His eyes flicked to her like a reflex. Like he couldn't not.

And Theresa? She clocked all of it.

The subtle glance. The slight head tilt. The way he licked his bottom lip once, absentminded, while watching her adjust her headset cord.

She didn't look back. Didn't give him that. But her grip tightened on the edge of her clipboard when he sat down in front of her, jersey clinging to his back, head down, hands on his knees.

Close enough to feel. He didn't turn around. But he knew she was there. And she knew he knew.

"You good?" one of the assistant coaches asked, handing her a stat sheet during the timeout.

Theresa nodded, eyes still on the court. "Yeah. Just keeping up."

The assistant didn't push. Just handed off the next batch of clipboards and kept it moving.

A few seats down, Zaccharie leaned back on the bench, caught her eye, and mouthed: So obvious.

Theresa's jaw ticked. She almost threw a water bottle at him. Instead, she raised a single brow and mouthed back: Hydrate.

Zaccharie grinned. Looked away. Innocent. Smug. A menace raised by Trae Young himself.

Jalen stood again at the sound of the ref's whistle. Walked toward the scorer's table to check in. He didn't look at her. Didn't say anything. But when he passed behind her, just close enough to brush her elbow?

His fingers ghosted her hand. Barely. Quick. Hidden. Deliberate.

Theresa didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just kept her face perfectly neutral.

But her pulse?

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

The horn sounded, sharp and final, cutting through the arena noise.

Halftime.

The Hawks jogged off the court, up a few points—just enough for the energy to feel solid but not smug. Theresa stayed back, still courtside, eyes following the players as they disappeared into the tunnel. Jalen was last in the line.

He didn't look at her. Didn't have to. She could feel it in the way his steps slowed. The way his shoulders shifted slightly as he passed. The way he dragged his towel over the back of his neck like he was trying not to turn around.

She didn't move. Didn't follow.

She sat, headset still on, one leg crossed over the other, watching the jumbotron cycle through sponsored halftime graphics like they held the answers. They didn't.

But it was fine. Normal. Totally fine. Until a shadow landed over her.

"Theresa."

She blinked up—head coach.

"Quick check-in," he said, nodding toward the tunnel. "We're doing a tight recap. Come on back for the team meeting."

Theresa stood without hesitation, clipping the headset to her belt. "On it."

She followed him toward the tunnel, clipboard in hand, heart still doing that thing it had started doing twenty-four hours ago and refused to stop.

The hallway air was cooler—sterile, fluorescent—and it only made the moment worse when she stepped into the locker room.

The team was in the middle of debrief. Half-wrapped ankles. Towels over heads. Coaches going over adjustments. The energy was focused, low hum, serious—but not tense. She slipped into her corner, quiet, out of the way but watching.

Jalen was on the other side of the room. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the stats in his hands like they owed him an apology.

He didn't glance at her. But the energy? It crackled.

He shifted just slightly, like he felt her standing there. Like it was muscle memory now.

Theresa looked away first. Not because she wanted to. Because if she didn't, someone else would notice. And whatever this was—it wasn't public yet. It wasn't even defined.

Just electric. And stupid. And spiraling.

The head coach wrapped up the huddle, voices rising in a collective "Let's go!" before the team started to break apart again.

As the players headed back toward the court, Theresa turned to leave too—quick, no lingering. But then, in the shuffle of bodies and water bottles and half-joked chirps about "lock in," a towel hit her shoulder.

She turned.

Jalen.

He didn't say anything. Just grabbed it off her, like it was an accident. Like it hadn't been a quiet excuse to walk that close. Their eyes met for a second. Maybe two. Enough. Then he was gone—back through the tunnel, shoulder brushing hers as he passed.

And that was halftime.

Third quarter was sharp.

The kind of quarter that demanded all focus—tight defense, quick reads, fast rotations. Jalen was locked in, sinking shots like the rim owed him something. Trae was in his playmaking bag. The pace was high, the crowd loud, and the game close enough to matter.

Theresa stayed glued to her sideline spot, headset back on, notes scribbled down without really looking. Her eyes tracked plays like usual, but her attention kept tilting sideways.

Toward him.

Jalen was playing like he had a point to prove. Like there was something humming just under his skin that hadn't burned off yet.

And then—late in the quarter—came the foul.

A hard one.

Nothing dirty. Just contact at the rim that sent him down hard, elbow skidding against the hardwood as he hit the floor with a thud that echoed a little too loud in her chest.

Theresa didn't move at first. Not because she didn't want to. Because she couldn't. Not with her heart already halfway across the court.

He sat up, wincing, shaking out his arm as the trainers rushed over. He waved them off—stubborn as ever—but Theresa was already stepping toward the bench before she realized it.

He looked over. Saw her. Really saw her. And for a second, something clicked—a flicker in his expression, a question, an answer, a memory. All of it layered in a half-second glance.

Because he saw her worry. And she saw him see it.

That was the shift. Not the hit. Not the pain. But the realization that she wasn't just watching. She cared.

Deeply. Stupidly. Openly.

And he knew it now.

He gave her the smallest nod as he stood. Like he was fine. Like he didn't need her to come running. Theresa didn't say a word. Just sat back down, chest too full and notes forgotten.

The fourth quarter opened loud.

Not just the arena—though the crowd was on their feet, every possession sounding like it mattered more than the last—but everything around her felt sharper now. Tighter. Theresa could feel her heartbeat in places it didn't belong: her fingertips, her jaw, the hollow beneath her collarbone.

She didn't look at Jalen anymore. But he was everywhere.

Driving the lane. Defending hard. Dishing no-look assists with that same laser focus like the whole game was sitting on his shoulders.

He got fouled again halfway through the quarter—nothing as hard as before, but enough to knock him off balance. This time, when he caught himself, he looked right at her as he stood.

Direct. Deliberate.

She didn't look away. Didn't move, either. Just held his gaze like it was the only steady thing in the room.

When he jogged back to the line, she could see it—something different in his shoulders. Like whatever had cracked open between them wasn't going to be closed anytime soon.

Trae subbed out with three minutes left and walked straight over to her, towel around his neck, breathing heavy.

"Y'all," he said under his breath, grabbing a water. "You're not subtle."

Theresa didn't respond. Didn't need to. Her eyes stayed on the court.

Jalen was locked in, sure—but not cold. Not distant. It was a fire now, not ice. A kind of control that burned instead of froze.

And when he hit the game-sealing free throw with under thirty seconds left—when the ball swished clean through the net and the arena erupted—he turned toward the sideline.

Not to the crowd. Not to the bench.

To her. One look. All heat. No smile. Just there.

She stayed still. Didn't let anything show. But her fingers curled slightly around the edge of her notes, gripping tighter than they needed to.

The game ended with a roar.

Final buzzer. Crowd on their feet. Players chest-bumping and yelling as the scoreboard locked in the win. Theresa didn't move at first—just stood courtside, clipboard at her side, like the weight of the night had been holding her upright.

Then the noise started shifting—fans clearing out, media forming a loose wave near the tunnel, players trailing in sweaty and wild and loud.

Theresa moved with the tide. Head down. Steady pace. Almost made it through the corridor.

Almost.

"Theresaaaa!" Zaccharie's voice cut through the noise, followed by a slap of rubber soles skidding on the polished floor. "Wait up—"

She turned, slowly, just in time for him to appear at her side, bouncing on his heels like he'd just won the championship instead of a regular season road game.

"You see me out there?" he beamed, eyes wide and lit up. "I got a dunk and a block. My mom's gonna make it her lock screen."

Theresa blinked. "Congrats?"

"Thank you," he said solemnly. "I would like to dedicate this win to hydration, coconut water, and the emotional support of your clipboard presence."

She almost smiled. "You're ridiculous."

"And yet—effective." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Also, Jalen didn't miss once while you were watching him. I'm not saying you're the reason, but—"

"Zaccharie."

He held his hands up in surrender. "I'm just saying. Vibes were off the charts."

Before she could fire back, Trae appeared behind him like an older sibling materializing out of thin air. Hoodie on. Mouth pressed into the kind of smirk that said he'd been watching this unfold.

"I leave you unsupervised for two minutes," Trae said, looking straight at Zaccharie, "and you start stirring the pot?"

Zaccharie pointed at Theresa. "She started it."

Theresa blinked. "I literally did not speak."

"Exactly," Trae said, stepping beside her. "That's the problem. You've been quiet. And we all know what that means."

Zaccharie gasped dramatically. "Emotional peril."

"Romantic peril," Trae corrected.

"Professional peril?" Zaccharie offered, like he was playing charades.

Theresa gave them both a withering look. "I'm fine."

"You're lying," Trae said, like he already knew the truth.

She sighed, started walking again. "I'm fine."

Zaccharie followed like a puppy. "Okay but he looked at you like he'd write poetry in a Notes app for you."

"I said I'm fine."

They made it to the back hallway before Trae slowed down again, giving her a once-over. Not in a teasing way this time. In a brother way.

"Real talk?" he asked, quieter now. "You good?"

Theresa hesitated. Then nodded.

Trae didn't say anything for a second. Just gave a low hum. Then reached over and gently bumped her arm with his.

"I'm happy for you," he said. "But if he stops trying—just know I'll bench him myself."

Zaccharie gasped again. "I wanna help."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "You two are unwell."

They kept walking. Nothing urgent. No pressure.

Just the three of them—sibling, rookie, sister—moving through the bowels of an arena that, for once, didn't feel like it was pressing down on her.

For once, the night didn't hurt. It didn't feel heavy. It didn't feel like she was holding too much. She felt steady. Still in the thick of it, sure—but steady.

She felt lighter.

Too bad they were going to Charlotte next.

Chapter Text

Theresa wasn't about to read into geography.

Just because they were flying to Charlotte didn't mean anything. Cities were cities. Courts were courts. Layovers didn't equal emotional significance—no matter who played for the home team.

Still, the plane felt colder.

Not in temperature. In tone. In the way she moved—head down, hoodie up, music in. She boarded without saying much, eyes fixed forward, fingers curled around the strap of her bag like it could anchor her.

Miami had been a fever dream. Charlotte felt like the part where you wake up and realize the burn hadn't gone away.

She slid into her usual seat near the back of the team section. Window side. Same as always. And just like last time, Jalen followed.

He didn't ask. Didn't pause. Just dropped into the seat beside her, hoodie tugged low, long legs angled sideways to avoid bumping hers.

She didn't shift away.

For a while, they just sat there like that—quiet, untangled, the only sound between them the soft hum of the plane and whatever song was bleeding faintly from her headphones.

It wasn't a moment. Not really. Except... she leaned.

Not far. Not obvious. Just a slight tilt to the side. Just enough that her arm brushed his. Just enough that her shoulder settled into the curve of her seat instead of the wall.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Then, "You didn't wait for me after the game."

His voice was soft. Low. Not accusing. Just a fact laid out in the open.

Theresa didn't look at him. "Didn't think you'd be looking."

"I always look," he said, leaning his head back. "You just weren't there."

She stayed quiet.

He added, "I figured maybe you wanted to avoid me."

"I didn't," she said. Then paused. "I was just... done."

Jalen nodded like he understood. Or at least like he wasn't going to push it.

"You good?"

"Yeah," she said, quiet. "Just tired."

He nodded like that made sense. Like he already knew that.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The plane took off. She leaned her head against the window, and he pulled his hood tighter, shifting to rest his elbow against the armrest between them.

It wasn't charged. It wasn't loaded. It was just... quiet.

"Hey," Jalen said, low.

Theresa opened one eye. "Hm?"

He leaned closer, voice serious. "If I fall asleep and drool on your shoulder, you're not allowed to bring it up later."

Her mouth twitched. "Noted."

"Like, ever," he added. "Not even in an argument."

She turned her head slightly, giving him a dry look. "We don't even argue."

"Exactly," he said, settling deeper into his seat. "Let's keep it that way."

She shook her head, closing her eyes again. "You're so weird."

"And you're comfy," he mumbled, already halfway to sleep.

Theresa bit back a smile and let her head rest lightly against the side of his.

Just a flight. Just a moment. Nothing to talk about later. Probably.

The plane touched down smooth, too smooth. Like even the turbulence knew not to shake anything loose just yet.

The team moved like a quiet wave through the jet bridge—duffels slung over shoulders, hoodies up, trainers squeaking lightly against the floor.

Theresa followed behind, clipboard tucked under her arm even though she hadn't opened it once since they left Miami. Her steps were steady. Grounded. But her skin itched with the kind of awareness she couldn't shake.

They were in his city now. LaMelo Ball territory.

She kept her expression neutral. A Hawks staffer handed her the updated itinerary—practice block, media windows, call times for the community day, game-day breakdown. She scanned it without really reading.

The bus was waiting outside, engine humming low, tinted windows catching the overcast afternoon light. Players loaded up in groups—Zaccharie flopping into a window seat and immediately pressing his forehead to the glass, mumbling about sleep. Trae dapping up a security guy before settling in near the front. Jalen lingered behind her—on purpose, she was sure of it.

She slid into a seat near the middle. He took the one beside her again.

The bus rumbled beneath them as it pulled away from the airport, the low vibration settling in their bones like a second heartbeat. Theresa leaned her head slightly toward the window, watching the city pass by in blurred shades of gray and red brick.

Jalen shifted beside her, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve like he was working up to something. Then, casually: "You always pick the window seat."

Theresa's mouth twitched. "You always sit next to me."

"True," he said. "But I let you have the view."

She glanced at him. "How generous."

He grinned without looking. "Selfless, really."

She shook her head. "You're not slick."

"Never said I was." He leaned back, legs angled out, one foot lightly tapping the seat in front of him. "You nervous?"

"No."

"Liar."

She exhaled. "You're projecting."

"Maybe," he admitted. "But you get quiet when you're overthinking."

She looked back out the window. "You watch me that closely?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yeah."

The silence that followed wasn't tense. It just... filled the space. Like it had weight now.

After a beat, Jalen nudged her lightly with his elbow. "We could've walked in together last night."

"We could've," she said.

"So why didn't we?"

Theresa turned her head, meeting his eyes fully now. "You didn't ask."

That made him pause. Just for a second. Then he nodded, jaw shifting slightly. "I will next time."

She didn't answer. Didn't nod. Didn't soften. But she didn't look away either.

He leaned back again, voice quieter this time. "You should rest. It's gonna be a long day."

"You're the one who almost drooled on me twenty minutes ago."

"I stand by it."

Theresa let out a breath that could've almost passed for a laugh and folded her arms across her chest, letting herself settle just a little deeper into the seat.

The city blurred past in soft gray streaks—buildings she didn't recognize, neighborhoods she didn't care to. She stayed angled toward the glass, chin resting lightly in her palm, eyes watching everything and nothing.

Charlotte was just another city. She just had to keep telling herself that.

The hotel was sleek, sterile, too polished to feel comfortable. Theresa stepped into the lobby behind the rest of the team, her badge already out, shoulders squared like she wasn't feeling anything.

She signed the clipboard at the front desk and took her keycard. Kept it moving. Jalen didn't try to follow her upstairs this time. Didn't try to linger.

She wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

Her room was clean and cold. A wall of windows let in the quiet gray light of early afternoon, the skyline muted in soft smog and drizzle. Theresa set her clipboard down on the desk and stood for a moment, staring out like the buildings might give her something she could use.

They didn't.

She kicked off her shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and opened her notes. Pretended to care about the game script. She wasn't playing, but she still had to show up.

And tonight—so would he.

The thought didn't settle. It scratched.

Her phone buzzed.

Serena: You alive, First Lady?

Theresa flopped backward onto the bed, stared at the ceiling, and FaceTimed her without answering the text. Serena picked up immediately.

"Okay, hi, don't love the cryptic silence. Are you in enemy territory?"

Theresa blinked. "You mean Charlotte?"

"I mean the city where That Man lives and breathes and dunks for a living."

"I'm in the hotel," she said flatly.

Serena narrowed her eyes. "How's the energy? Spiritual? Romantic? Cursed?"

Theresa rolled to her side. "Muted."

"Ominous."

"I'm trying not to spiral."

"Bold strategy," Serena said. "Let me know how that works out for you when he smiles like a devil and stands too close for no reason."

Theresa didn't answer.

Serena leaned closer to the screen. "Wait. Did Jalen fly with you?"

"He's in his room."

"That's not a no."

Theresa sighed. "We're keeping it cool."

"So, hallway kisses and holding-your-face-like-it-means-something cool?"

"That was in Miami."

"Oh, I know where it was. I'm asking why it still matters."

Theresa covered her face with a pillow. "I hate you."

"You love me. And you're cooked."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

Theresa sat up. "I'm hanging up."

"You're running."

"I'm preserving my energy."

"For what?"

Theresa looked out the window again.

"For pregame," she said quietly.

Serena's voice softened. "Be careful. You've got two people watching you now."

Theresa blinked.

"And I'm not talking about the coaching staff."

She didn't say anything.

Serena smiled. "Go be iconic, T. I'll be watching."

The screen went dark. She shoved her phone under the pillow after the call ended. Tried to shake off her best friend's voice still echoing in her head. Two people watching you now.

Theresa sat still for a beat longer, then changed into her all-black arena gear, tied her hair and sneakers tighter than usual and left the room without a word. No color. No softness. Just armor.

It was Charlotte, after all.

The elevator dinged open at the lobby level—and there he was. Trae, slouched against the wall near the hotel cafè, hood up, arms crossed, sipping something green and vile from a plastic cup.

He looked up when she walked out. "Yo."

Theresa slowed her pace. "You stalking me now?"

Trae gave her a long once-over. "Nah. Just had a feeling."

She raised an eyebrow. "That I'd leave my room?"

"That you'd come out like you were suiting up for war."

Theresa let out a quiet breath through her nose. "It's Charlotte."

"Exactly."

They fell into step together, walking toward the shuttle that would take them to the arena. Not talking. Just moving like they always had—two kids raised in the noise, knowing exactly how to find the quiet between.

When they got outside, Trae nudged her with his elbow. "You good?"

Theresa didn't answer right away. Then, "I will be when we leave this place."

Trae gave her a look. "Wow. That's subtle. You've grown."

Theresa snorted. "You want subtle or honest?"

"I want you not to throw hands in the tunnel."

"No promises."

He grinned. "At least wait until the cameras are rolling. Give the people a moment."

They stepped onto the shuttle, Trae still sipping that swamp-colored smoothie like it was holy water, and found seats in the back. Theresa leaned her head back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

Her head barely tilted toward the window, one arm crossed over her chest, fingers curled against the strap of her bag again. That same anchor. That same lie.

Trae didn't say anything for a minute. Just let the silence settle. The kind of quiet that felt earned. Then, softly:

"You eat yet?" he asked.

"No."

"You want half my protein bar?"

She looked at him.

"It's banana-flavored."

She blinked again.

"Okay, damn," he muttered, stuffing the rest into his mouth. "Let a man offer hospitality."

Theresa stared ahead. "That wasn't hospitality. That was a war crime."

Trae shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You're so dramatic."

"I learned from the best."

"Damn right you did."

The ride to the arena was short, but quiet—players half-locked in already, music seeping through headphones, trainers running checklists.

"You want me to trip him during warmups?"

Theresa cracked one eye open. "What?"

"LaMelo. Or Jalen. Dealer's choice."

She exhaled a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "You're an idiot."

Trae grinned. "And yet, here I am. Offering public service."

"I'm fine," she said, more to herself than him.

"Yeah. You keep saying that."

She didn't respond right away.

Outside the window, Charlotte blurred by in neutral tones—gray sky, low sun, streetlights that hadn't quite turned on yet. The city looked like it was holding its breath. Or maybe she was.

"You gonna be good courtside?" he asked.

"I always am."

"Different kind of good, T."

She looked out the window again. "I'm not here for him."

"I know that." He paused. "But I also know you."

Another beat passed.

Trae didn't push. He never did when it really mattered. He just bumped her shoulder gently like they were twelve again, riding in the back of a car on the way to practice, both trying to act like the world wasn't already spinning too fast. Theresa didn't lean back this time. But she didn't move away either.

The shuttle slowed. Spectrum Center came into view. Trae stretched his arms overhead and cracked his neck like he was shaking off whatever tension had crept in. "Let's go put on a show."

Theresa stood. "Don't get ejected."

"Can't make promises I won't keep."

They walked off the bus side by side—siblings in step, heads high, war-ready. Charlotte had nothing on them.

The tunnel smelled like floor wax and nerves.

Lights buzzed overhead. The arena crew was already moving like clockwork—cords coiled, cameras adjusted, last checks getting made before the chaos kicked in. The hum of pregame was louder here. Not in volume. In anticipation.

Theresa walked in with her headset slung loose around her neck, her all-black gear pressed and purposeful. Clipboard in hand. Shoulders squared. The image of control—even if her pulse wasn't quite in agreement.

Warmups had just started.

Shoes squeaked against hardwood. Balls thudded against glass. Music boomed from the rafters, some bass-heavy track meant to sound aggressive. Motivational. Loud enough to cover everything quiet.

She stepped into her usual corner just behind the bench, nodding at a staffer as she clipped her headset into place. Then she saw them.

Jalen was already out there—jumpshot clean, hoodie ditched, shooting sleeve rolled tight. That calm, locked-in look on his face. The one that made him impossible to read unless you knew him. Unless you'd slept beside him on a plane thirty thousand feet in the air and felt him lean just a little closer, even after he said he wouldn't.

Theresa's eyes scanned past him. She didn't mean to. But they found him anyway.

LaMelo Ball.

On the opposite side of the court, dribbling slow, head down, curls bouncing with each step. He hadn't noticed her yet. Or maybe he had. With LaMelo, you could never really tell. The casual arrogance made it hard to know what was performance and what was instinct.

She stayed where she was. Steady. Until—"Hey."

Jalen.

He jogged over toward the sideline, stopping a few feet from her. Wiped his face with his towel. Glanced at the clipboard in her hands like he was pretending to care what was on it.

Theresa raised an eyebrow. "You need something?"

He shrugged. "Just saying hey."

She looked at him. "Hey."

There was a beat—quiet but not uncomfortable. She didn't look toward the other side of the court.

Then Jalen grinned. "You gonna tell me what's in your notes?"

"Confidential."

"Oh, so I'm just out here hooping blind?"

"You're doing fine."

"You could at least write something flattering."

She gave him a look. "I'm not your biographer."

Jalen laughed under his breath, stepped back, and pointed at her clipboard like it offended him. "Unbelievable."

She didn't smile. But her mouth twitched.

Theresa was still staring after him—annoyed, confused, slightly unhinged—when she felt it. The weight of another stare.

She turned her head just slightly, and there he was. LaMelo. Across the court. Not moving. Not blinking. Just watching her.

Like he'd clocked every second of that interaction. Like he'd watched the lean-in and the laugh and the walk-away and was still trying to figure out what it meant.

She stared back. Blank. Unimpressed.

What are you looking at, idiot.

He grinned. Slow. Smug. Amused.

Theresa didn't react. Didn't roll her eyes. Didn't scowl. She just turned back to her clipboard like he didn't exist. That—somehow—only made his grin widen.

They hadn't said a word, but it had already started.

Theresa adjusted her headset, checked the battery pack clipped to her back pocket. She reset the mic clipped to her collar and turned toward the bench just as Zaccharie jogged up beside her, spinning a ball on one finger like it might distract her from her own pulse.

"Hey," he said casually. "You wanna see me miss three layups in a row and pretend I'm doing it on purpose?"

She blinked. "That your new PR strategy?"

He grinned. "Only if it makes me mysterious."

Theresa smirked faintly, shook her head, and turned back toward the court. The ball thudded once against the hardwood. Then again. Sharp. Rhythmic. Like a warning.

Theresa didn't look up.

She heard it before she saw it—the deliberate bounce creeping closer to her side of the court. Not loud. Not rushed. Just... intentional.

And then she saw them.

The shoes first—bright, chaotic, a custom colorway no one else could pull off. Then the legs, long and easy. Then the jersey, loose over a shooting shirt. And finally, the eyes.

LaMelo Ball. Mid-dribble. Mid-smirk. Walking toward her side of the court like he owned both ends.

He didn't stop right in front of her. That would've been too obvious. He stopped two feet away and dribbled once more. Caught the ball with both hands. Spun it slowly on his fingertips like it was nothing.

Then said, just loud enough for her to hear: "You look mad professional today."

Theresa didn't blink. "I am professional."

He tilted his head. "Didn't say that was a bad thing."

Her voice was flat. Cool. "You're on the wrong side of the court."

He didn't move. "Just scoping the energy."

"You have a whole half to do that in."

"I like this half better."

Theresa finally looked at him—really looked. Cold. Steady. Like she could knock his whole vibe off balance with just a glance.

"You done now?" she asked.

LaMelo raised both eyebrows, held his hands up like she'd pulled a whistle on him. "Damn. I came over to offer a warm welcome."

"I'm not here for a welcome."

He grinned again. "You sure? Cause you walked in like you had something to prove."

"I don't."

"That's crazy," he said. "You look like proof."

Before she could respond, a coach's whistle blew from the sideline.

LaMelo didn't flinch. He just backed away slowly, dribbling again—one, two, three beats against the court. But his eyes stayed on her.

Until he turned. Until he jogged away. Until the moment passed.

Theresa exhaled. Shook her head. Focused on her clipboard again. She felt heat rise in her throat—and hated it. Not because of him. But because her pulse had no damn manners.

The arena lights hadn't fully dimmed yet—just low enough for shadows to settle. Music thrummed from the speakers, sneakers echoed against hardwood, and the air was thick with pregame energy.

Theresa stood near the scorer's table, clipboard tucked under her arm, headset slung around her neck, the Hawks logo sharp against her black-on-black fit. Her eyes scanned the court with practiced neutrality—until Zaccharie jogged over with a ball in one hand and chaos in his heart. He slowed to a bounce beside her, cocking his head.

"You know," he said casually, nodding toward the other end of the court, "if this were a movie, he'd be the villain."

Theresa blinked. "What?"

Zaccharie tilted his chin toward the other side—toward the Hornets logo, toward LaMelo Ball, who continued his warmup like he was hosting the damn arena. All wingspan, all swagger. Cutting sharp off a screen. Hitting stepbacks like they owed him something. Sweat glinting. Wristbands coordinated. Eyes laser-focused.

Theresa didn't look long. Just long enough.

Zaccharie grinned. "I'm just saying."

There was a pause. Then Theresa whipped around to face him fully. Eyes wide. Hand raised. "You. Zacch. You get it."

The high five cracked so hard it echoed. One of the ball boys flinched. Across the court, LaMelo looked over sharply like he felt it.

Theresa didn't even flinch. Just adjusted her headset like she wasn't causing an international incident.

Zaccharie shrugged. "I'm French. I don't believe in consequences."

Theresa was still grinning when she turned away while LaMelo's stare burned between her shoulder blades. She moved to the end of the bench, checking her headset and adjusting the volume on the feed. The buzz of the arena

was rising now—announcer hyping the crowd, lights flashing, music pulsing with each syllable of a player's name.

And just before it hit, a familiar voice slid in behind her. "You smiling over here?"

Theresa turned slightly to find Trae, bent to tie his sneakers, towel over his neck, eyebrows raised like he'd caught her doing something suspicious.

She didn't deny it. Just said, "Zaccharie's funny tonight."

"Mhm." He stood, cracking his neck. "Or maybe your guard's slipping."

She didn't look at him. "I'm good."

He didn't press. Just stepped closer, voice low. "You remember what we used to say before AAU games?"

She paused. "Don't eat the nachos?"

He snorted. "No. The other one."

Theresa hesitated. Then: "No friends on the court."

Trae nodded once, like that settled something. "Still applies."

"To me?"

"To everybody," he said. "But especially you."

He bumped her elbow lightly with his fist—playful, not performative.

"Don't let them throw you off, T," he said. "It's still just a game."

She nodded, soft and sure.

"Now go look scary or whatever," he added as he jogged back toward the huddle. "You've got that 'don't test me' face locked in."

Theresa didn't say anything. Just sat there, headset snug, clipboard in hand.

The lights dimmed. The crowd roared. Her pulse steadied. Tipoff was seconds away.

And she was exactly where she needed to be.

Spotlights swept across the court like searchlights, slicing through the rising roar of the crowd. A voice echoed through the arena—sharp and theatrical. Names rang out over the speakers, one after the other, until the last Hawks starter was announced.

Theresa stood at her usual post behind the bench, headset clipped, clipboard against her chest. Her fingers tapped an even rhythm she couldn't feel. Her body was steady. Her face unreadable. But on the inside? Every nerve was vibrating.

She didn't look across the court. Didn't need to. The players took their places. Court cleared. Refs stepped in. The ball was handed off for tip. Her eyes tracked it as it rose. Briefly suspended. Hung there for one second too long—like even gravity didn't want to decide anything yet.

Then it came down.

The crowd surged. A Hawks player caught it clean. The first play snapped into motion. That's when she looked. Across the court, LaMelo wasn't watching the ball.

He was watching her.

Not casual. Not careless. Not even cocky anymore. Just fixed. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize her silhouette behind all the noise. Like the whole damn game was happening around him and he hadn't noticed.

She didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't blink. Didn't do anything except stand there with her clipboard and her headset and that same stone-set expression she always wore when the stakes were high.

Because they were. They might not have been in the box score, but they were.

He turned—finally—and fell into the rhythm of the game like it hadn't touched him.

The Hawks ran their first set. A clean screen. Mid-range jumper. Bucket.

Jalen jogged back on defense, calm and easy, dapping up a teammate as they reset. Completely unaware that any storm was circling.

Theresa stayed focused. In position. Pretending not to notice the way every glance, every shift, every bounce on the court felt just a little louder tonight.

The game picked up speed—fast breaks, quick rotations, early fouls. The crowd stayed loud, even when the plays didn't call for it. Everything felt heightened. Not just the pace. The atmosphere. Like the arena was catching on to something no one had named yet.

Theresa tracked it all. Clipboard in hand. Headset live. Eyes sharp.

She stayed locked into the rhythm she knew best—notes in the margins, callouts into the mic, timeouts logged before they even landed. From the outside, she looked like the perfect picture of courtside discipline.

Zaccharie passed her during a timeout and tossed her a water bottle like it was part of some secret code and kept moving. Like he knew she needed it. Theresa uncapped it. Took a sip. Focused on the floor. LaMelo hit a three. Clean. Quick. From the top of the key.

The crowd roared—and for a second, so did the smirk that followed. Not to the fans. Not to the bench. Not even to the ref.

It was directed squarely at her.

She didn't react. Not even a blink. But the tip of her pen tapped a little harder against the corner of her notes.

"Tess," a voice murmured next to her.

Trae again—fresh off a timeout, towel around his neck, eyes scanning the court.

"You sure you're not gonna set the court on fire?" he asked under his breath, low enough for only her to hear.

"I'm professional," she muttered.

"Mmhm," he said, grabbing his water. "Tell your face that."

She stared straight ahead. "I'm not here for that."

"I know," he said. "But he is."

He didn't say who. Didn't need to.

Another whistle blew. Another sub checked in. Jalen jogged over to the scorer's table, nodding to a coach. LaMelo jogged by, bumped shoulders with someone on the switch, barely glanced her way—but she felt it. Again.

This constant tension that wasn't dramatic enough to be a problem. Not yet. Just loud enough to become one. Theresa stayed rooted. Every player on that court was doing what they came here to do and so was she.

The game moved on.

End of the first quarter. Hawks down two. Nothing dramatic. Just close enough to keep everything wired tight.

She unclipped her headset as the buzzer sounded, leaning back just slightly to give her shoulders a break. The bench cleared, coaches huddled in the corner, trainers moved fast with water and towels.

Zaccharie flopped into the seat beside her, breathing hard, sweat streaking down his temple.

"You look haunted," he said cheerfully.

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that."

"You keep talking."

Zaccharie bumped her elbow. "You want me to block him just for fun?"

"You want minutes or not?"

"I want justice."

Theresa rolled her eyes and stood, clipboard in hand, moving to the edge of the huddle as the second quarter countdown began. She wasn't going to entertain it. Not tonight. Not when she knew it was only going to get worse before it got easier.

LaMelo hadn't said another word. But his silence was starting to speak louder than anything he ever could.

The second quarter opened cleaner. Less chaos. More control.

The Hornets moved fast. Crisp ball movement, sharp cuts, tempo set like a trap. The Hawks stayed locked in. Trae called out sets. Jalen adjusted off the wing, picked up two quick buckets, and kept his head down the whole time.

Theresa didn't blink.

She tracked everything—rotations, floor spacing, defensive pressure. Kept one ear on the coaching staff, the other tuned to her headset feed. And then—LaMelo.

It wasn't flashy at first. Just a quiet takeover.

A sudden acceleration in the paint. A skip pass to the weak side that landed exactly where it needed to. A steal at halfcourt that led to a two-handed finish without him even breaking stride.

The crowd swelled.

LaMelo didn't celebrate—he soaked. In the noise. The lights. The weight of everyone watching. Then, on his way back down the court, he turned.

Not toward the cameras. Not toward the bench. Toward her.

Theresa.

Just a glance. Just long enough. He held her gaze as he jogged backward, that familiar grin curving slow across his face. Not cocky. Not smug. Just... certain. I know you're watching.

Theresa didn't blink. Didn't tilt her head. Didn't let a single thing slip.

But beneath the surface she felt it settle beneath her ribs like a dare.

Next possession, Jalen caught a bounce pass off a screen, rose for a three, drained it clean. The bench popped. He ran back in rhythm, relaxed, just another play.

Except he looked at her, too.

Mid-stride. Just a flick of the eyes. Like it was habit now. She noted the shot. Wrote it down. Pretended her pulse hadn't just kicked twice.

Across the court—LaMelo saw that, too. He adjusted his jersey. Ran a hand through his curls. Called for the ball again like nothing had happened.

The quarter wound down, tension thickening in the spaces between whistles. Nothing had been said. Nothing explicit. But every movement, every look, felt loaded. Like a conversation no one wanted to have out loud.

LaMelo drove into the paint on the next possession and drew a foul.

As he stepped to the line, the camera crew drifted close for a shot. The arena screen flicked to his face just as he adjusted his stance and bounced the ball twice. And then—without looking—he said, low: "Still watching?"

Theresa didn't flinch. Didn't speak. She wasn't even sure he was talking to her. But when he made the shot, he smiled. And she knew he was.

Zaccharie leaned in from the bench and whispered, "Can I trip him now?"

"I'm good," she said flatly.

Zaccharie sat back. "Liar."

The buzzer hit. Halftime.

Theresa stayed still. Eyes locked on the court. Breath even. Face blank.

But inside? It was starting to burn.

Theresa didn't head to the locker room with the coaches. She didn't need to. Her clipboard was already full—timeouts, rotations, substitutions marked and underlined with clean strokes.

Instead, she stayed near the bench. Quiet. Present. Letting the buzz of halftime swirl around her while she stood still in the middle of it.

Players filed out. Trae jogged off with his towel over his head. Jalen followed behind, high-fiving a kid at the edge of the tunnel. LaMelo disappeared into the opposite side, his jersey untucked, curls damp, head tilted like the arena air belonged to him.

Theresa kept her eyes on the court until it emptied. Until the cameras shifted focus. Until no one was looking. Then—just for a second—she sat.

Not slouched. Not relaxed. Just... still.

The adrenaline in her system hadn't dipped. Not even close. But she let her shoulders settle for half a breath. Let her head fall back against the seat for a count of four. Let her eyes close—not out of fatigue, but because the alternative was staring too long at the places he had stood.

The places he might stand again.

When the halftime clock hit ten minutes, she stood back up. Composure in place. Headset clipped back on. Clipboard at the ready.

The tunnel filled again—first with media, then with players. The Hawks came out first. Trae loosened up his shoulders. Jalen cracked his neck and jogged a quick circle near the baseline. The rest of the team stretched, reset, moved with the ease of routine.

Then the Hornets emerged. LaMelo was the last one out.

He didn't bounce. Didn't jog. Just walked. Slow, unbothered, dragging the rhythm of the second half behind him like he'd been waiting for it all along.

Right before stepping back onto the court, he stopped at the sideline. Retied his sneakers. Wiped his hands on a towel. And just before standing, eyes still on the floor, he spoke: "Nice clipboard."

No glance. No smirk. No need to see her reaction. He already knew it. Then he stood. Stepped across the line and slid back into rhythm.

The third quarter began.

And LaMelo didn't slow down.

He wasn't flashy. He didn't force it. But everything he did had precision now. Every pass. Every cut. Every glance off the screen that just barely clipped Jalen's shoulder. It was efficient. Dangerous. A quiet storm under control.

Theresa didn't track him on purpose. But her body did anyway.

Her eyes kept catching him in transition. Her notes filled with plays that kept starting and ending with him. And every now and then—when the action lulled, when the crowd dipped, when the spotlight shifted ever so slightly—he looked.

He didn't smile again. Didn't taunt. Didn't need to. The game was still close. Tight scoreline. Every possession felt like a needle being threaded.

Theresa was balancing. On edge, but composed. Silent, but burning. Present, but somewhere else entirely. She didn't know how much longer she could do it. Didn't know what would break first—her resolve, her silence, or the space between them.

But it was only the third quarter. There was still time. Too much of it.

Midway through, the switch happened fast—too fast to be planned.

LaMelo caught the ball off a screen, and suddenly it was Trae in front of him. Just the two of them. Clock ticking. Arena buzzing. Everyone else watching from the outside in.

Theresa's eyes snapped to the matchup.

They didn't speak. Just squared up—two players who'd grown up in the same league, the same spotlight, both knowing exactly what the other was capable of.

LaMelo dribbled slow. Loose. Casual. But his eyes stayed sharp.

Trae didn't bite. Just dropped low, arms wide, mouth set.

Then—LaMelo made his move. Quick crossover. Hesitation step. Blow-by to the left.

Trae recovered fast, stayed on him through the drive, but it wasn't enough. LaMelo elevated off one foot and kissed it off the glass.

Bucket.

The crowd roared. Hornets bench jumped. But LaMelo didn't celebrate. He just jogged backward, eyes locked on Trae, grinning like the whole thing had been a private challenge.

Trae raised both eyebrows. Nodded once. Jogged back into position without saying a word.

Theresa tracked the whole exchange without writing it down. She didn't need to. The energy of it was already imprinted—too sharp to forget, too specific to mistake.

LaMelo had clocked her before. But that moment? That was for Trae.

A few minutes later, the switch came again.

LaMelo had the ball—top of the key, eyes scanning. He called for the iso without saying a word. Trae stepped up. No help. Just him again.

Theresa felt it before it even happened.

This time, Trae didn't wait. He pressed up, forced LaMelo wide with his body, then poked the ball loose—clean. Scooped it up, sprinted the other way, and drilled a three from the logo like he'd been waiting for that exact moment.

The bench exploded. The crowd did too—even in enemy territory, you couldn't ignore that kind of shot.

Trae didn't smile. Just turned around and pointed at the floor like he was planting a flag. His city now.

LaMelo let out a slow breath. Jogged back in silence. No grin. Just the kind of look that said: we're not done.

The game was tight transitioning into the fourth—two-point difference, energy coiled. Coaches barked out sets, fans leaned forward in their seats, and Theresa stayed locked in behind the bench.

Until he started acting up.

LaMelo hit a corner three with someone in his face—deep shot, stupid angle, zero balance.

Swish.

And then he bowed.

Full waist bend. One hand behind his back, the other sweeping in front like he was performing Swan Lake.

The crowd went feral.

Theresa blinked once. Then again. Then rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own regrets.

Zaccharie leaned in behind her. "You sure you don't want me to trip him?"

"Sit down," she muttered, writing down the score change.

Next play: he stripped the ball clean at half court, launched it downcourt, and yelled, "I'm him!" like the ball needed narration.

The ref didn't even look up. Theresa didn't either. Until LaMelo jogged past the bench, locking eyes with her as he wiped sweat off his chin with the collar of his jersey.

"You bored yet?" he asked, voice low but loud enough.

Theresa stared. Flat. Unamused.

"Just checking," he added with a wink.

Zaccharie muttered, "You're gonna kill him," from behind her.

"Tempting," Theresa replied, pen still moving.

A minute later, LaMelo sank another shot, turned around before it even landed, and pointed at a kid in the stands who'd been chirping him all game. "Tell your dad I'm sorry."

The crowd howled.

Theresa didn't laugh. She just exhaled like the patience of saints lived in her bones.

When he jogged by again—smug, theatrical, a walking headline—she didn't even look this time. Just shook her head and turned away, eyes on the court, jaw tight.

Zaccharie leaned in again, whispering, "Villain. Actual villain."

The game wasn't over yet. But the show? It was in full swing.

Timeout.

Two minutes left. Hawks up by three. The arena was boiling—noise pressing in from all sides, drums pounding, lights pulsing with every bass drop. It felt like a rave and a warzone all at once.

Theresa adjusted her headset, leaned forward, and nodded at something the coach said into the mic. And then, "You takin' stats or just drawing hearts around my name?"

Her jaw clenched before she even turned.

LaMelo. Again. Hands on his hips. Sweat shining along his hairline. That same unruly grin curling up like he was so proud of himself.

Theresa looked at him slowly. Deliberately. Then down at her clipboard. Then back up.

"Why would I write your name," she said flatly, "when I can just circle the turnovers?"

Zaccharie, seated two chairs away, choked on his water.

LaMelo placed a hand over his heart like she'd just wounded him on a soul level. "Wow. So that's how it is?"

She didn't blink. "That's how it's always been."

He stepped back, still smiling, but the grin had edges now. "I liked it better when you were fake nice to me."

"I liked it better when you stayed on your side of the court."

He opened his mouth to say something else—"Ball!" the ref called.

LaMelo winked instead, spun around, and jogged back into position.

Theresa let out a long breath. Dragged a hand down her face. Then scribbled something on her clipboard that looked suspiciously like not today, Satan.

Thirty seconds later, he drilled another three—again from deep, again in someone's face. He turned to the bench and did a tiny little golf clap. Like he was applauding his own villainy.

The bench cracked up. Zaccharie muttered something in French that sounded like a curse. Theresa? Didn't react. But her eye twitch gave her away.

Trae jogged over during the next dead ball, towel around his neck.

"You okay?" he asked.

Theresa nodded. "He's just loud."

"Yeah, but like... aggressively flirt-loud."

She blinked. "That's not a thing."

"It is when it's him." Trae glanced toward the court. "You got his brain in a blender right now."

Theresa's voice dropped. "Then why's he playing like he wants MVP and a mixtape?"

Trae grinned. "Because you're here."

Theresa rolled her eyes again. Harder this time. Like maybe if she rolled them hard enough, the game would end early.

But it didn't. Not yet.

The last minute ticked down—tight plays, fouls drawn, clock manipulated like a weapon. And every time LaMelo touched the ball, the volume spiked.

He missed once—just once—and still blew a kiss toward the stands like it was all part of the plan.

Theresa didn't look. Even when the final buzzer sounded. Even when the Hornets lost by four. Even when his teammates slapped hands and walked off. LaMelo stayed near midcourt, hands on hips, chest heaving.

Then—he glanced toward the bench. Caught her eye. Tipped an invisible hat and walked off like he'd won something anyway.

Zaccharie flopped into the seat beside her again. "He's a menace."

Theresa nodded once.

"Don't say it," she muttered.

He leaned back with a grin, pretending to zip his mouth.

Theresa exhaled. Unclipped her headset. Gathered her notes and didn't look back at the tunnel where LaMelo disappeared.

But the burn under her skin? Still there. Still steady. Preparing for inevitable round three.

The tunnel smelled like sweat and adrenaline and cheap air freshener. Postgame energy hung thick in the air—players peeling off jerseys, trainers passing towels, cameras trailing behind like vultures looking for drama.

Theresa kept her pace steady. Clipboard tight against her chest. Headset unhooked. Game face still on even though the game was over.

Trae had dipped into the locker room with the staff. Zaccharie had wandered off, mumbling something about needing seven protein bars and a therapist.

She veered left toward the side exit, hoping to beat the media swarm. But the moment she turned the corner—There he was.

Leaning against the hallway wall like he'd been waiting. Hoodie on. Curls damp. Chain tucked beneath his collar, glinting when he shifted just slightly under the flickering light.

LaMelo Ball. Full post-loss smirk activated.

She didn't stop walking. Didn't give him anything. But of course, he fell into step beside her. Like gravity bent that way now.

"Thought you'd disappear before I could say proper goodbye," he said casually.

"I didn't come here for conversation," she replied, eyes still forward.

He grinned. "You never do. Doesn't stop you from staring though."

She stopped walking. Fully stopped. Then turned to look at him—slowly. Blank. Sharp. Exhausted. "You're insufferable."

LaMelo didn't even blink. "Takes one to know one."

She exhaled through her nose. "What do you want, Charlotte?"

The corner of his mouth twitched and he tilted his head like the answer should've been obvious. "Damn. Government name?"

She didn't smile. Of course she didn't. Her eyes flicked over him once, sharp and unbothered, then dropped to her clipboard like it held the secrets of the universe.

"You gonna answer the question or just be annoying?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Annoying's been working pretty well so far."

She didn't laugh. Didn't blink. Didn't move. "You're unbelievable."

"And you're still mad professional."

She stared. He smiled.

The hallway was empty now, mostly. Just the buzz of the crowd dimming behind them and the low hum of postgame logistics. But the air between them felt louder than it had all night.

"You're not gonna say good game?" he asked, almost mock-offended.

"You lost."

He nodded. "Technically."

She tilted her head. "So what's the good part?"

LaMelo grinned. "You watched me the whole time."

Theresa stared at him. Stone cold. Not a crack in her armor.

"Wow," she said finally. "You really think everything's about you."

He smirked. "I think some things are."

"You're delusional."

"And you're still standing here."

Theresa blinked once. Then turned and kept walking. "Good night, Ball."

He stayed where he was, watching her go.

"Night, Young," he called after her. "Tell your brother I'm waiting for the rematch."

She raised one hand without turning around—middle finger extended just high enough to count.

LaMelo laughed. Not loud. But loud enough. And as she disappeared into the next corridor, his smile didn't fade.

It wasn't a win. But it wasn't a loss either. Not really.

Chapter Text

LaMelo Ball had seen a lot of girls courtside.

But none of them made the whole court feel like a dare.

Theresa Young didn't even turn around.

Didn't give him one last look before hitting the corner and disappearing down the hall like she hadn't just cooked his entire existence with few words and a hand gesture.

He was still standing there. Like a clown. Like a six-foot-seven, NBA-level, post-loss clown with a grin he couldn't wipe off.

"...Tell your brother I'm waiting for the rematch." Middle finger. No hesitation.

God, she was insane.

LaMelo laughed. Couldn't help it.

It wasn't a loud laugh. Not the kind he gave to teammates after a game winner or a wild three. This one was quieter. Lower. More stuck. The kind of laugh that curled in his throat and stayed there long after the sound faded.

Because damn. She really walked off like that.

No smile. No soft moment. No slip in her voice. Just clipped sentences and clean exits and that walk—head high, hoodie tight, legs moving like she had better places to be than wherever he was standing.

LaMelo ran a hand down his face and let his head hit the wall behind him—gently. Not dramatically. Just enough to hear the light thud and feel like he'd made at least one decision that night on purpose.

She was gonna be the death of him.

He kicked off the wall, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, game-day chain now fully out and catching the light like it wanted attention too. Whatever. Let it. Everything else had already been exposed.

He didn't know what exactly had shifted—but it had.
Somewhere between warmups and the fourth quarter, between her silent stare and that damn clipboard she gripped like it had her whole dignity in it, between that "you done now?" and the flick of her pen like his existence was annoying.

And the thing that was really messing with him? She didn't care if he knew it. She wasn't trying to make him spiral. She wasn't trying at all.

She was just there. Steady. Cold. Built from fire and steel and something that made the space between his ribs feel unstable.

And yeah, maybe he'd gone a little overboard in the fourth. Maybe the behind-the-back pass had been slightly unnecessary. Maybe he didn't need to spin the ball in his hands before that last free throw. Maybe he should've stopped when he told her "nice clipboard."

...Nah. That part had been elite.

The hallway was mostly empty now. Media had peeled off. Players were gone. Even the noise had faded. But his pulse? Still too loud. Still ticking like a shot clock in the final seconds.

He hadn't meant to follow her.

Okay—maybe he had.

Maybe he'd seen the way she was holding it together all game, eyes sharp, lips tight, ignoring every glance he threw her way like it was her job.

And maybe he'd spent the better part of four quarters trying to make her break. He didn't regret a single thing. Except not getting one more reaction out of her.

Because for all her composure, all that neutral face and sharp line delivery—he'd seen it.

The twitch in her jaw. The flicker in her eyes. The pause before she said "you're on the wrong side of the court," like she was holding back something lethal.

LaMelo grinned again, even though no one was there to see it. He shook his head, letting out a breath through his nose. His curls were still damp from the postgame rinse, but his skin felt hot all over again.

This wasn't normal.

She wasn't normal.

Most people flirted back. Laughed. Flinched. Fumbled.

But not her.

Theresa Young didn't just not fumble—she made him trip over himself without lifting a damn finger.

He jogged the rest of the way toward the locker room—slow, casual, hoodie bouncing at his back, brain not casual at all.

Was it weird he already wanted the next time? Probably.

But weird had never stopped him before.

And this? This wasn't over.

By the time he left the arena, the sky had cracked open—thick clouds spilling soft drizzle across the pavement, the kind that didn't soak you right away but clung to everything like it had a point to prove.

LaMelo barely noticed.

He slid into the driver's seat, let the rain tap against the windshield, and sat there for a second—hands on the wheel, engine low, whole body still wired.

He needed a beat. A breath of air that didn't taste like whatever cologne she'd been wearing courtside—warm and clean and god, why did he know that now?

There were nights when losses hit hard. This wasn't one of them.

Not because it didn't matter—he hated losing. But because the game wasn't the thing playing on loop in his head.

He'd felt the tension from across the court. Watched the way her pen twitched. How she didn't smile once unless Zaccharie cracked a joke, and even then, it was barely there. He saw how she tracked him like he was a problem to be solved, not a person. And yeah—he liked being a problem. But for her?

He wanted to be unsolvable.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the review mirror—hood up, chain out, postgame flush still on his cheeks, looking like a man who had no business being this pressed over a girl who hadn't even looked back.

Back in the locker room, the music was on. Loud. Celebratory like they hadn't lost by four. Dudes were dancing. Towels flying. Someone was already talking about where they were going out tonight.

LaMelo didn't say anything.

Just nodded, tossed his hoodie on the bench, and sat. Still buzzing. Still thinking. Still somewhere else.

"Yo, Melo," one of the guys clapped him on the shoulder. "You good?"

He blinked. "Yeah. Just tired."

That wasn't a lie. Not really. But he didn't feel like explaining that it wasn't the minutes that drained him.

The next day, he'd be at the Community Day thing. NBA Cares or whatever. He hadn't planned on going. Was supposed to skip. Rest. Recover. But when they asked again tonight, something in him said yeah.

Just in case.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into his driveway. Lights off. House quiet. Charlotte's version of peace.

He stepped inside, peeled off the hoodie, and stood in the middle of the living room like his body hadn't quite caught up to the night being over.

Then—without even thinking—he pulled out his phone.

Not to text her. He wasn't that reckless. Not yet.

But he opened Instagram. Clicked on her profile.

No new post. Just that same shot from the Nike shoot—her in black, one hand on her hip, the other holding the clipboard like it was a weapon. Eyes sharp. No smile.

He stared for too long. Then closed the app like it had burned him.

This was a bad idea. All of it. She wasn't just some girl from a city they'd pass through. She was Trae's sister. She worked for the team. She'd made it very, very clear she wasn't here to play games.

And yet—she played him like one.

LaMelo dropped onto the couch, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling. He should sleep. He should watch film. He should do anything but think about her.

The next morning came fast.

Too fast.

He'd slept maybe four hours. If you could call that sleep. It was more like lying down, eyes open, replaying the same damn four seconds of hallway footage in his head like it was game tape.

"Good night, Ball."

At least she said his surname. Progress?

He rolled over and buried his face into the pillow. Groaned. Then checked his phone.

No new texts. No likes from her. No proof she'd spiraled too.

Figures.

LaMelo sat up and dragged a hand through his curls, palm dragging slow over his face. The room was dim, blinds still pulled halfway down like he'd forgotten whether he wanted the sun or not. His phone buzzed somewhere under the pillows, but he didn't reach for it yet.

The floor was half-covered in laundry—clean? Probably. Worn? Definitely. A pair of Jordans sat by the closet, laces still tied from last night. Across the back of the chair by the window, someone—probably his assistant—had laid out the slacks and polo for today's event. Team gear. Community Day. Courts and cameras and a whole bunch of kids he'd have to high-five on command.

He exhaled slow and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes dragging over the familiar chaos of his room. Nothing polished. Nothing staged. Just lived-in.

With his heart still tapping out Morse code, he pulled the polo over his head and slid on his chain. Checked the mirror. Shook out his arms like it might calm his nerves.

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing today. But if she was there, he'd find a reason to stay.

Chapter Text

Theresa woke to soft gray light spilling in through the hotel curtains, the kind that didn't care how much sleep you'd gotten—or how badly you needed more.

She stayed still for a second, staring at the ceiling, jaw tight, pulse steady. Her body felt fine. Her mind was another story.

The game was over. The Hawks had won. But nothing about it felt settled.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand, half-expecting silence.

Wrong.

Serena: WAKE UP VILLAIN

Serena: THE BOW??????????

Serena: you looked directly into the camera like you were plotting world domination i'm so proud

Serena: also. you okay? fr

Theresa let the phone fall onto the comforter beside her, face down. Her answer didn't fit in a text box.

The itinerary was already in her inbox—call time, shuttle details, venue address. NBA Cares Community Day. Local gym. Media presence confirmed. Light colors encouraged.

Light colors.

She snorted quietly. Like emotional whiplash had a dress code.

Still, when she crossed the room and unzipped her bag, her fingers paused over a soft blue tee tucked near the bottom. She didn't remember packing it. She didn't wear blue.

But she pulled it out anyway. Because today wasn't about her. Not really.

And if LaMelo Ball just so happened to be there—Well. That wasn't her fault either.

The shuttle pulled up to the hotel curb right on schedule—branded with the NBA Cares logo, smiling volunteers already checking clipboards at the door.

Theresa stepped out in soft denim and the pale blue t-shirt she didn't want to think too hard about. Her badge was clipped to her front pocket, her hair pulled back low, sneakers clean. She looked... approachable. That was the assignment.

Jalen was already outside, leaning against the brick wall like he hadn't spent all night shooting glances across the bench. He caught sight of her and stood straighter—offering the faintest smile.

"You wore color," he said.

Theresa gave him a look. "Don't get used to it."

He opened his mouth to respond, but the shuttle door hissed open, and Trae's voice cut in before anything else could.

"Come on, lovebirds. Community first."

Theresa didn't even flinch. Just brushed past both of them and climbed aboard.

The ride to the rec center was short. A couple blocks. Enough time for the nerves to come back. Enough time for Serena to send three more texts:

Serena: u better smile at those kids

Serena: but not too much. keep your brand

Serena: also is he gonna be there or what

Theresa tucked her phone into her pocket without replying.

The shuttle rolled to a slow stop outside the rec center. Sunlight filtered through the tinted windows, casting soft lines across the seats. Volunteers in bright tees clustered near the front entrance, holding clipboards and walkies, greeting players as they stepped off.

Theresa moved with the group, calm and quiet. She scanned the entrance for the event coordinator she was supposed to check in with, and spotted a folding table just off to the side—clipboards, pens, a schedule printout clipped to a board.

She started walking toward that way. The event coordinator—a brisk woman with a ponytail and a permanent sunburn—waved her over, flipping through the color-coded assignment sheet.

"Theresa Young, right?" she said. "You're Team Green—station four. Free throw contest. You'll be with a few players from the local crew."

Theresa nodded. Easy enough. She glanced down at the roster next to her name, half out of habit, half to see if anyone from the Hawks had been assigned the same rotation.

That's when she saw it.

Ball, LaMelo.

Station four.

Team Green.

She blinked.

Paused.

Read it again.

Nope.

Still there.

She didn't react outwardly. Just made a mental note to find whichever PR coordinator did this and stare at them in silence for a full ten minutes.

She knew the Hornets would be here—it was their city, their community event as much as anyone's. Local participation made sense. She just hadn't expected him.

"You good?" the staffer asked, glancing up.

Theresa nodded once. Too fast. "Yeah. Totally."

She took her clipboard. Walked off. Found the farthest bench and sat.

He was here. Of course he was.

And worse? They were on the same damn team.

Theresa sat on the edge of the bench, clipboard in her lap, pretending to study the event schedule like her life depended on it.

Kids buzzed in and out of the gym like they were powered by sugar and sunshine. Volunteers milled around in bright shirts. A local news crew hovered near the half-court line, setting up a tripod. Everything smelled faintly like rubber soles and cafeteria pizza.

She tapped her pen against the clipboard. Once. Twice. Too sharp. Okay. Breathe. He might not even—

"Yo, Team Green!" someone called from across the gym. A Hornets staffer, clipboard in hand, was waving a small group together. "If you're on free throws, meet over here!"

Theresa stood slowly. Smoothed her shirt. Adjusted her badge. Moved through the crowd like nothing was off balance—even though she felt like her insides were doing a full pregame layup line.

They were stationed at the "Skills & Smiles" corner, a half-court setup with cones, a free throw challenge, and a giant inflatable tunnel that looked like it belonged at a carnival. The kids swarmed like bees. Theresa pulled her badge straight and dropped into a crouch, helping a girl with her shoelace.

"Got it?" she asked gently.

The kid nodded. "Are you famous?"

Theresa smiled, brief but real. "Not even a little."

The moment was simple. Grounding. Easy.

Until she stood back up and felt it again—that invisible shift. That subtle, maddening ripple in the air.

LaMelo arrived exactly twenty seconds late. Of course.

He strolled over like he'd been invited to his own birthday party, dapping up one of the volunteers before making his way to the cones. Polo sleeves pushed to the elbows. That same damn chain. A single blue wristband catching light as he waved at a group of kids who immediately started whispering and pointing.

Theresa didn't move. Didn't say anything.

But when LaMelo finally reached their station, he looked directly at her and said, voice bright as a sunrise, "Atlanta! Didn't think you'd still be around."

Then—he smiled. Like it was funny. Like they were in on a joke no one else could hear.

Theresa didn't smile back. She barely blinked. She raised an eyebrow instead. "Didn't think you'd be doing charity work."

He grinned. "Damn. Already?"

Theresa crossed her arms lightly. "Just keeping the tone consistent."

LaMelo tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself. "You don't think I can be community-friendly?"

"I think you're allergic to subtlety."

"Aw, look at us," he said suddenly, hands spreading wide like he was about to narrate a commercial. "Teamwork."

Before either of them could say another word, the event coordinator blew a whistle, gathering the kids around for the first round of the contest.

"Team Green, split into pairs!" she called. "Let's show them how it's done."

Theresa moved toward the rack of basketballs, setting herself up at the free throw line. She needed to focus. On literally anything else.

But of course, he followed.

Of course, they were paired up.

Of course.

He stepped beside her like he belonged there. Like they did this every weekend.

"You gonna miss on purpose?" he asked, nudging her lightly with his elbow.

She didn't look at him. "You wish."

LaMelo bounced the ball once. Twice. Then shot.

Swish.

She didn't flinch.

She picked up a ball. Lined up. Shot.

Swish.

His head tilted slightly. "Huh. Maybe Trae did teach you something."

She side-eyed him. "Or maybe I'm just good."

He held up his hands. "My bad. My mistake."

They moved through the station like that—shot after shot, light banter and heavy tension stacked like bricks between them.

Every time he leaned in, she leaned out.

Every time she answered sharp, he answered softer.

One of the younger kids in a green tee sprinted toward them, basketball in hand and cheeks flushed. "Are you LaMelo Ball?!"

LaMelo crouched down, already turning the charm on. "Nah. I'm just the tall guy they keep around to make everyone else look fast."

The kid laughed, bouncing on his toes. "Can you dunk?"

"Only if you make your next shot," LaMelo said, tapping the ball toward him. "Pressure's on."

The kid squealed and ran back to the line.

Theresa didn't say anything, but she caught the flicker of amusement that nearly cracked her face. LaMelo saw it. Clocked it. Filed it away.

"You smiled," he said.

"No, I didn't."

"You almost smiled."

Theresa looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Don't make it weird."

"Too late."

They kept working through the drill—kids shooting, volunteers cheering, the gym buzzing like a hive. Theresa found her rhythm again: correcting form, handing out stickers, crouching to tie laces. The kind of stuff that came easy when she wasn't being baited by a six-foot-seven menace standing five feet away.

But LaMelo was good with the kids. She hated to admit it.

He crouched to eye level when he spoke. Celebrated every basket like it was game seven. Let one of the smaller boys sit on his shoulders for a picture. Even helped a girl who kept airballing her shots by holding her wrists and guiding her through the motion.

"Like that," he told her. "Now try it solo."

She did. She missed.

He made the same exaggerated face of devastation he made after missing a buzzer-beater, then fell dramatically to the floor.

The kids roared.

Theresa caught the whole thing out of the corner of her eye and—God help her—she almost laughed. Almost.

"You're enjoying this," LaMelo said under his breath when he passed behind her.

She didn't look at him. "I'm enjoying the part where you hit the floor."

He laughed, actually laughed this time, low and from his chest. "You're brutal."

"And you're dramatic."

"Match made in heaven."

She looked at him then. Flat. "Don't push your luck."

LaMelo lifted his hands again, playful, grinning like he couldn't help himself. "Wasn't trying."

The free throw contest continued. The crowd thickened. A few more reporters slipped in. Theresa moved into her zone, clipboard tucked under her arm, voice calm and steady as she directed kids through the cones.

But she could still feel him. The weight of him in the corner of her vision. The rhythm of him stepping up when a ball rolled too far. The shape of his presence like static under her skin.

Eventually, the head volunteer clapped her hands to signal a break.

"Water and snacks! Ten minutes!"

The kids scattered toward the far table. Theresa exhaled and stepped off to the side, pulling a bottle of water from the nearby cooler. She unscrewed the cap, turned—and nearly collided with him.

LaMelo caught the bottle before it slipped from her fingers. "Relax. I'm not here to make you mad."

She took the bottle back. "Then why are you here?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I like community service."

She gave him a flat look.

He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe I like the company."

Theresa scoffed and looked away.

He watched her for a second—watched the way she sipped her water, the way her jaw tightened just slightly like she didn't want to ask whatever was sitting behind her teeth.

Then she asked it anyway. "You planned this?"

His response came without hesitation. "Swear I didn't."

Theresa narrowed her eyes, skeptical. "You just happened to be assigned to my station?"

"I got the same email you did. Assignment sheet, call time, light colors encouraged." He gestured vaguely at his pastel polo like it was evidence. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"And yet," she muttered, "here we are."

"Here we are," LaMelo echoed, quieter.

There was a long beat of silence between them, filled only by the distant squeak of sneakers and the rustling of snack wrappers. For a second, it was like they weren't at a community event, weren't standing in a fluorescent-lit gym with fifty screaming kids and three cameras hovering nearby. For a second, it was just her and him. The tension between them stretched taut like a pull-up bar—neither letting go.

Another round of kids lined up. They were louder this time, bouncing off the gym walls, sticky with juice and sugar and attention. The event was winding down, but the energy wasn't.

Theresa took her spot at the side of the free throw line, clipboard still in hand. LaMelo leaned against one of the foam pads nearby, arms crossed over his chest like he had no intention of actually helping—and yet, the moment one of the smaller kids stepped up and fumbled the ball, he was the first one to scoop it up and hand it back with a low, "You got it. Elbows up."

Theresa didn't look at him. Didn't thank him. Didn't roll her eyes. Didn't acknowledge anything about the fact that they were now sharing space, duties, and oxygen.

Between turns, LaMelo watched her interact with the kids—handing off clipboards, adjusting their stances, crouching to match their eye level like it was second nature. And for someone who claimed she didn't do color, she looked dangerous in soft blue.

He leaned in, voice low. "That shirt's working overtime."

Theresa didn't turn. "You're being annoying."

"That's not a denial."

"That's not a compliment."

He smirked. "Could be."

She glanced at him then. Just for a second. But it was enough.

He didn't miss the twitch in her jaw. The way her fingers curled slightly around the clipboard. The tiny shift in her stance like she was bracing for something she wouldn't name.

She turned back to the court. "Focus on the kids."

"I am," LaMelo said. "I'm just multitasking."

They kept moving through drills. Free throws, layups, mini-games. They high-fived and coached and laughed and posed for photos, and somehow, in the space between whistles and rotations, the tension started to settle.

Not disappear. Never that. But shift. Change shape.

At one point, a kid asked if they were dating. Theresa choked on her own spit. LaMelo just laughed.

"Does she look like she'd date me?" he asked the kid.

The kid blinked. "You're both tall."

"Wow," Theresa muttered. "Incredible analysis."

The kid gave a shrug. "My mom says tall people find each other."

LaMelo grinned. "Your mom's onto something."

Theresa gave him a long look. "Don't encourage him."

The kid, unfazed, pointed to the court. "You should play each other. One-on-one."

Theresa shook her head immediately. "Not happening."

LaMelo tilted his head, clearly amused. "Scared?"

She didn't rise to it. "Tired."

"Same thing."

"Try again."

One of the other kids overheard and started chanting. "One-on-one! One-on-one!"

A few more picked it up. Then more. The gym noise swelled again, that chaotic ripple of sugar and adrenaline and peer pressure only children could manifest.

Theresa leveled LaMelo with a glare that could've stopped time. "You started this."

"And you could finish it," he offered, spreading his hands innocently.

"I'm not playing you."

"You're right," he said, leaning in slightly. "You'd lose."

A sharp breath hissed through her nose. "I'd win. Easily."

"Then prove it."

"No."

He laughed—bright, loud, the kind that turned heads. "You're too competitive to back down without a reason."

"I have a reason," she said, jaw tight. "I don't play games I don't need to."

He considered that for a beat. And, for once, didn't push. Just let the chant die down, hands raised in mock surrender as the kids got redirected back to the actual station by a volunteer with a whistle and serious teacher energy.

But the glint in his eye didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.

Theresa stepped aside to reset a cone, voice cool. "That wasn't charming, by the way."

"No?" he said, walking with her. "Didn't feel a little bit like flirting?"

"Felt like bait."

He grinned. "What if it's both?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she stepped forward and plucked the basketball from under his arm—quick, smooth, unapologetic. She spun it once on her palm, handed it off to the nearest kid, then turned her back on him like he was just another player assigned to her station.

LaMelo watched her, still smiling. Like she hadn't just ended the conversation without warning. Like she hadn't touched the ball and somehow made it feel personal.

She was ridiculous.

And impossible.

And currently crouching again, tying another kid's sneaker with a practiced ease that didn't match her usual armor. Her voice was soft when she spoke to the kid. Gentle. Focused. And LaMelo had to look away—because watching her be kind like that? That was somehow worse than her being cold.

Theresa resumed to moved through the crowd like nothing happened—coaching, organizing, offering steady praise and subtle corrections. She bent down beside a girl in pink who looked like she might cry after missing two shots in a row and whispered something that made her nod and straighten her shoulders.

"You ready to win?"

The girl nodded, completely unaware of the volcanic tension hanging between the two adults towering over her.

LaMelo clapped his hands once. "That's what I like to hear."

When the girl made the next one, Theresa clapped twice—just once for the basket, once for the bounce-back. LaMelo caught that. Filed it away too.

And just like that, the station was in full swing again.

One of the volunteers took over the relay demo. Theresa managed the line. LaMelo ran the cone drills like it was a fashion show, giving high-fives, showboating, and pretending to lose every race by a hair.

"You're letting them beat you on purpose," Theresa murmured at one point.

LaMelo smirked. "Nah, they just built different."

"You're five inches taller and twice their speed."

"That sounds like jealousy."

She didn't respond and he didn't need her to. The look she gave him said plenty.

The camera crews had moved in. Flashes. Booms. Lights reflecting off LaMelo's chain. One reporter angled in for a quick shot and asked, "Theresa, what's it like co-leading this station with LaMelo Ball?"

She looked into the lens and said, "He's very... enthusiastic."

LaMelo grinned wide. "She means I'm great with kids."

Theresa glanced sideways. "I mean your volume is terrifying."

That made the reporter laugh.

The rest of the event passed in a blur—photo ops, autographs, LaMelo lifting a toddler into the air like Simba, Theresa pretending to text while avoiding his orbit.

But just before the last station wrapped, one of the volunteers called out, "Group photo! Team Green, right here!"

Theresa blinked. "Oh, God."

LaMelo had already slid behind her. "Smile, Young."

"You're not even in the frame yet."

"I will be."

She didn't look at him. Didn't shift when he stood just a little too close. But when the camera snapped, she felt his shoulder brush against hers—not hard, just enough to feel it.

The photo crew started calling other groups over. People peeled away, back to their bags, their water bottles, their phones. A wave of noise rushed the exit doors as a new wave of volunteers arrived to clean up the last stations.

LaMelo stayed still beside her. Watching her.

"Your shirt's not even wrinkled," he said casually.

"That's because I actually worked."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?"

She turned to him fully this time. "You spent half the event pretending to lose to kids and the other half making up new ways to annoy me."

LaMelo's smile curved slow. "And yet—you didn't walk away once. Not really."

Theresa stared at him for a second. Then pulled her clipboard tighter to her chest. "You're exhausting."

He stepped back, palms up in mock surrender. "Just saying. Teamwork looked good on us."

"Don't get used to it."

LaMelo laughed—low, lazy, like it cost him nothing to be unbothered. But there was a spark in it too. Something sharper underneath.

"I won't," he said. "Unless I should."

Theresa gave him a look. Not sharp. Not scathing. Just... tired. The kind of look you give someone when you know better, but part of you still wonders what would happen if you didn't.

"I'll see you around," he said finally, backing away with a grin and two fingers raised in a lazy salute.

Theresa didn't reply. She just turned and walked toward the exit, clipboard tucked under her arm, jaw set.

The cleanup crew was closing in. Volunteers started pulling down signs, stacking cones, rolling up the giant inflatable tunnel like the event had never happened at all.

Across the gym, Jalen stood near the drink station, one hand wrapped around a bottle of Gatorade he hadn't touched, eyes following the exchange from a distance.

He wasn't sure what he was seeing.

Not exactly.

But something about the way Theresa moved—sharper, quicker, not as distant as before—didn't sit right.

Especially when LaMelo looked like he was enjoying every second of it.

Outside, the air was cool against her skin—overcast but steady. A shuttle waited at the curb. Jalen was already there, one hand on the railing, watching her approach.

"You good?" he asked, voice low.

"Yeah." Her voice was even lower. "Long day."

Jalen studied her face. "Seemed like it."

The shuttle ride back was quiet. Tired. Full of half-naps and slow scrolling. Jalen had taken the seat behind Theresa, earbuds in, jaw clenched. Trae was half-asleep across the aisle, hoodie pulled low.

Theresa kept her gaze on the window, fingers curled around her phone. Then it buzzed.

Serena: GIRL.

Serena: WHY ARE YOU SHOULDER TO SHOULDER WITH LAMELO BALL IN THAT PHOTO.

Serena: I ZOOMED. THERE WAS SHOULDER CONTACT.

Serena: HE LOOKED TOO HAPPY.

Serena: WHAT ARE YOU NOT TELLING ME.

Theresa turned off her screen. Closed her eyes. And exhaled, slow.

Back at the hotel, the quiet hit different.

Not peace. Not relief. Just stillness.

Theresa let herself into her room, dropped her badge on the desk, and kicked her shoes off without thinking. Her feet ached. Her back hurt. Her brain was still moving like she was trying to dodge something—words, glances, questions she didn't want to answer.

She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her phone again.

Jalen hadn't messaged her. That was fine. Totally fine.

She opened Instagram out of habit and immediately regretted it.

The NBA's official account had posted a carousel: NBA Cares: Charlotte Edition. First slide—players high-fiving kids. Second—Trae crouched next to a girl holding a signed jersey. Third—

She froze.

It was the group photo.

Team Green.

She was front and center, clipboard in hand, jaw tight.

And LaMelo? Standing just a little too close. Head tilted, smile lazy. Their shoulders pressed just enough to notice.

Comments already flooded the post:

ballislife: Young & Ball... 👀

nbagossiphq: Is this tension or teamwork? Asking for a friend.

theresayoungfanpage: I KNOW SHE FELT THAT SHOULDER TOUCH I KNOW SHE DID

Theresa locked her phone. Threw it face down on the pillow. First that viral clip from the Nike shoot, now this?

This wasn't supposed to be anything. It wasn't supposed to feel like anything. The worst part? She didn't even know what exactly she was feeling.

Frustration?

Guilt?

Annoyance?

She stood up. Poured herself a glass of water. Drank half and leaned against the counter, breathing through it. This was ridiculous. She'd managed harder weeks than this. She'd been through worse. So why did she still feel like the ground was shifting under her feet?

She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. This couldn't happen. Not with him. Not like this. There were still too many moving pieces. Too much noise. Too much him.

Outside her window, the sky was shifting. A soft pink creeping into the clouds. That in-between hour, not quite sunset, not quite anything else. She watched it for a while, arms crossed.

LaMelo Ball was not her problem. Not her responsibility. Not her story.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

Atlanta felt different after Charlotte.

Not louder. Not busier. Just... heavier. Like she was dragging something back with her that didn't fit inside her suitcase.

Theresa stepped off the team shuttle into the familiar blur of the airport—flashing screens, rolling luggage, the low hum of voices blending into white noise. The Hawks staff moved like a current around her, players and coaches peeling off toward baggage claim, laughing quietly about nothing important.

She followed the rhythm automatically, badge swinging at her hip, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. Head down. Step after step. She knew this part. She knew how to be steady when everything inside her was restless.

Outside, the sky was a soft, muted gray—the kind that wrapped around the city without really touching it. She climbed into the waiting car without thinking, dropped her bag in the backseat, and let herself exhale against the window glass as the skyline blurred past.

Home.

Her phone buzzed as they pulled off the freeway.

Serena: you're alive???

Serena: are we seeing each other today or are you gonna pretend to be busy again

Serena: i can bring snacks. and judgment.

Theresa didn't even hesitate before typing back:

Theresa: door's open.

By the time she got upstairs and unlocked her apartment, Serena was already there—shoes kicked off at the door, curled up on the couch like she owned the place, a tote bag of groceries on the coffee table between them.

"Blessed be," Serena announced when Theresa walked in. "You survived NBA daycare."

Theresa dropped her bag with a thud and flopped into the armchair across from her. "Barely."

Serena tossed a mini pack of sour gummies at her. "Here. For your trauma."

Theresa caught it one-handed but didn't smile this time. Not really.

They slipped into a familiar rhythm after that—the easy kind that didn't need much talking. Serena wandered into the kitchen to unpack snacks while Theresa changed into soft sweats. Music buzzed low from a speaker. The city moved in slow motion outside the windows.

At some point, Serena flopped onto the couch again and demanded a full debrief.

"Start from the beginning," she said, pointing a gummy at her like a weapon. "And don't you dare edit for public consumption."

Theresa leaned her head back against the armrest, arms crossed. "There's not much to tell."

"Lies and slander," Serena said immediately. "You were shoulder to shoulder with LaMelo Ball and you let it happen. I demand the director's cut."

Theresa closed her eyes. Breathed out slow. "It wasn't anything."

"Didn't look like nothing," Serena said, mouth full of gummy worms. "Looked like tension. Looked like chemistry."

Theresa shook her head once, sharp. "Nope. Wrong."

Serena blinked. "You're really gonna sit there and act like you didn't vibe with him a little?"

Theresa opened her eyes and leveled her with a look. Flat. Cold. Unshakable. "He's an attention-seeking showboat who thinks he's charming because people laugh when he falls on the floor. He's not my vibe. He's not my problem. He's not anything."

Serena sat back slowly, eyebrows climbing. "Wow."

Theresa stood up, walking to the kitchen like she needed distance, like standing still might crack her in half. She pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, twisted the cap, took a long, steady sip.

"I let it happen once," she said, voice even. "That's on me. It won't happen again."

Serena stayed quiet for a beat. Watching. Measuring. Then: "You can lie to me all you want," she said, soft but certain. "Just make sure you're not lying to yourself too."

Theresa didn't answer. She just twisted the cap back onto the bottle. And kept moving.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in motion.

Cleaning. Reorganizing. Responding to emails that could've waited. Anything to stay busy. Anything to make the silence inside her apartment feel less loud.

By the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, staining the windows pink and gold, she was already back in her armor.

Black jeans.

Black boots.

Black jacket.

Hair slicked into a low, sharp knot at the nape of her neck.

No softness.

No mistakes.

Serena watched from her perch on the couch, one eyebrow raised. "You're dressing like you're about to fight God."

Theresa shrugged into her jacket. "Maybe I am."

She didn't linger. Didn't explain. Just grabbed her keys and phone, nodded once, and walked out the door.

The air hit harder once she stepped outside. Sharp. Heavy. Like the city could smell the fight brewing under her skin and wanted in on it.

Theresa moved through it without blinking, boots striking the sidewalk in clean, deliberate beats. The streetlights were just starting to hum to life, their glow casting long, stretched shadows along the cracked pavement. She welcomed the chill riding the air. It kept her sharp. Focused. It gave her something else to feel.

The drive to the arena was short. Familiar turns, familiar exits, familiar ache pressing against her ribs. She parked, flashed her badge at security, and slipped inside through the back entrance without ceremony.

Inside, State Farm Arena pulsed with quiet life. Pre-game setup buzzed around her—stacks of media guides, scent of fresh popcorn, sharp squeak of sneakers against freshly waxed hardwood. Staffers darted from one end of the court to the other, heads down, voices low. It wasn't game-night chaos yet. It was the eye of the storm.

Home.

Theresa moved through security like she belonged there. Badge clipped. Head down. Focus sharp.

Her phone buzzed once in her jacket pocket as she stepped into the back corridors, but she ignored it. She had a job to do. Routine to slip into. A version of herself to keep steady.

She checked in at the media table. Reviewed her notes.
Took her usual slow walk behind the bench to greet the staff. Said hi to a few players. Dodged Noah trying to pull her into a pregame TikTok.

Normal. Steady. Untouchable.

By the time warmups started, the arena was humming full volume. Trae shot her a look from the tunnel—half a grin, half a check-in.

She threw him a nod back. Still here. Still good.

She was halfway to the tunnel when she caught sight of them.

Her parents.

Waiting by the corner entrance, just beyond the buzz of pregame warmups—her mom tucked neatly under her dad's arm, both dressed in soft layers of Hawks red and black, faces lit up with quiet pride.

Theresa's steps slowed without meaning to. Not fear. Not nerves. Just...something softer than either.

Her mom lit up the moment she spotted her, waving small like it was just another Sunday morning. Her dad grinned—wide, proud, easy.

Theresa crossed the distance in a few strides. Let herself smile, just a little, just enough.

Her mom pulled her in first—arms warm, solid, steady. "You look good, baby," she murmured. "Tired, but good."

Her dad ruffled her hair lightly, laughing when she ducked away, mock-scowling. "You ready for tonight?" he asked.

Theresa shrugged, loosening her jaw. "Always."

She wasn't sure if she meant it, but it made them smile.
That was enough.

"Y'all could've stayed home, you know," she said, voice light.

Her mom just shook her head. "Wouldn't miss it."

And before Theresa could reply, Trae jogged up from the locker room tunnel—hoodie halfway on, sneakers squeaking against the concrete.

"Look at this," he said, beaming wide. "The whole Young crew."

Their mom opened her arms without hesitation, squeezing him like she hadn't seen him in ages. Their dad clapped him on the back, proud enough to glow.

"You good, son?" he asked.

"Better now," Trae said, shooting a quick glance at Theresa. "You babysitting them tonight?"

Theresa snorted under her breath. "Please. They'll be the ones babysitting you if you keep throwing those wild passes."

Trae laughed, low and easy. "Keep talking, Tess. I'm about to drop thirty just to spite you."

"You better."

The moment held—solid, warm, stitched tight between them. A reminder. Of who she was before everything else got complicated.

The buzzer sounded faintly from down the tunnel—final warmups calling.

Trae squeezed both their shoulders, tossed Theresa a wink, and jogged off toward the court. Their parents drifted toward the stairs, heading to their seats.

Theresa stayed for a second longer. Breathing it in. Then she turned, smoothing her badge against her jacket, and followed the flow toward the floor.

The arena buzzed with pregame energy—sneaker squeaks, bounce passes, the low rumble of bass vibrating through the concrete.

She was halfway across the tunnel when she heard him.

"You're really gonna act like we didn't even see each other properly yesterday?"

Theresa turned her head, slow.

Jalen was leaning casually against the wall, warmup gear hanging loose, a half-grin pulling at his mouth like he didn't feel the sharp thread between them too.

"You didn't text me later either," she said, voice lighter than it felt.

Jalen's grin faltered, just a fraction. He shifted his weight, glancing down the tunnel like he could buy himself a second.

"You seemed tired and..." he trailed off. Swallowed. "I didn't want to bother you."

Theresa nodded once, like she understood. Like it didn't catch somewhere low in her chest.

"I was tired," she said quietly. "But..." Her voice thinned, almost to nothing. Never for you.

She almost said it out loud, but stopped herself in time. It hung there between them anyway—unsaid but undeniable.

Jalen opened his mouth like he wanted to fix it, but one of the rookies barrelled past, chasing a loose ball, laughing too loud, and the moment cracked apart.

Theresa tucked her clipboard tighter under her arm.

"You should warm up," she said, back to steady.

Jalen hesitated. Just for a second. Then nodded, jogging out toward the court without another word.

Theresa stayed in the tunnel for a beat longer, breathing through it, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her jacket. Then she squared her shoulders and followed the noise. Business as usual.

At least, that's what she told herself.

Sneakers scuffing against hardwood, balls thudding against the rim, music echoing off the rafters—it all pulled her forward.

Theresa walked without thinking, clipboard tucked tight to her side, every step sharpening her edges again. But the thing in her chest—the thing she didn't say—stayed lodged there, heavy and stubborn.

She pushed it down. Pushed everything down.

The second her boots crossed the threshold into the arena, the rhythm picked up. Bright lights. Pregame music rumbling low. Players in shooting shirts, cycling through their warmup routines like the last twenty-four hours hadn't cracked anything open inside her.

Trae spotted her from the corner of the court. He broke off from his stretch, flashing her a grin that cut through the noise like sunlight through a dirty window.

"Yo, Tess!" he called, waving her over with both arms like he hadn't just seen her minutes ago.

For the first time that day, something in her chest eased.
Just a little. Theresa crossed to the baseline, sliding past security and staff, falling into step with him like she always did.

"You good?" he asked under his breath, low enough that nobody else could hear it over the bass shaking the arena.

"Yeah," she said.

Trae squeezed her shoulder, like he didn't quite believe her but wasn't going to push it here. Not yet.

"Come sit," Trae said, nudging her gently toward the scorers' table. "Mom brought snacks in her purse again. I swear she thinks I'm twelve."

Theresa smiled, just barely, and sat. "You act twelve."

He grinned, unbothered. "You love me."

"Unconfirmed."

They sat in comfortable silence for a beat, watching the arena pulse around them—players moving through drills, fans beginning to trickle in, the low crackle of a Friday night crowd starting to gather. The city was watching. The league was watching. But here, in this little pocket of space carved out for siblings, the noise fell away.

Trae leaned back against the table, one knee bouncing. "You seem off."

Theresa didn't flinch. "I'm fine."

"You always say that," he said, eyes still on the court. "Even when it's not true."

She didn't answer. Just twisted the cap off her water bottle and took a slow sip.

"Is it because you and LaMelo got paired up yesterday?"

She scoffed. "Of course you would bring that up."

He laughed. "I'm just saying, you two seemed to work well together."

"We were in front of children."

"So?"

"So," Theresa said, turning to glare at him, "maybe don't read into basic human decency like it's a headline."

Trae held his hands up, grinning. "Damn, okay. Relax. Just making conversation."

Theresa rolled her eyes and looked back toward the court, but her fingers were tight around her water bottle. She could still feel the press of LaMelo's presence from the day before—loud, teasing, too-close energy that had somehow gotten under her skin before she'd realized it.

Trae gave her space. Gave her quiet. Then, a few moments later, he bumped her shoulder and nodded toward the far end of the court.

"You see that kid in the Trae jersey?" he asked. "Been copying my warmup for the last ten minutes."

Theresa followed his gaze. Sure enough, a little boy near the baseline was mimicking every move—stretch, shot motion, even the occasional head tilt.

Her lips twitched. "Looks more coordinated than you."

Trae clutched his chest dramatically. "Wow. Betrayed in my own house."

"You'll live," she said dryly, taking another sip of water. "Tragic ego bruising isn't fatal."

Trae grinned. "This city's lucky I love it."

Theresa glanced at him sideways. "You say that like we're not all just enduring you."

Trae grinned. "You love me."

Theresa didn't look at him, just said, "Don't make me say it in public."

He barked a laugh, clearly satisfied. "Knew it."

The buzzer echoed overhead again—pregame clock ticking down. The arena was almost full now, fans on their feet, lights beginning to dim in preparation for intros.

Theresa stood, smoothing her jacket again, her expression back in place. Sharp. Composed.

Trae stood too, bumping her shoulder with his. "You sure you don't want one of Mom's purse granola bars? Last chance."

"Tempting," she said dryly, already turning to walk. "But no."

The noise swelled around them—bass thumping, crowd rising, the familiar voice of the announcer echoing through the rafters.

Trae stretched his arms overhead. "Showtime."

Theresa looked up at him, the weight behind her eyes still there, but tucked neatly beneath the surface again. "Go drop thirty."

He winked. "Thirty-five, just for you."

"Don't turn the ball over six times and I'll believe you."

He laughed as he jogged toward the tunnel.

Theresa watched him go, the ache in her chest quieter now. Still there—but muted. Manageable. She stayed at the sideline a moment longer, letting the lights and the music and the rhythm of routine settle back over her like armor.

Then she turned, squared her shoulders, and walked into the noise.

Back to work.

Back to steady.

Back to pretending none of it had touched her.

The lights dropped lower. The crowd rose higher. Announcer voice booming through the arena like thunder: "Your Atlanta Haaaaaawks!"

Fire shot from the corners of the court. Spotlights chased the players as they jogged out one by one—waves, chest bumps, sneakers squeaking loud against the hardwood.

Theresa stayed just off-court, back pressed lightly to the scorers' table, eyes scanning the movement. She didn't cheer. She didn't smile. But her pulse synced to the beat anyway.

Trae was last out, of course.

He jogged into the light like he owned it—shoulders loose, expression dialed in. He paused at half-court, turned, and pointed to the stands before flashing one finger to the baseline.

To her.

She didn't react. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

Theresa dropped her hand from her badge and folded it neatly in front of her. Her eyes didn't leave the court. Not once. She knew this part by heart. The rhythm of game nights—the lift, the pause, the slow build into the first possession.

And when it finally tipped? It was like breathing again.

The ball hit the air and everything moved at once—shouts from the bench, fans on their feet, sneakers cutting hard against the floor.

The Hawks opened fast—Trae setting the tone early with a clean bounce to the corner, followed by a quick three that sent the crowd into a low roar.

Theresa moved down the sideline, clipboard tucked close, eyes sharp. A staffer flagged her mid-quarter to adjust the tunnel cam timing; she handled it in ten seconds flat, barely breaking stride.

By the second quarter, the pace had shifted—grittier now. Chippier.

Jalen hit back-to-back buckets on consecutive possessions, his footwork tight, his follow-through clean. One of them came off a spin move that made the opposing guard stumble hard enough to hit the floor. The bench erupted.

Theresa didn't look directly at him, but she didn't need to. She felt the glance he threw her after that one. Felt the way it held a little longer than it needed to. She didn't give him anything back.

But her fingers tightened slightly on her clipboard.

Halftime came quick—tight lead, good momentum, clean rotations. She made her rounds behind the bench, touching base with media staff, checking in with production, keeping everything moving without letting her mind wander.

Not to the night before. Not to the weight still sitting behind her ribs. And definitely not to the way Jalen hadn't said anything else since that moment in the tunnel.

By the time the third quarter tipped, she was back in position. One knee slightly bent, eyes sweeping the floor like a chessboard. Trae caught fire late in the quarter—pull-up jumper from the logo, then a no-look assist that made two guys in the row behind her lose their minds.

The crowd was loud now. Electric. Through it all, Theresa stayed steady. Sharp angles. Black boots planted. Face unreadable.

Every time her phone buzzed in her pocket, she ignored it. She'd deal with whatever waited on the other side later. For now, it was just the game.

The pace. The noise. The version of her that didn't feel anything at all.

Fourth quarter.

Tight game. Momentum swinging like a pendulum. The crowd was on its feet, every whistle louder than the last, every possession laced with urgency.

Theresa stood just behind the bench now, eyes locked on the floor, clipboard forgotten at her side.

Jalen was still in. Locked in.

He moved like someone trying to outrun the weight he didn't know how to name. When he caught the ball on the wing with eight seconds on the shot clock, everyone cleared out.

Isolation. One-on-one.

He jab-stepped once. Twice.

Theresa kept watching.

Stepback. Rise. Release.

Three.

Clean. The crowd exploded.

Jalen didn't celebrate. Didn't smile. He turned on his heel and jogged back on defense like it didn't mean anything—like he hadn't just burned through a defender and most of his restraint in the same breath.

But he looked at her as he passed the sideline. Not a glance. Not a smirk. A look.

Full. Heavy. Like he'd felt her watching and wanted her to know.

Theresa stayed rooted. Unmoving. But her jaw flexed once. Tight.

A few minutes later, timeout.

Jalen came off the floor, breathing hard, sweat shining on his jaw, jersey clinging to his frame. He sat two seats down from where she stood, towel slung across his shoulders, head tilted back as he caught his breath.

He didn't look at her. Not this time.

But that didn't stop the heat humming between them, sharp and invisible, like static in the air before a storm.

Theresa exhaled slowly through her nose. She could feel the moment scraping just under her skin. The tension from the tunnel hadn't faded. It had just morphed—turned quieter, hungrier, threaded through the corners of a game they both pretended was the only thing that mattered.

The whistle blew. Sub rotations.

Jalen stood again. This time, as he passed her, he murmured low—quiet enough that no one else could catch it.

"I should've checked in on you."

Her heart kicked once, hard.

She didn't respond. Didn't move. But her hand curled tighter around her clipboard, knuckles pale.

He didn't look back. Just stepped onto the court and vanished into the noise.

And Theresa? She didn't let her expression shift. Didn't let the wave hit her until he was gone.

But it did. God, it did.

She stayed frozen, the weight of that moment slotting into place like a puzzle piece she didn't want to acknowledge. Her chest felt too full and too hollow all at once.

This was dangerous.

Not because of what he said—but because of how it made her feel. Like she still wanted something from him. Like maybe some part of her still thought he might give it.

Trae checked back in with a look like he was ready to end it himself. The kind of energy that shifted momentum just by existing. Theresa stayed close to the sideline, eyes scanning every possession, jaw tight, body still.

When Jalen got the ball again—different wing, same rhythm—she didn't look away. This one didn't drop. But it didn't need to.

The final minutes didn't feel like minutes at all—they felt like heartbeats stretched too thin.

The other team was closing in, every possession tighter, more desperate, more dangerous. But then—Trae. Locking in. Locking down. He slid across the perimeter like he'd been born in that exact spot, reading the offense before it even formed. Hands up. Feet set. And when the ball came loose? It wasn't luck. It was pressure. It was precision.

Fast break. No hesitation. A clean finish at the rim.

The crowd was already on its feet when the next play tipped off—but Trae wasn't finished. Not yet. He pulled up from deep—logo deep—and let it fly. Net. Nothing else. Then again. Another three, colder than the last. Deliberate. Final.

The arena cracked wide open. The bench erupted. And somewhere under it all, Theresa stood still—heart pounding like it was her shot that went in.

Final buzzer. Another one in the column.

Theresa didn't move with the rush. She stayed still as the bench emptied, players high-fiving, the stadium rumbling with win energy. Coaches shook hands. Reporters gathered courtside. Fans started filing toward exits, already texting group chats about the fourth quarter run.

Jalen walked past her again, towel draped over his neck now, jersey clinging, sweat curling at his collar.

He didn't say anything this time. Didn't look. Just brushed close enough that her shoulder caught the edge of his.

Deliberate.

Theresa stood her ground.

Didn't turn. Didn't speak. But the fire under her skin didn't lie.

The locker room hallway buzzed with noise—staff weaving in and out, reporters setting up, a few players already mid-laugh as they rounded the corner. Theresa moved through it with practiced ease, sharp in her stride, her badge catching flashes of overhead light.

The win was in the air. Everyone felt it. The mood was up. But she wasn't riding it. Not exactly.

She was gliding on something else—cool, controlled, quiet confidence layered like silk under armor.

She rounded the corner near the player entrance just as Jalen stepped out of the locker room, towel slung around his neck, chain visible now that his jersey was off. He was mid-conversation with Zaccharie—half-laughing, half-coaching—but the second he saw her, something shifted.

His posture straightened. Eyes locked.

Zaccharie peeled off with a knowing grin.

Theresa didn't stop walking. Didn't slow. She just passed by him—calm, steady, in total control—and let her fingers brush his forearm in the most casual, devastating way imaginable.

"Come over later," she said, low and effortless, just for him. "If you want."

It landed like a lit match.

Jalen blinked, barely catching the words before she was already a few steps past him.

He turned his head, watching her retreat with a look that was all heat and disbelief—like he'd just been hit by something he didn't see coming but wanted more of.

Theresa didn't look back. Didn't need to. She felt it. The way the power curled into her palms like it belonged there.

And for the first time that day—she smiled.

Just a little.

By the time she looped back toward the family lounge, her game face was still on—but the tension had softened around the edges. The win helped. The shift with Jalen helped more.

And then she saw her parents.

Her mom was mid-sentence when she spotted Theresa, waving her over with a bright, familiar smile. Her dad stood beside her, jacket folded over his arm, still glowing with the kind of pride only a parent could wear so effortlessly.

"There's our girl," he said, pulling her into a quick, one-armed hug.

Theresa let it happen—shoulders relaxing, guard dropping just enough to let the warmth in.

"You killed it tonight," her mom said. "I know you're not on the court, but don't act like we don't see you running the whole show."

Theresa huffed a soft laugh, brushing hair from her face. "I'm not doing that much."

"You're doing everything," her dad said, shaking his head affectionately. "Like always. Looked like a clean game. Our boy went off tonight."

Theresa smirked. "He always does when he's got an audience."

"Damn right he does."

Speak of the devil. Trae slid into the hallway like he hadn't just sprinted full-court for the better part of an hour—fresh sweatshirt, damp curls, tired eyes that still carried a flicker of adrenaline.

"Man," he said, grinning as he approached. "Y'all see me?"

"We saw you," their mom said, pulling him into a hug next. "You were out there acting like you had something to prove."

"Always do," he said, then turned to Theresa. "Thirty-six."

"You said thirty-five," she muttered.

"I'm overachiever," he shot back with a grin. "Anyway, y'all ready? Reservation's in fifteen. Don't make me call and lie."

Theresa blinked. "You actually made one?"

"Please," he scoffed. "Mom made it. I just pretended like I had input."

Their mom rolled her eyes fondly. "You had one job. And that was remembering the time."

"I remembered!" Trae protested, holding the door open. "We're here, aren't we?"

Theresa shook her head as she followed them out.

They stepped out into the night as a unit—Theresa and Trae flanking their parents like a two-person security detail, wind brushing at the edges of their jackets. The city lights stretched out ahead, traffic murmuring low in the distance, the pulse of Atlanta wrapping around them like a steady drumbeat.

They didn't talk much on the drive. The kind of silence they carried was soft, well-worn, filled with the kind of comfort that didn't demand words.

The restaurant was tucked on a side street near Ponce—dim lighting, exposed brick, wood tables already glowing with warm candlelight. No cameras. No crowds. Just the quiet clink of silverware and the low hum of music pulsing from the speakers overhead.

They ordered family-style—plates passed around, sauce-stained napkins piling up, Dad stealing bites off everyone's plate like it was tradition. Mom asked about Serena. Trae complained about his knees. Dad asked if she'd been sleeping enough, then immediately asked again after she didn't answer fast enough the first time.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm good, Dad."

"You always say that," he said.

"But this time," she said, lifting her glass halfway, "I mean it."

They talked about everything but the game.

Old stories. Inside jokes. Who used to eat all the cereal and deny it (Trae). Which one of them could still win a footrace (Trae said him, their dad said "not with those knees"). Their mom rolled her eyes and called them both dramatic.

Theresa watched them, listened to the rhythm of their laughter and the familiar shape of her family around the table.

She didn't realize how much she'd needed this. Until now.

"Hey," Trae said at one point, catching her eye across the table, voice low. "You really good?"

Theresa held his gaze. Then nodded. "I think so."

It wasn't everything. But it was honest.

Trae leaned back, satisfied. "Good."

When the check came, Trae grabbed it. Their dad tried to argue. Lost.

"I get to feel important for once," Trae said, smug. "Just say thank you and tell me I'm your favorite."

"You're definitely someone's favorite," Theresa muttered.

The walk back to the car was easy—cool air brushing past them, their mom humming something under her breath, their dad pointing out a bakery he wanted to try next time.

Theresa stayed a step behind, letting their voices drift around her like warmth in the cold. The kind of quiet joy that didn't need to be touched to be felt.

"—We're not getting pastries at ten in the morning," their mom was saying.

"I didn't say we, I said me," their dad replied, smug. "Y'all can sleep in. I'll be out living."

Trae groaned. "You're the reason my alarm has trust issues."

Theresa laughed softly, the sound slipping out before she could hold it in. Her mom looked over her shoulder at her, like she'd been waiting for that exact moment all night.

"You coming with us?" she asked.

Theresa shook her head gently. "I'll walk. I've got a few things to finish up."

Her mom didn't question it. Just reached over and fixed the collar of her jacket like she couldn't help herself. "Alright. But you know where we are."

"I know."

Trae looped an arm around her shoulders as they reached the car. "You sure you're not gonna cry 'cause I paid for dinner?"

"I'm more likely to cry because I let you eat half my gnocchi," she said, nudging him off. "Be grateful."

"Oh, I am," he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I'm counting my blessings and my stats."

Their dad beeped the car doors open. "Text us when you get home, alright?"

"I will."

They all filed into the car, doors closing one by one, muffling the chatter. Theresa stood on the sidewalk for a beat longer, letting the engine turn over, watching the taillights fade down the block.

The night air slipped under her collar, crisp and sobering. Her boots echoed against the pavement as she walked, the silence stretching wide again—but not heavy.

Theresa zipped her jacket all the way up and turned the corner, hands tucked into her pockets. Downtown Atlanta glowed around her—warm storefronts, a soft breeze sweeping through the trees, the occasional rush of a car passing by on a quiet street. Her boots clicked steadily against the sidewalk. She knew the route home by heart.

Ten blocks. Enough distance to unwind the coil in her chest one step at a time.

She passed the little bookstore Serena liked, the one with the crooked sign and the window full of handwritten staff picks. Lights were still on inside, even though they were technically closed. She paused for half a second, then kept going.

She passed a group of kids laughing on a corner, a couple sharing a cigarette outside a bar, a man playing a saxophone near the park, his case open for tips and dreams. Everything felt a little softer at this hour—edges blurred, noise reduced to a hum.

By the time she reached her block, her muscles had eased and her heartbeat had slowed. She climbed the stairs to her building, keyed in the code, and stepped inside. The hallway smelled like old carpet and someone else's takeout. She didn't mind. It was familiar. Steady.

Inside her apartment, the silence greeted her like an old friend. She didn't turn on the lights. Just slipped out of her jacket, left her boots by the door, and padded into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water. Sipped it slowly. Let the night settle around her like a second skin.

Her phone buzzed once in her pocket, but she didn't check it. Not yet.

She walked to the window instead, pressing her fingertips to the cold glass, watching the city move beneath her.

She didn't feel unsettled anymore. Not exactly. She just felt... waiting.

And then—

Three short knocks.

She set the glass down, crossed the floor, and opened the door without checking the peephole.

Jalen stood there. Sweatshirt pulled low over his head, hands tucked in the pocket, jaw set like he didn't trust himself to speak first. His eyes dragged over her—slow, reverent, unsure.

She tilted her head, one hand still on the doorknob. "You came."

"You told me to," he said, voice lower than usual. Rough around the edges.

"I said if."

A pause. Then: "Didn't feel like a maybe."

Theresa shifted her weight from one hip to another. "You coming in or just gonna stand there making me feel powerful?"

That got a breath of a laugh out of him. Then he stepped forward, enough to tower over her. Neither of them spoke, just looked at each other, talking with their eyes. The air between them was too much—too close, too still, too everything.

Jalen stood just a few inches from her now, hands still buried in the front pocket of his hoodie like he didn't trust them. His eyes flicked over her face once, then dropped to her mouth, then back up—hesitant, unreadable.

Theresa shifted first, weight leaning slightly into one hip like she was about to say something—but the words never came. Instead, her hand lifted halfway—like she meant to reach for him and thought better of it. Then, after a second, she did it anyway.

Her fingers brushed the hem of his sweatshirt, then the side of his wrist, slow and uncertain. Jalen held his breath. They were close enough now to feel each other's exhales. Close enough that the space between them wasn't really space anymore.

Her eyes searched his for a second longer—some unspoken question threading through the tension—and then she tiptoed and kissed him.

It wasn't polished. It wasn't perfect.

It was cautious, almost shy—like she didn't know what to do with her mouth when it wasn't spitting sarcasm or denial.

And still, it landed like a match on dry kindling.

Jalen went still, just for a breath, then tilted into her with something deeper—answering, anchoring. The kiss turned warm. Familiar in seconds. Like they'd both been holding their breath for this without knowing it.

When they broke apart, it was quiet again. Theresa finally stepped aside to let him through and he walked past without a word. She licked her lips and shut the door.

This was new.

They'd never greeted each other like this. Never had a moment that sat quite like this one did—slow and suspended, all edges and almosts.

And yet. It didn't feel wrong. Just unfamiliar.

Theresa turned from the door slowly, the soft click of the latch slipping into place behind her like the final punctuation on something she hadn't quite decided to name.

Jalen was already halfway into the living room, standing there like he didn't know what to do with himself—shoulders tense, jaw locked, hands still buried in his hoodie pocket like they were under strict orders not to move.

She watched him from the threshold for a moment, eyes adjusting to the low light, the shape of him familiar and strange all at once. He belonged here. He didn't. He always had. He never really did.

"You want water or something?" she asked, voice too casual, too careful.

He looked at her then, that slow shift of his gaze cutting through the hush in the room like it could undo everything already unraveling inside her. "Sure," he said. "Water's good."

Theresa nodded once and moved toward the kitchen again, feet bare, steps quiet. She grabbed a second glass and filled it slowly, like buying herself time.

Behind her, she heard him sit—couch cushions shifting, a low exhale pushed into the silence. She carried the glass back over and handed it to him without a word. Their fingers brushed. Brief. Barely.

Jalen took it with a soft "Thanks," and she sat beside him—carefully, like the air still hadn't settled after what just happened.

For a few seconds, all that existed between them was the low hum of the city outside the window and the shallow clink of ice against glass.

Theresa leaned back against the cushions, arms folded, one knee bent under her. "So," she said.

Jalen smiled faintly without looking at her. "So."

Another beat.

"I wasn't expecting that," he said, voice quieter now. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I wasn't either," she admitted. Then added, "Kind of felt like I had to."

Jalen turned his head toward her, one eyebrow raised. "Had to?"

Theresa met his gaze. Calm. Blunt. "You looked like you didn't know if you were allowed."

That hit somewhere in his expression. Softened something. "I didn't," he said honestly.

"Good thing I did, then."

He laughed once under his breath, low and surprised. "You really gonna act like that wasn't a moment?"

She shrugged, but it didn't land clean. Her chest felt tighter now, heavier. "It was... a beginning. I think."

They didn't move for a long time after that—just sat there side by side in the soft, steady quiet, glasses half-full, limbs just barely grazing.

This wasn't a victory. It wasn't a confession. It wasn't even safe. But it was honest.

They sat like that—shoulders close, words light, the weight of what had just happened hanging quiet between them. Eventually, Theresa uncrossed her arms. Not to reach for him. Not yet. Just to breathe a little easier.

"We've never done that before," she said.

Jalen's eyes flicked up. "The kiss?"

She nodded, mouth pressed into a thin line. "It felt... weird."

"Yeah," he said, not defensive. Just honest. "But not bad."

Theresa studied his face—his jaw, his eyes, the slope of his cheekbone like she hadn't already memorized it in a hundred passing glances. "We don't kiss hello."

Jalen held her gaze. "We do now."

That made something tug in her chest.

He didn't reach for her. Didn't move any closer. Just let the words hang there, soft and solid and terrifying in their simplicity.

Theresa exhaled and looked away. She wasn't sure what to do with that.

Jalen leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, voice quieter now. "You regret it?"

"No." That part was easy. Immediate. She didn't even blink.

His head tilted, eyes narrowing just a little. "You scared of wanting something from me?"

She didn't answer right away. Because how could she tell him she wanted everything without scaring him away?

Instead, softly: "I'm scared of wanting anything I can't trust to stay."

He let that sink in. Didn't argue. Didn't try to fix it. Just watched her. Still. Quiet. Like maybe he understood exactly what she meant—even if he didn't know what to do with it yet.

Then, slowly, he set the glass down on the table and leaned back again. Not away. Not distant. Just... thoughtful.

Theresa stayed still beside him, arms folded again, gaze aimed somewhere near the far wall like it was safer than looking at him directly.

"Come here," Jalen said after a second. Barely above a whisper. More of a suggestion than a request.

She glanced at him.

He didn't smile. Didn't joke. Just opened his arms slightly, warm and tentative, like he was offering shelter instead of touch.

Theresa didn't move at first. Then—without a word—she shifted.

She leaned into him. Let her head rest lightly against his shoulder, her hand settling against the side of his chest like she wasn't entirely convinced he was real. Jalen slid his arm around her, slow and sure, palm flat against her back.

They sat like that for a beat.

Then he moved again—gently, deliberately, like he'd done it a hundred times before. He twisted toward her just enough to shift their weight, easing her down into the cushions as he followed, stretching out across the couch until he was half on top of her, half beside her. One arm still around her waist. One hand braced near her head. His face close.

Close enough that her breath hitched once in her throat before settling.

Theresa blinked up at him, arms still unsure of what they were allowed to do. He didn't crowd her. Didn't push. Just hovered in her space like he'd wait there forever if she asked.

"This okay?" he murmured, voice soft and low.

She nodded once. Then slid her hand up to rest against his back. "Yeah."

So he stayed like that. Let his weight settle over her slowly, carefully, until his cheek was against her shoulder and her fingers were tracing small circles over the fabric of his hoodie.

When she tilted her head just enough to rest her cheek against his curls, eyes fluttering shut, she felt something in her chest unclench.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn't performing calm. She wasn't holding anything up. She just... let herself be held.

And Jalen didn't move. Didn't speak. He just stayed there with her.

Like maybe he was finally beginning to understand.

The TV played low in the background—something slow and cinematic, the kind of movie networks aired after midnight when no one was really watching. A distant hum of dialogue and music drifted across the room, soft enough to feel like static.

Theresa thought maybe Jalen was watching. His body was still relaxed against hers, cheek resting near her collarbone, one arm draped around her waist like he wasn't in a hurry to let go. He hadn't spoken in a while. Neither had she. But the silence wasn't empty. It was full of everything they hadn't figured out how to say yet.

She shifted slightly, fingertips still brushing gentle circles along the fabric of his hoodie. His breathing had slowed. The weight of him was steady. Warm. Human.

She could've stayed like that forever.

But then—he shifted.

Lifted his head just enough to break the rhythm they'd found. Not rushed. Not tense. Just... certain.

"Theresa, can I..." then he hesitated, voice rough from how long he'd been quiet, like the words didn't quite want to leave his mouth, but he had to let them go anyway. "Could I spend the night?"

Theresa's heart kicked in sync with the chiming of her phone. The sound broke between them like a dropped glass and she reached for it automatically, grateful for the excuse, thumb swiping across the screen to check the notification. An Instagram DM.

melo: told your brother i'm waiting on that rematch yet?

Chapter Text

What was Theresa thinking? Texting LaMelo Ball while Jalen was half asleep on her chest like this was some romcom with a death wish.

Of course it was him that messaged. Always knowing exactly when to make it worse. Like he had some sixth sense for when her life was finally—barely—starting to make sense.

She didn't answer right away. Mostly because she was too busy trying not to throw her phone across the room. And because Jalen—warm, soft, here— was looking expectantly at her, waiting for an answer.

Theresa blinked once, then again. She willed her expression to stay neutral, let her phone fall face down on the arm rest beside her like it didn't mean anything. She looked down at Jalen then—at the weight of him across her, the softness in his jaw when he was too tired to hold anything back.

"Yeah," she said quietly, running her hand over the back of his hoodie in slow, grounding strokes. "You can stay."

She felt his whole body settle at that. Like it mattered more than either of them would say out loud. Jalen exhaled once, deep and easy. Then he melted further into her side, already halfway back to sleep.

She waited a beat or two before reaching for her phone again.

melo: told your brother i'm waiting on that rematch yet?

Theresa stared at it for one long, unbearable second. Heat bloomed low in her spine—irritation, she told herself. Just irritation. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard longer than it should've. Then typed:

theresayoung: tell him yourself.

theresayoung: or you scared of a little pressure?

She hit send before she could think better of it. The second message was stupid. Reckless. A live wire disguised as banter.

Then turned her phone over again, screen down, heart pounding. Her hand stayed on the back of Jalen's hoodie like an anchor. Like maybe if she kept him close, it would slow the spiral.

It didn't.

She could feel the burn of that message even through the screen. Like it was still vibrating in her palm. Like the three dots might show up any second and take her out.

Theresa leaned her head back against the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like it held some kind of escape route. Jalen shifted in his sleep, a low sound rumbling in his chest. Her fingers kept moving—slow, soft circles over his back.

She should've let it go. Blocked LaMelo and buried the moment.

But no. She replied. She engaged.

Because some feral part of her wanted him to know she wasn't avoiding him.

And worse—wanted him to know she wasn't backing out.

Jalen murmured something again, nuzzling further into her chest, breath warm where it hit her collarbone. She closed her eyes. Tried to match her breathing to his. Pretended her heart wasn't trying to beat its way out of her ribcage.

Then her phone buzzed again. Of course it did.

God help her.

She didn't even need to look. Her body already knew it was him. A ripple of nerves rolled under her skin as she turned the phone over.

melo: that an invite?

Theresa's jaw tightened. What the hell was he doing?

She glanced down at Jalen, still breathing steady against her. Still warm. Still here. Theresa pressed her lips together so hard it almost hurt. Her thumb hovered again. She knew better. She really, really did.

She swiped up anyway.

theresayoung: do you ever stop

melo: not when you're this fun

melo: you looked at me different yesterday

Her mouth parted slightly. A sharp breath hitched in her throat. She pressed her phone tighter against her chest like that might contain the emotional combustion.

Then, slowly, she typed:

theresayoung: i wasn't looking at you

melo: that's your story?

melo: and you flicked me off like it was personal

theresayoung: you are personal. unfortunately.

melo: good

theresayoung: no

melo: yes

She stared at that last message. A single word. Simple. Feral. Like he liked being a problem. Like he was daring her to do something about it.

She muted the thread before she could get pulled deeper. Tossed the phone beside her again.

Jalen stirred slightly in his sleep, arms tightening around her waist.

But it didn't stop buzzing. Because of course it didn't.

She ignored it. For two full seconds. Then turned it over anyway.

melo: admit it. you missed me.

theresayoung: missed the headache maybe

melo: bet you smiled

theresayoung: bet you're delusional

melo: that's not a no

melo: send a selfie if you're brave

Theresa blinked, then squinted like the light of the screen might burn her retinas out through sheer audacity. Jalen, still pressed against her side, hadn't moved. But she could feel her own pulse in her fingertips now, could feel the tension rising like smoke in her throat.

theresayoung: what do you want

melo: depends

melo: what are you wearing

Theresa almost dropped the phone for real that time.

Her jaw dropped instead. Her soul left her body. Her hand itched to throw the phone across the apartment. Not because it was scandalous—not exactly. But because it was him. Because he knew exactly what to say to make her brain short-circuit.

Jalen shifted against her now, mumbling something half-asleep. One of his hands slid under the hem of the hoodie, curling warm against her hip like he was trying to stake some claim without knowing there was a threat in the room—namely, her phone. Her own damn choices.

She inhaled sharply and typed back.

theresayoung: block's right there.

theresayoung: might wanna use it before you embarrass yourself

She didn't mean it. Not really.

The phone buzzed again instantly.

melo: i'm already embarrassed

melo: you're talking like you don't like it

Her teeth clenched.

theresayoung: you're exhausting

melo: and you're still responding

She didn't answer that. Maybe only because Jalen let out a sigh. Then sat up slightly, eyes squinting in the low light, curls falling over his forehead, his hand already reaching. Without even looking at the screen, he picked up her phone and set it face down on the coffee table with the kind of finality that didn't ask permission.

"Jesus," he muttered, voice still scratchy with sleep. "You've been huffing and puffing for like half an hour. I don't care if it's Serena having a crisis or Trae forgot his password again or the ghost of your last PR disaster or whoever." His eyes finally found hers, sharp despite the sleep still clinging to him. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

Theresa didn't move. She just stared at him. At the weight of his body pressed half against hers, his palm now flat on her thigh, grounding. Quiet. Present.

"Let's go to bed," he said, softer this time. Not demanding. Not loaded. Just... there.

"Yeah," she said, voice quiet. "Okay."

He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her temple, then stood and stretched—shirt lifting just enough to show a sliver of skin before it fell back into place. He waited, hand extended, and she let him help her up even though she didn't need the help.

They moved in silence through the apartment. Her bedroom door clicked softly shut behind them. Jalen moved first—pulling his hoodie over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the long, lean lines of his back under a plain black tee. He didn't say anything, just tossed the hoodie over the chair in the corner like he'd done it before.

Like he belonged.

Theresa stayed still near the door for a second longer than she meant to. Then moved. Peeled off the hoodie and folded it without thinking. Pulled on a tee, tied her hair up. Her phone was still out there—back in the living room, still buzzing. Probably.

Jalen turned to her, standing at the edge of the bed now. He didn't reach for her. Just asked, quietly, "You okay?"

Theresa nodded. "Yeah."

He searched her face for a moment, like he didn't quite believe her. Then stepped back, lifted the edge of the comforter, and climbed in—body folding easy into the space like he was built for it.

Theresa moved after him. Slower. Slid into bed beside him without a word. He reached for her the way he always did—arm curled around her waist, his chest pressed gently to her back, like a question and a promise all in one.

"You sure?" he asked, voice muffled into her shoulder.

She swallowed. "Yeah."

Another beat passed. Then he tucked his face into her neck and whispered, "Thanks for letting me stay."

She closed her eyes. Her throat felt too full to answer.

Jalen had been still for a while. Too still. His arm around her hadn't moved, not even to adjust. His breath stayed soft against the curve of her neck, and his weight was warm behind her, grounding in the way that only someone who trusted you completely could be.

But Theresa? Theresa was wide awake.

She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused, the moonlight cutting pale shapes across the floor. Her body was perfectly still, but inside—inside was chaos. Full tilt. No brakes.

She'd tried to breathe through it. Tried to match his rhythm. Let the warmth of his body calm the noise in her head. But it didn't work. Not tonight.

She hadn't moved in twenty minutes.

But her brain had.

She couldn't stop replaying it. The messages. The smirk she didn't even see but could still feel. Her own damn fingers betraying her. The way it all made her feel more alive and more out of control than anything had in a long time.

That's not a no.
Send a selfie if you're brave.
What are you wearing.

Her mouth twitched.

God, he was insufferable.

But something else sparked beneath the irritation—a flicker of adrenaline that didn't come from anger. A buzz that came from the fact that he had the nerve to say it. That he meant it. That if she responded, she knew he wouldn't stop.

She squeezed her eyes shut again, teeth pressing into her lower lip until the impulse faded.

Her body had gone rigid the second Jalen took the phone from her. But now, tucked against him like this, she couldn't tell if the tension was leaving... or just settling in deeper.

She wasn't even sure what she felt. Guilt? No. That wasn't it. Something closer to madness. The kind of emotional vertigo that made you feel like you were leaning over the edge of a rooftop and wanted to jump just to know if you'd land.

A slow inhale behind her. A shift in the mattress.

"You're still awake," Jalen said, voice low and hoarse in the dark. Not accusing. Just... present.

Theresa blinked. "So are you."

"Couldn't sleep." His thumb moved in a lazy, grounding stroke across her waist. "Felt you thinking too loud."

She exhaled slowly. "Sorry."

"You don't have to be." A pause. Then, softer, "You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

She felt him nod against her hair, just once. "Okay."

Silence again.

Then, soft and careful, like he was choosing each word: "...is it something I did?"

The question didn't land with guilt. Just weight. The kind that sat low in her chest and made it hard to breathe.

Theresa swallowed hard. "No. It's not you."

Jalen was quiet for a second. Then: "Okay."

And he meant it. No push. No follow-up. Just belief and trust.

She hated how much that hurt.

He pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder, barely there, like punctuation at the end of something unspoken. His arm stayed around her. His breathing stayed even.

But her mind? Still spiraling.

Because if she wanted to, she could make it about him too.

Not because he'd hurt her—not exactly. Jalen didn't deal in cruelty. He didn't play games, not the obvious ones. He was good to her. Good with her. Warm, present, easy.

That was the problem.

It was too easy to fall into this rhythm. Too easy to let him stay. To let him kiss her and hold her and text her you good? like that counted as connection.

Because he never said what they were.

He never claimed her. Never introduced her as anything more than T or Young or my girl when he wanted to sound close without actually meaning it. He never pulled her into his side at team dinners. Never corrected anyone when they assumed she was just around. Never reached for her hand unless no one was looking.

He made her feel everything without offering a name for it. For a while, that had been enough. She didn't ask. She didn't press. She let the silence between them do the defining—casual, loose, unspoken.

Their time on the road trip was different. She thought they were making progress. It felt like progress.

The late-night diner in New York. The kiss in Boston. The day in Miami. The way he looked at her like he actually saw her. The way he said "Not a date. Unless you want it to be." The way he held her all night, soft and steady, no pretense, no expectations.

That version of Jalen made her believe maybe—maybe—he was finally choosing her. But now they were back in Atlanta and things had gone back to... normal.

No label. No clarity. No shift.

Just him on her couch again. Him in her bed again. Him, warm and real and right here—but still not hers.

And maybe she was the idiot for thinking the road changed anything. Maybe the soft parts didn't count unless he was willing to say them out loud. He didn't ask what she thought or what she wanted. Just started acting like nothing had changed. Like she hadn't let him in further than she ever meant to.

Maybe she should've said something. Should've looked him in the eye and said "You can't keep doing this. You can't keep making it feel like more and pretending it's less."

But she didn't. Because if she asked, and he hesitated—even for a second—she didn't know if she'd survive it.

So she let him back in without the questions. Let him stay. Let him kiss her like it meant something and call her "T" like it didn't.

Her eyes burned. Her throat ached. Her phone—still out in the living room—was probably quiet now. LaMelo had finally stopped texting. Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe there were five more messages waiting for her. Maybe one of them said you up? just to spite her.

She didn't know. Didn't check. Couldn't check.

"You still thinking loud," Jalen murmured against her neck, sleep tugging at his voice. "What's going on in that head?"

She hesitated. Everything inside her braced. She almost said it.

I want you to want me for real.

Instead, she whispered, "Do you ever think we're too casual for this to matter?"

Jalen tensed, just slightly. "What do you mean?"

"This," she said, gesturing vaguely between their tangled limbs. "Nights like this. Mornings like tomorrow. Do they... mean something to you?"

Another beat of silence. Long enough to count the spaces between her ribs.

"Of course they do."

"Then why don't we talk about it?"

He exhaled. "Because I didn't know you wanted to."

Theresa went still.

"That's the thing," she said quietly. "I always want to. I just stopped thinking it'd change anything."

Jalen shifted behind her. Not away—closer. His hand moved gently, curling at her waist.

"Then let's talk," he said. "Right now. If you want to."

She closed her eyes. Did she want to? Yes.

No.

Maybe.

What she really wanted was for him to say it first. To take the weight of her feelings and hold them like they were his too. But that wasn't who Jalen was. He waited for her to draw the lines. He never crossed any unless she told him it was safe. And she didn't know if it ever would be.

So instead of answering, she rolled to face him. Met his eyes in the half-dark.

"You don't have to stay tonight," she said softly. "If it's just habit."

Jalen blinked. "It's not."

"You sure?"

He stared at her. Then reached up, thumb brushing the side of her face.

"I stay," he said, "because I want you. Not because I don't know how to leave."

Her breath caught.

It wasn't a confession. Not really. But it was something.

She nodded, just barely. "Okay."

Then curled back into his chest like it didn't cost her anything.

But it did.

Meanwhile, in Charlotte LaMelo stared at his phone like it had betrayed him.

The screen was still open to the chat, Theresa's name glowing at the top like a dare. Still no reply. Still on read.

He'd waited—three minutes, then ten. Then locked the phone. Opened it again. Nothing.

He didn't even mean to text her. Not really. Not at first.

It started as a joke—something about the game, about Trae. He typed it out half-lazy, half-curious, just to see if she'd bite.

She did. And then she bit back. Smart mouth. Sharp fingers. Same girl who stared him down like she meant it and then flipped him off like it was personal.

He refreshed the chat again. Nothing. No typing bubble. No comeback. No selfie. No insult.

Just... nothing.

He stared at the screen like he could will her to respond. She was still online—he checked. Not obsessively, just... enough. But the read receipts stopped cold right after she told him to block her.

theresayoung:  you're exhausting.

melo:  and you're still responding.

He'd grinned at that. Couldn't help it. But she wasn't responding anymore.

He leaned back against his headboard, jaw tight, phone clutched loosely in his hand. The light from the screen painted sharp angles across his face, but his eyes were unreadable.

"She smiled," he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud made it more true. "She had to have."

He scrolled back through the thread, thumb resting just above her message:

theresayoung:  bet you're delusional

God, she was annoying. And addictive.

His phone buzzed.

He looked down—reflex, hope flaring fast.

It wasn't her. Just a dumb ESPN alert. He swore under his breath, tossed the phone across the bed like it burned him, then dragged both hands over his face.

Maybe he shouldn't have messaged her at all. Maybe he should've left it at the tunnel. Or the free throw station. Or when she flicked him off.

But no.

Something about her had been off-limits for so long that now it just felt inevitable.

He flopped back onto the pillows, one arm stretched across his forehead like he was trying to block out his own thoughts. They kept coming anyway.

The sound of her voice, clipped and annoyed. The way she stared at him like he was a problem she was tired of solving—and still kept solving him anyway.

Tell your brother I'm waiting on that rematch.

That was supposed to be it. That was supposed to be the last word.

He shouldn't have sent that last message. He knew that. But he also knew—knew—that if she really wanted him gone, she would've blocked him a long time ago.

She told him to. But she didn't. That was saying something.

The chat was still open. Still hanging there like unfinished business. He reread the things he sent—you're talking like you don't like it—and had the decency to wince this time. Not because he regretted it. But because the silence that followed was louder than it should've been.

He let his head fall back against the headrest. Closed his eyes. God, what the hell was he doing?

Theresa Young was off-limits. Everyone knew that. Not officially, maybe. But enough that the looks were already starting. Enough that Trae might throw him into traffic if he ever found out he set his mind to push his sister's buttons.

And she was with someone else. Kinda.

Sorta.

Maybe.

He didn't know.

He hadn't seen anything to know for sure. But he wasn't stupid. The way she looked at Jalen on the sideline? The way she didn't look at him in the hallway? Yeah. She was definitely with him. Or at least, into him.

That kiss at the Foundation Dinner hadn't been casual—not from her.

LaMelo grabbed the phone again, opened their chat. Stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he closed the app. Tossed the phone again—further this time. Let it bounce off the far end of the bed and land on the carpet.

God, he should've shut up. Should've never sent that last one. Should've known better.

But she made him forget better. Made him reckless. Made him want to be a problem.

He muttered another curse and pushed up off the bed again.

Pacing now. Shirtless. Barefoot. Heart pounding with a kind of frustration that had nothing to do with basketball and everything to do with a girl who wasn't supposed to matter.

LaMelo cracked his neck, cracked his knuckles. She'd gone quiet, but he knew better.

Theresa Young didn't shut up because she had nothing to say. She shut up because she didn't trust herself to say it.

Which meant he was getting to her.

Which meant he was winning.

He grinned—sharp, crooked, amused with himself.

Then typed one last message, eyes gleaming as he hit send:

melo:  sweet dreams, trouble.

Chapter Text

Theresa was cold when she woke up. Not from the room, but from the absence—like warmth had once wrapped around her and slipped away quietly in the night.

The room was dim, pale light spilling through the blinds in fractured stripes. Her eyes adjusted slowly. The sheets beside her were still rumpled, but empty. Still faintly warm, but cooling fast. She lay still for a moment, eyes on the ceiling, limbs heavy with something that felt like loss but wasn't quite.

Jalen was gone.

That was her first thought. Not dramatically. No slammed doors, no goodbye note, no breathless silence. Just... gone. The way people leave when they think it's safer not to wake you.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand over her eyes. The silence was too loud. Her skin felt too tight. Her thoughts were a mess.

She didn't remember falling asleep. Not really. One minute, she'd been curled into him, trying not to think. The next, it was morning. And now? She was alone.

Again.

Her eyes flicked to the bedroom door. Still shut. Her phone was probably out there—on the coffee table, face down, full of sins and silence.

She didn't want to look. Didn't want to know what LaMelo sent last. Didn't want to see if Jalen texted anything. Some dumb excuse or whatever.

She blinked slowly, adjusting to the new vacancy around her. The air felt thinner somehow. Like something had been carried out with him.

Her hand found the pillow beside her. Pressed into it. Still held the shape of him, barely. Then she pulled the comforter tighter around her shoulders like that might make up for what was missing.

It didn't.

She stayed there a second longer, before finally peeling back the blanket and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool against her feet. Reality even cooler.

Then—a sound. The clatter of cabinets. A faint clink of dishes.

Her brows knit, and for a second her brain offered only one possible explanation:

"Serena," she muttered aloud, dragging herself out of bed. "If you broke in here again just to steal my iced coffee—"

She padded down the hallway in mismatched socks, still pulling her hair into a halfhearted tie. But when she turned the corner into the kitchen, it wasn't Serena standing at the stove.

It was Jalen.

Barefoot. Hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. Moving around like he did that every morning.

Her breath caught.

He didn't see her at first—he was too focused on flipping something in a pan, back to the hallway, humming quietly to himself.

For a second, she just stood there. Watching him. Trying to understand the tight coil of emotion in her chest—relief, maybe. Or something dangerously close to tenderness.

He stayed. And he was making breakfast. Like it was easy.

Like it meant nothing.

Like it meant everything.

Theresa stood at the edge of the kitchen, the soft hum of the refrigerator and the sizzle from the pan grounding her in the present. Jalen moved with a quiet confidence, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla wafting through the air.

He turned, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he caught sight of her. "Morning," he greeted, his voice warm and slightly raspy.

"Morning," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She wrapped her arms around herself, the oversized hoodie she wore swallowing her frame.

Jalen gestured to the table, where two plates were already set. "I made breakfast. Hope you're hungry."

She nodded, then crossed the apartment slowly, the comfort of the morning cut sharp by the weight of her curiosity. Her phone was right where she left it—face down on the edge of the coffee table, exactly where Jalen had placed it the night before like some kind of emotional landmine.

She hesitated.

Then picked it up.

One glance at the screen and her breath caught—LaMelo. Of course. Still the last message. Still pinned like a taunt.

melo: sweet dreams, trouble

Theresa scoffed.

Softly. Quietly. Like she didn't want Jalen to hear her from the kitchen.

He was ridiculous. And clearly didn't know when to stop.

Her thumb hovered over the reply bar.

She shouldn't. She knew that. She knew she shouldn't. Not with Jalen a room away, flipping pancakes like it was nothing. Like this—whatever this was—could stay untouched if she just didn't press send.

But her brain was already spiraling in feral sarcasm.

Should she send him good morning, nuisance?

Should she ask if he was still up plotting chaos from his Charlotte lair? Ask if he meant the sweet dreams sincerely or if it was just another layered provocation wrapped in flirtation and ego?

She stared at the blinking cursor for one long, pointed second. Then turned the phone off entirely. No reply. Not now. Not ever.

Let him wonder. Let the silence speak louder than anything she could send.

Her grip loosened just slightly around the phone. Then she set it down again, this time further away—out of reach, out of sight. She straightened her spine, fixed her sleeves, and turned back toward the kitchen like she hadn't just contemplated texting the one person she absolutely shouldn't.

Back toward Jalen.

Back toward whatever this was.

She walked back into the kitchen slower this time. The scent of pancakes hit her first—cinnamon, warm sugar, something that felt almost dangerous in how gentle it was. Her guard was still up, even though she wasn't sure why. Even though nothing was technically wrong.

Jalen glanced over his shoulder just as she slid into the seat across from where he was plating. "You okay?" he asked, careful. Not pushing, but watching her with those eyes like he always did—like he noticed things.

Theresa just nodded, tucking her legs beneath the chair and pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down past her wrists. "Yeah. Just tired."

Jalen didn't push. He grabbed the syrup and set it on the table before taking the seat beside her, not across. Close, but not too close.

He watched her for a beat. Then smiled a little. "This is the least I could do."

She glanced up. "For what?"

He shrugged, half-laughing under his breath. "For not checking in on you the other day. For making it seem like it was only your fault we didn't see each other that day."

Theresa stabbed at her pancake with the side of her fork. "Oh. Well, we were both kind of busy..."

Jalen nodded. "Yeah. But I could've made more of an effort."

His voice was steady, but there was something unspoken buried under the words—an acknowledgment, maybe. Or guilt dressed up as casual accountability.

Theresa didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on the pancake, carving slow, careful lines through the syrup like it might give her clarity. Her appetite was slow to catch up. Everything in her still felt suspended in that space between vulnerability and pretense.

Jalen rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking down to his plate. "I mean, you didn't wait for me after the game. But that's on me too. I should've asked you to."

Her fork paused mid-slice.

He looked up, met her eyes this time. "I guess I thought we were just... moving how we always do."

Theresa swallowed hard. "Maybe that's the problem."

It came out before she could stop it. Too sharp, too honest.

Jalen blinked, the words hitting him square. But to his credit, he didn't flinch. He just nodded slowly, like he was absorbing it instead of deflecting. Like he knew.

The silence stretched between them again—thicker now, heavier—but neither of them looked away. Theresa's fingers curled around her fork tighter.

Eventually, she said, "I don't want to keep score."

"I know." Jalen turned to her. "I don't wanna keep doing this if it's messing with your head, T."

She didn't answer right away. Just looked at him, all soft morning light and unshaven jaw and hoodie sleeves smudged with flour like he was trying to be domestic and detached at the same time.

"It's not just my head it's messing with," she said finally.

That was the most she'd admitted in weeks.

Jalen let out a breath through his nose. "Okay."

Then, quieter: "You want me to leave?"

"No," she said too fast. Then—again, slower, steady: "No."

His brow furrowed. "Then what do you want?"

She hesitated. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the napkin in her lap. "I don't know. I just want—"

You to mean it.

But she didn't say that out loud.

"I just don't want to feel like I'm the only one thinking about it," she said instead.

Jalen looked at her like he wanted to say something. Like maybe he had it in him. But whatever it was, it didn't come out. Instead, he reached for the syrup again and poured some over his plate with forced casualness.

"You're not," he said eventually.

And that was it.

Theresa picked at her pancakes, appetite fading. The air between them wasn't tense, exactly. Just too full of things unsaid. And things that were barely said.

Jalen nudged her plate gently with his knuckles. "You should eat."

She looked up. He was trying to be light again—playful, gentle, like he hadn't just opened a wound and left it halfway stitched.

"I am eating," she said, dry.

He grinned. "Liar."

That was how they carried on—awkward, careful, quiet. Two people pretending breakfast was just breakfast, like tension hadn't slid into the room with the syrup and the plates.

Across the room, Theresa's phone stayed dark. LaMelo—thank god—did not text again. But Jalen's phone buzzed against the counter, loud enough to slice through the almost-comfortable silence like a dull knife.

He didn't check it right away. Just side-eyed it as if the name alone gave him a headache. Then he sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face like he already regretted what came next.

"You have one attempt to guess who it is," he muttered.

She smiled. "Want me to answer?"

He laughed once—quiet, but real. "And heighten my chances of getting benched? No, thank you."

Theresa smirked. "You think he's calling as your teammate or your friend?"

"I'm late for practice again, so I'm guessing teammate first, executioner second," Jalen muttered, dragging a hand through his curls as the phone buzzed again.

Theresa grinned into her coffee. "You act like Trae's never late."

"Yeah, but when I'm late, it's a 'pattern.' When he's late, it's 'leadership fatigue.'"

She snorted. "You sound so bitter."

"I am bitter," he said, standing up and grabbing his phone with dramatic reluctance. "You try being micromanaged by your situationship's older brother every time you breathe near her."

Theresa raised a brow. "So we're calling it a situationship now?"

Jalen paused, thumb hovering over the screen. Then he glanced at her—half a smile, not quite sheepish. "I mean... what else would you call it?"

Her eyes didn't leave his. "Something you're not supposed to say out loud."

Jalen didn't answer, but something in his jaw tensed like he'd felt that one all the way through.

The phone buzzed again. This time, a text lit up the screen.

Trae:  ur dead.

Then another.

Trae:  if you're not on the court in ten minutes i'm calling her.

Then another.

Trae:  and i will be annoying.

Jalens scoffed. "Why does he always thinks I'm with you whenever I'm late?"

"Because you are," she murmured into her cup.

Jalen narrowed his eyes, lips tugging into a crooked smile. "Yeah, well. Doesn't mean he has to be psychic about it."

Theresa raised an eyebrow, sipping her coffee without breaking eye contact. "He's not psychic. He's a hater."

Jalen laughed. "A hater and a brother. That's a dangerous combo."

The phone buzzed again.

Trae:  9 minutes now, jackass.

Theresa shook her head, smiling despite herself. Then, more softly, "He's just looking out."

"I know," Jalen said. "I respect it."

She glanced at him then, really looked—at the way he said it without resentment, at the way he still hadn't touched his phone again, even as Trae's name hovered in red on the screen.

There were worse signs. And better moments. Even if they weren't saying everything, some things were understood.

She took a sip of coffee, let the quiet settle again, this time without tension.

"You gonna call him back?" She asked.

Jalen grimaced. "Eventually."

Theresa gave him a lazy salute from her seat. "Tell him I said hi."

He grabbed his hoodie off the back of the chair and slipped it on in one motion, muttering something about sprints and death by conditioning drills. Then he gave the apartment one last glance—half reluctant, half resigned.

Theresa didn't move from her seat.

He hovered by the door, fingers curled around the handle.

"Go. Before he sends Zaccharie in with a whistle."

Jalen smiled. Then he opened the door and stepped out, pulling it shut behind him with a soft click.

Theresa sat still. The room, for the first time that morning, felt fully quiet. Not empty—but paused. Like something had been left mid-sentence.

She sipped her coffee again. Let the heat fill the space he'd just left behind.

And then—the door opened.

Fast. Quiet. Like whoever it was didn't want to give her time to react.

She didn't look up right away. Just said, flatly, "Forgot something?"

Footsteps padded back into the kitchen. She finally raised her eyes.

Jalen.

Backlit in the hallway light. Hoodie half-zipped, curls a mess, phone still clutched in one hand.

He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at her—really looked at her. Like he'd been thinking about it since the moment he left.

Then he stepped forward, slow but sure.

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "This."

And then he leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn't sharp. It wasn't rushed. It was soft—anchored. The kind of kiss that knew exactly what it was doing.

Theresa stilled for half a second, breath caught somewhere between surprise and something far more dangerous.

Then her hands found his hoodie, curling into the fabric. She kissed him back. Just once. Just enough.

Then she pulled away.

"Go," she said, voice quiet. "Before he murders you."

Jalen grinned, wide this time. "Worth it."

And then—finally, really this time—he left.

The door clicked behind him, but it didn't feel like absence anymore. Not this time.

Theresa sat back down, fingertips brushing over her lips once before she reached for her coffee again. Still warm.

So was she.

She sat at the table a little while longer. Let the silence settle again. This time, it didn't feel heavy. Just quiet.

She finished her coffee. Cleaned up the dishes. Threw the rest of the pancakes into the trash because she couldn't stomach them cold.

Then she got ready for the day. Because tonight? There was another game. And Serena was already blowing up her phone with:

Serena: IS IT TRUE I'M SITTING WITH ZACCH TONIGHT

Theresa smiled, just barely, and typed:

Theresa: he's not that bad

Serena: u sound like a mother defending her chaotic toddler

Theresa: i literally am

Serena: he better bring snacks. and not the weird french ones this time

Theresa: he's literally French

Serena: ok and??? cultural snacks are not exempt from judgment

Theresa snorted softly, pulling on her hoodie and tying her sneakers as her phone lit up with another message.

Serena: also. WHERE is the tea. you disappeared. jalen disappeared. i know math.

Theresa: there is no tea.

Serena: girl.

Serena: tea is boiling. i can smell it from midtown.

Theresa: you're unwell

Serena: and you're deflecting

Theresa didn't respond right away. She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, brain flickering back to the kiss. The slow, steady way Jalen had looked at her before leaving. The way she hadn't flinched this time. The way it hadn't felt like a lie.

Instead of feeding Serena's chaos, she just typed:

Theresa: i'll see you tonight

Serena: that's NOT a denial

Serena: you think i won't interrogate you during halftime?

Theresa:  i think you'll do it during tip-off

Serena: you know me so well 😌💋

Theresa rolled her eyes and tossed the phone onto the couch cushion, letting it rest there for a second. Then she stood, grabbed her bag, and headed out the door.

By the time she made it to the arena, the rhythm of game day had already taken hold. Security guards she knew by name waved her through. The badge clipped at her hip swung in time with her steps. Staff moved around her like a current—efficient, fast-paced, familiar.

Everything was routine. Except she didn't feel steady.

Not yet.

She passed by the court briefly—saw the rookies warming up, Zaccharie already trying to pull some off-the-backboard nonsense while Trae scolded him mid-dribble. She made a mental note to apologize in advance to Serena.

She slid her phone into her back pocket just as Zaccharie spotted her from across the court and lit up like he'd seen his favorite cousin at a family reunion.

"Theresaaaaaa!" he yelled, waving both arms.

She cringed but smiled. "Zacch," she called back. "Please don't get benched before Serena even gets here."

He grinned. "No promises!"

From the bench, Trae groaned loudly and threw his towel over his face. "You created a monster," he muttered as she approached.

Theresa smirked, bumping her fist against his shoulder. "No. I raised him right."

Trae gave her a look. "You know he's been asking if she likes gummy worms or sour straws all morning?"

Theresa tried not to laugh. "He's trying to make a good impression."

"He's trying to get kicked out of warmups."

"I think it's sweet," she said, grabbing a spare stat sheet and folding it against her clipboard. "Let him live."

Trae narrowed his eyes. "Is this because your other headache made you breakfast this morning?"

Theresa didn't answer.

Didn't deny it either.

Trae gave her a long look, but didn't push.

Instead, he just nodded toward the tunnel. "Well. Speak of the devil."

She turned.

And there was Jalen, walking out onto the court like he hadn't almost been late. Like he hadn't run back into her apartment just to kiss her and ruin her emotional equilibrium all over again.

Their eyes met. He grinned.

Theresa turned back to her clipboard like nothing happened. Like she hadn't almost dropped it just now.

Trae caught it.

"Yeah," he muttered under his breath, "we're gonna have to talk about that later."

Theresa didn't look up. "No, we don't."

"Uh-huh."

She flipped the page on her stat sheet and smiled. Just barely. Just enough.

The buzzer sounded overhead, sharp and clean, and the arena began to fill—fans trickling in like a rising tide, seats filling with noise, anticipation settling over the court like static.

Theresa stayed at the sideline, headset already looped around her neck, clipboard tucked against her chest. Her job was muscle memory at this point—check the shootaround list, coordinate the media window, make sure no one tripped over a camera cable and made ESPN for the wrong reason.

But her focus? Fractured.

Across the court, Jalen had joined the rest of the starters in the layup line. He moved like he always did—fluid, sharp, all control and confidence. But she could still feel the echo of his mouth against hers. Still see the imprint of his palm on the side of her face when he cupped it so gently before walking out her door like it didn't knock the wind out of her.

She tried not to look. She looked anyway.

Jalen caught her gaze as he jogged back from a dunk and didn't even try to hide his smirk.

Theresa blinked slowly, expression neutral. Then, very deliberately, turned and walked toward the bench like she hadn't just been staring.

From her left, a voice cut in low and grinning. "Well that was unsubtle."

Serena.

Theresa didn't even flinch. "You're late."

"I brought snacks."

"You were supposed to bring normal snacks."

"They're normal to me," Serena said, flopping into the seat beside her and pulling out an alarming mix of spicy trail mix and something that looked suspiciously like freeze-dried edamame.

"You're deranged."

"And yet," Serena said, settling in like royalty, "you keep inviting me."

Theresa didn't dignify that with a response. She just adjusted her headset and tapped through the media group chat like it mattered more than Serena's chaos. (It didn't.)

Zaccharie flopped into a courtside seat near the end of the bench. Hoodie up. Legs stretched out to full dramatic effect. He looked like the poster child for postmodern nonchalance. Sunglasses might've been the only thing missing.

Serena clocked him.

Then tilted her head. Slowly. Surgically. Lifting her shades with the kind of precision usually reserved for villains and Vogue covers.

"Don't take this the wrong way," she said, voice flat as a runway. "But you look like the underpaid love interest in a Netflix rom-com."

Zaccharie didn't even flinch. "That's generous. I was going for emotionally unavailable with a tragic backstory."

Theresa bit back a laugh.

Serena nodded thoughtfully. "Huh. Trae's bad influence runs deep."

Zaccharie smirked. "I learned from the best."

A beat passed. Then Serena's eyes shifted. Glanced across the court. Landed on Jalen.

He was standing at the free throw line now, spinning the ball lazily in one hand. His gaze flicked toward the sideline. Again.

Serena's jaw twitched. "If he looks at her like she's a phase and not the best thing that's ever happened to his roster, I'm filing a complaint with the league."

Zaccharie didn't even blink. "You think he knows she's in love with him?"

"Oh, sweetheart," Serena said, voice soft like silk and sharp like glass, "I think he thinks she's in love with the idea of him."

Zaccharie stared at the court for a second. Then nodded, slow. "Then he's not as smart as he looks."

They sat like that—unified, petty, regal.

Theresa, unaware of the sidebar roast happening a few feet away, stood near the bench with her headset half-on and clipboard pressed to her chest, tracking player rotations while pretending her heartbeat wasn't still synced to Jalen's last glance.

Across the court, Jalen ran another set of free throws, but every time he turned, his gaze dragged to the sideline. She felt it—sharp, specific, like it cut through the entire arena just to find her.

Serena sighed. Loudly. "This is going to be painful, isn't it?"

Theresa didn't answer. But she did shift her weight, like maybe standing still had gotten harder in the past five minutes.

"Tell me again why you didn't let me bring a flask?" Serena asked.

Theresa finally turned, dry-eyed and even drier-voiced. "Because the last time you brought one, you offered it to the rookie during the National Anthem."

Zaccharie, without looking, raised a single finger like it was a point of pride.

Theresa rolled her eyes. "Case in point."

The lights dimmed slightly as the anthem began. The noise of the arena settled into a reverent hush. Everyone stood—players, staff, fans. The tension melted just long enough for routine to retake the stage.

But as the last note echoed off the rafters and the crowd roared again, Theresa felt it—the slow slide of something starting.

The way games always began with noise and ended with something else entirely.

Tip-off was next.

And everything after that? Still unwritten.

The ball hit the hardwood with a sharp, echoing thud—tip-off clean and immediate, Hawks possession.

The arena roared. Coaches barked from the sidelines. The pace kicked up fast.

Theresa didn't move from her place near the bench, eyes tracking the court with her clipboard angled like a shield and her headset tilted slightly askew. Her job—logistics, timing, press coordination—was humming along without issue. But her brain?

Chaos.

Because every time Jalen got the ball, he glanced toward her. Not dramatically. Not constantly. Just enough. Just subtly enough that she knew it wasn't for the crowd. Wasn't for anyone else.

Just her.

She hated that it worked.

On the court, the Hawks ran clean offense. Trae dropped a no-look dime to Jalen, who finished the cut with a smooth reverse layup that got the bench on its feet.

Theresa didn't clap. She wasn't technically allowed to. But her mouth twitched.

Serena, of course, noticed.

"You're not slick," she muttered, still elbow-deep in a bag of spicy seaweed crisps.

Theresa didn't answer.

On the court, Jalen jogged back on defense, eyes sweeping the sideline again. He didn't smile this time. Just looked. Steady. Sharp. Like she was something he was keeping track of without needing to say it out loud.

Serena exhaled loudly, like she was personally burdened by the lack of emotional regulation in the air.

Zaccharie, who had somehow found gummy worms, held one out to Serena without a word. "You want one, madame?"

Serena eyed him. "Depends. Is it imported?"

Zaccharie smirked. "Straight from the French CVS."

Serena plucked one from his hand, eyeing it with suspicion. "That explains the existential aftertaste."

Theresa snorted softly, biting the inside of her cheek to hide it.

The game unfolded in waves—tight defense, fast transitions, quick fouls. The kind of matchup that demanded attention, but all Theresa could feel was the slow-burning static of Jalen's presence.

Every glance. Every pass. Every time he jogged past her side of the court like gravity leaned him that way on purpose.

She hated it. Because it was working.

Midway through the second quarter, the Hawks took a timeout. Jalen walked toward the bench, sweat running clean down his neck, jersey clinging to his frame.

He passed her again.

This time, his hand brushed her clipboard. Just a fingertip. Barely there. But she felt it all the way down. Theresa inhaled sharply through her nose, adjusted her headset, and pretended to write something. Anything.

"Jesus Christ," Serena muttered under her breath. "This is worse than Bridgerton."

Theresa ignored her. Mostly.

"You know you're doomed, right?" Serena added.

"I'm working," Theresa replied tightly.

"You're spiraling."

"Professionally."

Serena popped another gummy worm like she was watching a reality show. "He's so annoying," she said casually. "Like, maddening. But he's obviously trying. So now I'm conflicted."

"I didn't ask you to pick a side."

"You don't have to. You already did."

Theresa didn't answer. Her eyes were back on the court.

Timeout ended. The game rolled forward.

Halftime came. The Hawks led by five. Media poured toward the tunnel, and Theresa moved like muscle memory—organizing, delegating, smoothing out the chaos. Her hands were steady.

Her thoughts? Not so much.

Back on the court, Jalen gave her a look as he jogged into the locker room. Not a grin. Not a wink.

Just a glance.

Like he was checking she was still there.

Still watching. Still his.

Theresa stood still. Clipboard pressed to her chest. Headset tugged slightly off one ear. The crowd was buzzing, camera lights blinking like static fireflies, but she didn't move—not right away.

She'd told herself all morning to play it cool.

Professional. Unbothered. Focused.

But the way Jalen looked at her just now?

It didn't feel like a check-in. It felt like a claim.

And worse? It felt like she liked it.

Serena, still loitering nearby like a well-dressed gremlin with elite emotional surveillance skills, clocked it immediately.

"Oh no," she breathed. "Oh no no no."

Theresa didn't turn.

Serena leaned in anyway, whispering like they were in church. "Do not let that man look at you like you're halftime fuel and he's ready to risk it all."

"I didn't let him do anything," Theresa muttered, fingers tightening around her clipboard.

Serena smirked. "You stood there."

Theresa rolled her eyes, shifting her weight and pivoting toward the back hallway. "I'm going to check on postgame setup."

"You're going to avoid eye contact until he inevitably finds you in the tunnel again," Serena corrected.

"I'm working."

"And he's lurking."

Theresa didn't dignify that with a response. She was already walking.

The tunnel was quieter. Dimmer. Staff clipped by with headsets and stat sheets, voices bouncing low off the concrete. She ducked through the chaos with practiced ease, pulling her badge higher on her hoodie and moving toward the open hallway that curved toward media access.

She didn't expect to see him.

Not this fast.

But there he was—leaning against the wall just past the locker room doors, towel draped over his shoulder, curls damp from the sweat, in his game shorts and undershirt, sneakers untied like he'd moved too fast to bother.

"Hey," Jalen said, casual like he hadn't waited there on purpose.

Theresa slowed, then stopped a few feet away. "Don't you have a halftime routine?"

"I'm flexible," he said.

She gave him a look.

He grinned. "Don't worry. I drank my water and everything."

"Wow. Hydration and harassment. Your priorities are so clear."

Jalen laughed, soft and amused. "You always get mean when you're flustered."

"I'm not flustered."

He stepped closer. Theresa did not step back.

Jalen tilted his head, watching her. "You've been avoiding me all game."

"I've been working."

"You always work better when you're mad at me."

She narrowed her eyes. "You want me to be mad at you?"

"No," he said easily. "But it's hot."

She blinked, mouth twitching. "You're insufferable."

He leaned against the wall again, closer now. "And you're here."

There it was again. That look.

The one that made it harder to breathe. Harder to blink. Like she was a moment he wanted to memorize and touch at the same time.

Theresa's voice dropped slightly. "You're not supposed to flirt with me in the tunnel."

"Where am I supposed to flirt with you then?" he asked, teasing. "Locker room? Courtside? Breakfast table?"

Her breath caught on that last one. He saw it.

Jalen straightened, eyes softer now. "I meant what I said this morning, T."

"I know."

"I'll mean it again tomorrow."

Her heartbeat kicked a little harder.

"Okay," she said.

That was all she gave him.

But her eyes held his. Steady. Quiet. Like maybe she was finally letting herself believe it.

Jalen didn't push further. He just nodded once. Then reached out—briefly, gently—and tugged the edge of her sleeve like it grounded him.

"I'll see you out there." Then he was gone.

Theresa stood still for a moment longer. Then exhaled. Quiet.

Soft. Hopeful.

And maybe—just maybe—a little bit doomed.

Third quarter came and went in a blur. The Hawks held the lead, but the Sixers weren't giving anything away easy. Pace quickened. Tension built. Sweat gleamed under lights, sneakers squeaked over hardwood, and Theresa moved like clockwork—notes, rotations, sideline communication. But her heart?

Still an echo chamber.

The game kept moving. Fast. Physical. The kind of night that pulled fans into their feet and turned casual viewers into believers. Trae hit a pull-up three from the logo, and the arena erupted. The bench mob lost its mind. Even Theresa allowed herself one short laugh when Zaccharie spun in his chair and nearly launched his snack into Serena's lap.

Late in the fourth, timeout was called.

Theresa stepped forward with her notes as Coach Snyder barked instructions to the huddle. She handed off the clipboard, nodded once at the assistants, then stepped back just as the players broke to re-enter the game.

And that's when it happened.

Jalen brushed past her. Not accidental. Not dramatic.

Just a hand—his—skimming her lower back as he jogged back onto the court. Light. Warm. Fleeting. But enough to knock the air out of her lungs for half a second.

She didn't react. Not visibly. Not outwardly. But every molecule in her body rearranged itself in that moment.

From the sideline, Serena didn't blink. Didn't breathe. She just turned slowly to Zaccharie like she was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn't look away.

"She's gonna snap," Zaccharie murmured, eyes still trained on Theresa.

"She already is," Serena said, tone clinical. "Quietly. That's worse."

Zaccharie nodded, thoughtful. "I'm gonna bring her a protein bar after this."

"If it's banana-flavored, I'll snatch it from you mid-stride."

"Trae said the same thing."

Serena arched an eyebrow. "You and Trae talk about banana bars?"

Zaccharie shrugged. "You and I are talking about banana bars."

Their eyes met. Held.

And just like that—An Alliance was born.

The moment passed. The court snapped back into focus. Theresa moved down the sideline like nothing had touched her at all. Like her spine hadn't just straightened in reaction. Like her pulse wasn't still climbing.

But Serena saw it. Zaccharie, too. They didn't say anything else. Just sat like gremlins in matching smug silence, armed with snacks and a developing sibling-level pact of emotional surveillance.

The final stretch of the game was tight. One-point lead. Defense mattered now. So did free throws. Everything rode on detail and instinct. And Jalen—God, Jalen was locked in.

He drew a foul on the next possession and headed to the line.

The crowd swelled with noise. Theresa stayed still near the baseline, arms crossed loosely as she watched him take position.

He bounced the ball twice. Exhaled. Shot.

Swish.

First one down.

He glanced toward her before the second. Only briefly. Only enough for her to know he was still clocked in—but not just on the game.

The second shot dropped, clean.

The Hawks closed out the win minutes later. The buzzer went off like a shot through the heart. The chaos cooled.

Theresa exhaled slowly, heart still somewhere near the rafters.

Postgame logistics kicked in. She moved quickly—media assignments, tunnel routes, injury check-ins, locker room protocol. Serena wandered off to flirt with the DJ. Zaccharie disappeared entirely, probably to raid the recovery fridge. The building buzzed with relief and adrenaline, but Theresa? She kept her head down.

Steady. Professional. Invisible in the blur of postgame movement.

Trae caught her on the edge of the tunnel.

Not loudly. Not with any fanfare. Just... there. Leaning against the wall with a towel draped around his neck, eyes tracking the postgame chaos until they found her.

"You good?" he asked.

It wasn't casual. It wasn't code. Just two words, low and solid, like he meant every syllable.

Theresa nodded, slow. "Yeah. I'm good."

Trae didn't look away. "Good tired or fake tired?"

She hesitated. Then gave him a small smile, one that didn't quite meet her eyes. "Still deciding."

He stepped forward and bumped her shoulder with his. "Let me know if it switches."

"I will."

They stood there a moment, quiet. Just brother and sister. No headlines. No chaos. No tension she wasn't ready to name.

"You played great," she said finally.

Trae grinned. "I know."

Theresa rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. "Always so humble."

He laughed, following her further into the tunnel. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

They walked together down the hallway, steps syncing like they always did—steady, unhurried, comfortable in the rhythm of being siblings in a world that rarely slowed down for either of them.

Ahead, staff bustled past in waves—security, media, game ops, interns with clipboards and too much caffeine. But in that moment, it all blurred. It was just them.

"You heading out?" Trae asked, glancing sideways.

"Eventually," Theresa said. "Serena's coming over."

He groaned. "Lord help your neighbors."

She smiled. "They'll survive."

Trae looked like he wanted to say something else. Maybe about Jalen. Maybe about how different she'd seemed lately—lighter in some ways, more rattled in others. But he didn't.

Instead, he just nudged her with his elbow. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Tell Serena I said hi."

Theresa smirked. "I'll tell her you're scared of her."

Trae threw his hands up. "That's not untrue."

They reached the fork in the hallway—media to the right, locker rooms to the left. Trae peeled off with one last glance over his shoulder. "Hey, T?"

She turned.

"I'm proud of you," he said. No grin. No tease. Just real.

Theresa's throat tightened, but she didn't let it show. "You too."

And then he was gone.

Later, when the arena lights dimmed and the building started to empty, Theresa walked the corridor toward the exit. She moved quietly, hoodie up, clipboard under one arm, hair pulled back tight. Just another part of the machine.

Then—footsteps behind her.

Not rushed. Familiar.

"You heading out?" Jalen asked, voice quiet. Unassuming.

She turned. Slow.

He looked tired. And golden. And unfairly soft in the face for someone who had dropped twenty and still found time to mess with her from the court.

"I still have to wrap some things up," she said. "But guess I'll do it from home."

He nodded. "You want company?"

Theresa blinked. Then tilted her head. "Why?"

Jalen shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Just feel like being where you are."

Her breath caught. God, she was so screwed.

But she didn't say no.

Instead, she said, "You can carry my laptop."

He smiled like that was the best answer she could've given. Together, they disappeared down the hall.

Outside, the night waited—soft and waiting, like the game had ended, but something else had just begun.

Atlanta never really slept, but in the quieter hours, it pulsed slower—less neon, more hush. Theresa walked up the steps to her building with Jalen at her side, the two of them wrapped in the kind of silence that didn't feel empty. It felt earned. Like they'd survived something, even if it was just the weight of their own proximity.

He held her laptop bag casually, like it wasn't heavy, like it wasn't symbolic. She didn't say anything about it. Just kept walking, badge clipped to her hip, sneakers scuffing faintly against the concrete.

At her door, she paused.

Jalen did too.

For a moment, neither moved. The hallway light buzzed faintly above them, casting shadows just long enough to make things feel cinematic.

"I should let you get some rest," he said, voice quiet.

"You should," she agreed, not moving.

He looked at her, eyes soft and unreadable. "But."

"But."

She took the laptop bag from his hand, slow, fingers brushing his just briefly.

"You don't have to come in," she said.

"But if I asked to?"

Theresa didn't answer right away. Her keys jingled faintly as she unlocked the door. When it swung open, she stepped inside and turned to face him again.

"Serena will be here in a bit," she said, leaning against the doorframe, eyes steady. "Which means we've got about twenty-five minutes before she kicks the door open like a human siren."

Jalen huffed a laugh. "That's generous. I give it fifteen."

Theresa smiled, soft and almost reluctant. "So. You still wanna come in?"

Jalen held her gaze, one hand braced lightly against the doorframe like he was weighing it—everything. The moment. The timing. The twenty (fifteen) minutes of peace before Serena's inevitable entrance. The growing gravity of whatever they were doing.

"I probably shouldn't," he echoed, voice low. Thoughtful. His mouth quirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "But I want to."

The words sat between them—clean, unpolished, honest.

Theresa didn't move. Not right away. Just looked at him like she was still deciding what it meant to let him in—literally, figuratively, dangerously.

Then she stepped aside. A single shift of her weight.

"Okay," she said. "But no funny business."

Jalen raised both eyebrows. "Funny business?"

"Don't make me define it."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." He stepped inside, brushing past her shoulder gently. "This is a strictly respectable, pre-Serena, zero-funny-business zone."

Theresa shut the door behind him. "Exactly."

Then locked it.

He caught that. Said nothing. But the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth said more than enough.

She led the way to the couch without ceremony, grabbing a blanket from the armchair and tossing it in his direction like she was trying to be casual about the fact that her heart was doing cartwheels in her chest.

Jalen caught it mid-air, plopped down onto the couch, and kicked his feet up like he'd done this before. Like this was normal.

Like this wasn't her letting him get closer than she ever meant to.

"Want anything?" she asked, hovering near the kitchen. "Water, tea, one last chance to change your mind?"

"I'm good," he said easily, watching her with that look again—the one that saw more than it should. "You okay?"

She paused. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Don't ruin it."

Jalen held his hands up in surrender, but the look didn't leave his face.

Theresa grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, took a sip just to stall. Then she padded back over to the couch, sat at the other end, and tucked her legs under her.

For a few seconds, silence settled again. The kind of silence that carried weight but not discomfort.

"I meant what I said," Jalen said quietly, not looking at her this time. Just out at the window, at the faint glow of the city outside. "I don't wanna keep doing this if it's hurting you."

"It's not," she said. Then added, before he could look over, "At least not the way you think."

Jalen looked at her then. Waited.

She tugged the sleeve of her hoodie over her palm. "It's just—hard. When it feels like it matters more to me sometimes."

"Theresa."

"I'm not saying it does. I just... think about it more than I mean to."

He leaned in slightly. "Me too."

Her eyes flicked to him. "Do you?"

Jalen nodded once. "Yeah. All the time."

And just like that, the tension shifted. Not gone. But gentler now.

She looked away first. Back toward the blank TV. "Serena's gonna eat you alive if she sees you here."

"I'll leave before that," he said, smiling. "Or I'll distract her with snacks."

"She'll still eat you alive."

"I can take it."

Another beat. Then:

"Are you sleeping here tonight?" she asked, voice even but quiet.

He paused. "Do you want me to?"

Theresa's fingers fidgeted in her lap. "I don't know. Maybe."

"You don't have to decide right now."

"I know."

"Then let's just sit," he said. "Until you do."

And they did. Just sat.

No funny business. No declarations. No disasters.

Just stillness.

Just two people suspended in a moment where it was okay to not know what came next—as long as they were there for the part right now.

Eventually, she leaned her head against the back of the couch. Eyes closed.

Jalen stayed quiet. Stayed close.

When Serena's familiar footsteps clomped dramatically down the hall thirteen minutes later, they both looked at the door at the same time.

Theresa sighed. "You were right."

"Fifteen was generous," Jalen murmured.

Theresa stood, brushing invisible lint off her hoodie like it mattered. "You should go."

Jalen nodded. "Yeah."

But as he stepped toward the door, he glanced back once. "You'll let me know?"

She met his eyes. "Yeah."

Then opened the door.

Serena stood on the other side, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a tub of tiramisu in the other.

She blinked once. Clocked Jalen.

Then, flatly: "Seriously?"

Jalen gave a small, innocent wave. "Hi."

Serena's eyes narrowed. "You've got five seconds before I turn into the villain of your personal romcom."

He looked at Theresa, smiled faintly. "Night."

"Night," she said, almost too softly.

Then he slipped past Serena, who muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Men."

Theresa shut the door behind him.

"Bonsoir," Serena said without missing a beat, sweeping inside like she paid rent. "I brought snacks, wine, and judgment."

Theresa stepped aside. "You're like a seasonal flu."

"And yet I always know when to show up," Serena turned to her, wine already halfway open. "You wanna debrief now, or after I destroy this dessert?"

"There's nothing to debrief."

"You kissed again."

Theresa paused in the doorway to the kitchen.

Serena looked over, smirking like a cat who knew the bird was already halfway down her throat. "You always get that look after you kiss him. Like you've been emotionally hit by a luxury vehicle."

Theresa tried—really tried—not to smile. "You're so annoying."

"And you're in denial."

Theresa leaned her forehead against the door for one last second.

"Pour the wine."

Theresa grabbed two glasses from the cabinet.

Serena watched her, expression softening just a little. "You know it's okay, right?"

"What?"

"To want him," Serena said, this time without the sarcasm. "To not have all the answers. To let it be good... even if it doesn't last forever."

Theresa said nothing at first. Just poured the wine and handed Serena a glass. They sat in silence for a beat. Then:

"He made breakfast this morning," Theresa said, quietly. "He was gone when I woke up, and I thought—" Her throat caught. "I thought that was it."

Serena didn't interrupt. Just waited.

"But he was in my kitchen, making damn pancakes," she continued. "We ate and then he left. Except he returned. I thought he forgot his phone or his shoes or his common sense or whatever—but he came back to kiss me."

The lights were low, the tiramisu was already half gone, and Serena was perched on the couch like she was both judge and jury.

Theresa sat curled in the corner of the sectional, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, wine glass resting against her knee. She let Serena dig in now—both to dessert and her nerves.

"So," Serena said, swirling her glass like she was doing a tasting. "You wanna start with the part where you lied to me, or the part where you gaslit yourself into thinking this isn't a full-blown situationship?"

Theresa sighed. "I didn't lie."

Serena gestured with her fork. "Girl. You said 'there's no tea' while you were literally still marinating in the kiss."

"It was like... barely a kiss."

Serena blinked at her. "Do you hear yourself?"

Theresa groaned and flopped backward dramatically. "I hate you."

"No, you hate that I'm right." Serena leaned forward, setting her dessert aside. "He made you breakfast. He ran back inside to kiss you. Kiss you, T. With conviction. You don't do that for someone you're keeping casual."

Theresa didn't respond. Just stared at the ceiling like the popcorn texture might give her answers.

Serena softened. Just a little.

"I'm not saying you need to define it right now," she said, voice lower. "But you've got feelings, T. Real ones. And I'm worried you're gonna keep pretending like you don't until it breaks you."

Theresa sat up slowly, pulled her knees to her chest. "I'm just... trying to be careful."

"With Jalen?"

"With myself." She paused. "I don't know what he wants. Or if he wants what I want. And I don't want to ask, because if I hear the wrong answer, I might actually combust."

Serena let that sit.

Then she scoffed. "So instead, you're playing emotional Minesweeper and hoping you never step on a bomb."

Theresa cracked a tired smile. "Pretty much."

Serena leaned over and clinked their glasses together. "Well. Here's to controlled detonations."

They drank. Theresa filled her in on her little late night text exchange, conveniently leaving out the part she did it while Jalen was sleeping on top of her.

Serena narrowed her eyes. "What the hell is LaMelo Ball's problem?"

Theresa didn't even blink. "He's not relevant."

"He literally called you trouble and texted you at midnight like he was the villain in a romance novel."

Theresa sipped. "He's just... annoying."

"Annoying with timing. And jaw structure."

"Don't."

"I'm just saying." Serena arched a brow. "Your life is a love triangle waiting to happen. I'm simply the audience."

Theresa shook her head. "There's no triangle."

Serena smiled. "Not yet."

Theresa pointed her fork. "Don't manifest chaos."

"Me? Never." Serena licked tiramisu off her fork. "But just in case, I'm wearing neutral colors to the next game. I don't wanna be associated with any particular team."

Theresa groaned and tossed a pillow at her.

Serena caught it easily, grinning like the menace she was.

"Anyway," she said, settling in and reaching for the remote, "we can circle back to your emotional spiral tomorrow. Tonight, we're watching Love & Basketball and pretending it's a documentary."

Theresa gave a slow, resigned smile. "Fine. But if I cry again—"

"I'll say I was chopping onions."

They pressed play.

The room fell quiet except for the soft hum of the movie and the occasional crunch of Serena's late-night snack rotation.

And for a little while—just a little—Theresa let herself forget the tension. The game. The boys. The chaos.

Just two girls. A couch. And enough drama waiting on the other side of sunrise.

By the time the credits rolled, Serena was half-asleep and Theresa's wine glass sat forgotten on the coffee table. The apartment had gone quiet again—dim light, faint city noise from outside, the kind of hush that only came this late, this deep into the night.

Theresa shifted slowly, reaching for her phone just to check the time.

Two unread messages.

One from her media director—something about early All-Star coordination. Player packages, travel confirmations, press approvals.

The second?

From the NBA.

Subject: All-Star Weekend Promo – Revised Talent List.

Her eyes flicked over the names, scrolling without thinking—until her thumb stopped on the one she should've expected.

Ball, LaMelo.

Of course.

Of course he made it.

Of course he'd be there.

Theresa stared at the screen for a second longer than she meant to.

Then she locked it and set it down—face down, far away.

Across the room, Serena stirred. "You good?"

Theresa didn't answer right away.

Then, finally: "Yeah."

But her heart was already speeding up.

Because All-Star Weekend wasn't just a media circus or a brand moment or a packed itinerary. It wasn't just a few games or a schedule to finesse or a campaign to coordinate.

It was proximity.

And chaos.

And him.

Still lingering.

Still waiting.

And this time?

There'd be nowhere to hide.

Chapter Text

Maybe Theresa was panicking ahead of time. Just because he got selected for the promo shots didn't mean he automatically made the cut. That was not how this thing worked. The voting hadn't even started yet. And this didn't mean he was promised the spot either. The league wasn't that rigged. Right?

Scratch that—she wasn't panicking. Panicking would imply caring. And she didn't. Not over LaMelo Ball. Never over LaMelo Ball.

This was preemptive stress only. Preventative emotional maintenance. A totally rational overreaction to a potentially theoretical inconvenience. It wasn't him being there that bothered her. It was just the idea of having to see him again. That was different.

It wasn't like she was going to lose sleep over it. (Okay, maybe a little.)

It wasn't like her stomach had dropped when she read his name on the talent list. (Okay, maybe a lot.)

Of course they chose him when he's already been an All-Star in the past. Already the kind of player who made highlight reels look like short films. Already having a cult following and the kind of numbers that made it impossible to ignore him even when she tried.

She locked her phone. Opened it again. Locked it. Pressed it to her forehead like that might somehow erase him from the confirmed promotional set.

"He might not even make the roster," she mumbled to no one, pacing her apartment like a ghost. "This doesn't mean anything. This is just early promo. Not the final lineup. Not reality. Just... suggestion. A placeholder. A maybe."

But her heart didn't care about maybes. Her heart was already catastrophizing.

Because if LaMelo was going to be there—if he was going to be in Los Angeles, in the tunnel, in the media day circuit, in every godforsaken brand activation Nike threw at her—then it wasn't just going to be business.

It was going to be war.

And she didn't have time to bleed in a press credential.

From the couch, Serena stirred. Still half-asleep. Face smushed against the armrest, one sock missing, hoodie hood flipped inside out. "Are you... doing laps?" she croaked without opening her eyes.

Theresa didn't stop pacing. "I'm fine."

Serena blinked one eye open. "You're reciting eligibility rules like a sleep-deprived lawyer."

"I'm just saying," Theresa said, sharp now, "that until the votes are finalized and the rosters are released, technically nothing is confirmed."

"What are you even on about, woman?" Serena sat up with a groan, hair smashed flat on one side like she'd lost a pillow fight in her sleep. She rubbed her face and squinted blearily across the room. "Wait—is this somehow, magically, about LaMelo? Cause you don't get like this over anyone else."

Theresa didn't answer. Which was the answer.

"Oh my god, it is!" Serena wheezed, falling dramatically back onto the couch like the sheer secondhand chaos was too much for her body to contain. "Spill."

"I got an email from the NBA itself about All-Star promo and he's on the list." Theresa said all in one breath. "But, nothing is confirmed yet for the actual weekend."

"Except your emotional doom spiral," Serena muttered, sitting up. "That's extremely confirmed."

"I mean, it's still two months away. The voting hadn't even begun yet and he might actually not even—"

"He will," Serena cut in, too calm. "You know he will. The league is that rigged. So is the universe."

Theresa dragged a hand down her face. "God."

Serena yawned. "I'm gonna say, this is a lot of energy for a man who you claim to hate with every fiber of your being."

"I do hate him."

"Uh huh."

Theresa stopped pacing. Her arms folded across her chest. "He's arrogant and annoying and loud and reckless. And too tall. And he—he smirks when he's losing. Who does that?"

Serena raised both eyebrows. "You want to kiss him or hit him with a clipboard?"

"Yes!"

"That's not the win you think it is."

Theresa dropped onto the ottoman, groaning into her hands. "This is not how I imagined it to go."

Serena sat up slightly. "Tess. Babe. You knew the league was gonna throw him into the marketing. He's flashy. He's fun. He's chaos in a jersey. This is not a shock."

"It was supposed to be Trae's moment." Theresa muttered. "And Jalen's. You know he is in contention to make his first All-Star appearance?"

"Well, I doubt you'll let me forget now." Then she said, more gently, "You know, it can be both."

Theresa didn't respond. Just pressed her fists to her knees like if she focused hard enough, she could manifest him out of existence.

Serena stretched, arms overhead. "So what's the move, Saint Theresa? You going to run media, coordinate five separate brand partnerships, and pretend you're not actively trying to ignore your chaos crush while your situationship is in the dunk contest?"

Theresa opened her mouth. Then shut it again.

Serena smirked. "Exactly."

She flopped back onto the couch like she hadn't just destroyed every remaining lie Theresa had built for emotional safety. She watched her for a beat, then added, "...you know what would fix this?"

"No."

"A rebound."

"Goodbye."

"Okay, but hear me out—what if you kissed someone else in Los Angeles? Like, hypothetically? For balance?"

Theresa let out a long, slow breath. "You know what I think would fix this?"

"What?"

"Duct tape. Over your mouth."

Serena just grinned. "I'll pack some. Right next to your thirst."

Theresa throw a pillow directly into her face.

By the time Theresa was dressed and halfway through her coffee, Serena had recovered just enough to sprawl across the couch again and announce, "I'm going home. Or to brunch. Or into the void. Haven't decided. Wanna come with?"

"Can't. Have to drop by the facility."

Serena booed.

Theresa just smirked, finishing the last sip of her coffee like it was armor. "You boo everything that isn't mimosas or your skincare routine."

"And yet I'm always right," Serena said, now upright, hair gathered into a makeshift bun that still somehow looked editorial. "Go run your media empire. I'll text you when he makes the roster. Just so you're emotionally prepared."

Theresa shut the door before she could respond.

When Theresa got to the arena, the caffeine hadn't hit yet and neither had clarity.

She was dressed in her version of armor—black slacks, high-neck long sleeve, hair pulled back so tight it could've been an act of emotional repression. Her badge was already clipped to her hip. Her phone had been flipped screen-down in the cup holder the entire drive.

She didn't check it. Not even once.

She'd parted with Serena outside her building and drove with the windows down, hoping the cold air would shock the spiraling out of her system.

It didn't work.

The Hawks were already filtering in for shootaround—early day, no media. Just staff, players, and the low hum of coordinated chaos echoing off the hardwood. Ball thuds, squeaking shoes, the occasional shout. It should've been familiar. Grounding.

It wasn't.

Theresa moved through the tunnel on autopilot, nodding at security, stepping over loose gear bags, heart still thudding at the thought of that name being in that email.

She shouldn't have read it again first thing in the morning.

Should've let Serena delete it on sight and talk her down with sarcasm and carbs like usual. But no. She read the whole thing. Twice. Scrolled past LaMelo's name more times than she would ever admit to anyone, even under legal pressure.

A part of her still hoped it was a mistake. Or a prank. Or an elaborate psychological operation conducted by the league to test her emotional durability.

She reached the edge of the court just as Trae banked in an unnecessary half-court shot and grinned like he hadn't slept at all.

"Yo, Tess!" he called, waving her over with both hands like it hadn't been less than twelve hours since he saw her last.

She crossed to the sideline, sharp steps echoing on the hardwood. Trae met her with a crooked grin and a sweat-soaked towel around his neck.

"You good?" he asked under his breath, low enough that only she could hear it over the bass.

"Yep."

Trae stared. She stared back.

He squinted. "Why do you look like you fought someone in your sleep?"

"I didn't sleep."

"Uh huh." Trae gave her a look. Not disbelieving. Just... knowing. "That's why you're lying weird today?"

"I'm lying the same as usual."

"Nah," he said. "Today it's stressed-out-NBA-wife energy. Like you're mad he didn't text back but also mad he did."

Theresa blinked once. "Please be serious."

"I am serious. That turtle neck and bun combo is spite-coded."

She didn't dignify that with a response.

"You wanna talk about it or pretend everything's fine until it combusts mid-week like usual?"

She gave him a look. Then, "I got an email from the league... About All-Star Weekend," she said flatly. "LaMelo's in the early promo pool."

Trae didn't react right away. Just wiped his face with the edge of his towel like he needed a moment to process. "Right. That explains it."

She ignored that. "It's not confirmed yet. It's just early media placements, you know how it goes."

"But you're panicking like they already gave him MVP."

"I'm not—" She exhaled. "I'm managing expectations."

"Which ones? Yours or his?"

That shut her up.

Trae leaned in slightly, his voice quieter. "T, listen. If he's there, he's there. That doesn't mean you gotta fall apart over it."

"I'm not falling apart."

"You're pacing like your AirPods are playing dramatic cello music."

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

He softened. "Look. If it helps, I think Jalen's gonna make it too. You've been pushing his campaign hard. People notice that stuff. Voters notice."

Theresa's expression didn't change.

Trae raised an eyebrow. "You told him yet?"

"Told him what?"

"That you're spiraling about another dude in your sleep."

"Goodbye."

"Just saying." He stepped back, grin cocky now. "If you end up in the same city as both of them, you better have a backup outfit. For the drama."

"Do me a favor," she muttered, turning to go. "Stretch your hamstrings and shut up."

"Love you too, Tess."

She flipped him off over her shoulder.

Jalen hadn't arrived yet. That was either good or dangerous.

Her phone buzzed.

Not him, she told herself. She refused to check.

It buzzed again.

Serena: remember when you said you hate him. that was cute.

Serena: also, should i order matching duct tape for the plane ride or just surprise you

Theresa locked her phone again and pressed it to her forehead. Just another working day.

"Saint Theresa returns," a voice drawled behind her.

She didn't have to turn around. "Morning, Zacch."

Zaccharie Risacher came to stand beside her like it was a choice she didn't get to weigh in on. He looked suspiciously awake for 9 a.m. "You look... stressed."

"I'm fine."

"Sure," he said easily. "And I'm averaging thirty minutes a game."

She sighed.

He glanced at her clipboard. "What's got you up early? Promo stuff?"

"No," she said, a little too fast. "Just prep."

He raised a brow. "So it's a man."

"It's not."

Zaccharie smirked. "Aha."

"Zacch."

"I'm just saying," he said, dribbling the ball between his legs without looking, "you only pace like that when someone's getting under your skin."

She stared at him. He smiled like he knew too much.

"Go warm up."

"Already did." He bounced the ball to himself and jogged back toward the free throw line, calling over his shoulder, "Don't forget to hydrate, Ice Queen!"

Theresa groaned.

"Also, did you hear?" Zaccharie said, eyes too bright. "We might have extra promo stuff this week. They're saying something about mic'd-up footage for player voting teasers."

Theresa's heart dropped into her heels. "What?"

"Don't worry," he said quickly. "Not today. Probably Thursday or Friday. You're not in danger yet."

She smiled through gritted teeth. "So reassuring."

She stepped around a tangle of stretching rookies and staffers, already checking her clipboard and calendar app like her sanity depended on it—which, if LaMelo was still in the promo cycle, it very much did.

Zaccharie shot the ball and backed away slowly, like he could physically feel the emotional landmine he'd just stepped on. "I'm gonna go stretch again. For safety."

Trae glanced at her sideways. "Want me to take your phone before you break it in half?"

"I'm not spiraling," Theresa snapped.

"Yet," he muttered.

She ignored that. And him.

"Alright," she muttered under her breath, lifting the clipboard she wasn't even pretending to read. "Back to professionalism."

"You say that," Trae said, jogging away, "but you look like you're seconds away from setting a man on fire."

"Then he should stop standing near the gasoline."

Trae howled. "Theresa Elaine Young, ladies and gentlemen!"

She sighed. Pulled her phone out. Opened Instagram. Closed it. Checked her email. Closed that too.

God, she needed to get a grip.

"Jalen already out there yet?" she asked.

Trae tilted his head toward the court. "Arrived some time ago. You should see the way he's been looking at the rim—like it stole something from him."

Theresa raised a brow.

"He's in his locked-in era," Trae added. "Or maybe his proving-a-point era. Kinda hard to tell with him."

She didn't reply to that. Just turned toward the court, heartbeat ticking a little faster than it needed to.

And there he was—Jalen—mid-jumper, hoodie pulled halfway off, sleeves pushed up, jaw set. Like he was trying to burn a hole in the net one shot at a time.

She didn't know what the point was he was trying to prove. But she had a sinking feeling it might be her.

She stayed back at first, watching Jalen work through his rhythm like it was therapy. Ball to floor, gather, lift, follow through. Again and again. No music. No crowd. Just muscle memory and the quiet echo of his focus.

Theresa didn't interrupt. Not yet.

She moved toward the sideline instead, setting her bag down near the scorers' table. Unzipped it like she was actually doing something important, like she wasn't staring straight ahead. Like she wasn't slowly losing her mind in silence.

Zaccharie wandered past, hoodie hood pulled up, headphones in, holding two bananas like they were gold bars. He spotted her, paused, then doubled back.

"You look serious," he said, pulling one earbud out.

Theresa looked up. "I am serious."

"Too serious for bananas?"

She blinked at him.

He held one out solemnly. "Emergency fruit."

She stared.

"You're being weird again," she said finally.

He grinned, dropped the banana in her lap, then jogged off like it was a delivery mission completed.

Trae plopped down next to her on the bench a second later, unbothered. "Banana diplomacy?"

"It's working better than yours."

"That's wild coming from the girl who started the morning pacing like a stressed-out ghost over one player's name on an email."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

She glared at him.

He grinned back. "So. You talk to Jalen yet?"

"No."

"You gonna?"

"Maybe."

"You scared?"

"No."

"Liar."

She sighed. "Why are you like this?"

"I'm your brother. It's in the contract." He leaned in a little, voice lower. "But seriously. You want him to step up? Say something."

"I don't know what I want him to say."

"You do. You're just scared he won't."

She didn't respond. Because he wasn't wrong.

Across the court, Jalen sank another shot. Grabbed his rebound. Reset. Glanced up—and saw her.

Their eyes locked. Theresa didn't look away. Neither did he.

It wasn't dramatic. Wasn't charged. Just long. Quiet. Familiar. Then he gave her the smallest nod.

Beside her, Trae let out a low whistle. "Y'all are the weirdest slow burn I've ever seen."

"Don't start."

"Already did."

She tossed the banana at him. Missed.

But the smile lingered. Just a little.

Before she could second-guess it, Theresa stood, stayed back a second longer than she needed to, eyes tracing the line of his shoulders before she stepped closer.

She crossed the court slowly, every step deliberate—heels clicking softly against the hardwood, clipboard still tucked under one arm like she needed the shield. Jalen was still near the three-point line, half-watching a passing drill, half-waiting.

He spotted her before she could wave. Met her halfway with a low smile and a hand dragging across his jaw like he wasn't sure if he could touch her here.

"Hey," he said, voice lower than necessary, like the gym noise didn't matter. "Didn't think I'd see you this early."

He looked good. Loose black tee, practice shorts, hands on his hips like he'd just finished running through plays. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, jaw sharp, expression unreadable.

She shrugged. "Had to check a few things before Friday. Thought I'd stop in."

Jalen nodded, eyes not leaving hers. "Good thing you did."

There was a beat where they just stood there—close but not touching. Still in that unspoken space they hadn't figured out how to label.

"Sorry about last night," she said, finally. "Serena crashed over unplanned."

Something in his face eased, but didn't entirely soften. "It's cool. I figured."

"I should've texted."

"You didn't have to." He hesitated, then added, "But I'm glad you said something."

The noise of the gym blurred around them. Trae called out from across the court—something about a drill. Jalen glanced over, then back at her.

"I was gonna call," Jalen added, quieter now.

Theresa blinked. "Why didn't you?"

He looked away for a split second. "Didn't want to make it feel like pressure."

Her throat went tight. "You wouldn't have."

Their eyes met again. Neither looked away this time.

"You sticking around?"

Theresa shook her head. "Just dropping by. I've got a content meeting in a bit."

They stood there a beat longer. Close but still. Caught in that strange middle space—half comfortable, half not.

"Go finish warmup," she said, nodding toward the paint. "I'll see you after."

He smiled. Small, crooked. "I'll be around."

Theresa turned before her heart could get ideas, heading back to the sideline like she hadn't just admitted more than she meant to.

From a yoga mat just a few feet away, Zaccharie groaned loudly. "God, just date already," he said through a dramatic full-body stretch. "Or don't. But I'm tired of living in the tension."

Theresa's head snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle her bun didn't come loose. Jalen's mouth twitched like he was physically fighting the urge to laugh.

Zaccharie rolled to his side, propped his head up with one hand like a bored talk show guest. "Some of us are trying to stretch in peace. Your emotional will-they-won't-they energy is interfering with my recovery."

"I will throw this clipboard," Theresa said.

"Only if you throw it at him," Zacch replied, pointing at Jalen without lifting his head. "He's the problem."

Jalen turned, grinning now. "Wow. Betrayal from the rook."

"I call it like I see it," Zaccharie said. "And I've been seeing this for weeks."

Theresa pinched the bridge of her nose. "Go stretch your hamstrings, Zacch."

"I'm stretching my soul, Theresa."

She turned back to Jalen, deadpan. "I'm so sorry."

He was smiling now. Quiet. Soft. "You should be."

Zaccharie yawned. "Anyway, I'm gonna need a resolution by Thursday. Otherwise I'm submitting a formal complaint to HR."

"You are a rookie," Jalen said, turning slightly toward him. "You don't get to complain."

"I don't have health insurance yet," Zaccharie shot back. "That means I'm allowed to say whatever I want."

Theresa let out a slow, exasperated breath and turned back to Jalen. "See you later?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'll be around."

This time, she was the one who smiled first.

"Your tension," the rookie muttered, eyes closed. "It's contagious."

Theresa threw a towel at his face. He groaned and flopped back onto his mat like he couldn't bear the weight of their emotional ambiguity one more second.

Theresa stared at her clipboard like it might behave this time. It didn't. Just a jumbled mess of time slots, content obligations, and reminder notes scrawled in margins. Her handwriting was neater when she wasn't spiraling.

Across the court, Jalen finally jogged back toward the key. She didn't watch him go. Not really. Just enough to notice the way he glanced over his shoulder. Just enough to feel it.

She took a seat at the end of the bench again, letting the clipboard rest in her lap. The banana from earlier was still sitting there, slightly bruised from its dramatic arc at Trae's head. She picked it up, peeled it halfway, and took a bite—more out of spite than hunger.

Beside her, Trae returned like he hadn't just left her to emotionally fend for herself. "So what'd I miss?"

She didn't even look up. "Zaccharie called us out."

"Good for him."

"Jalen didn't deny it."

"That's a step."

She took another bite of banana. "Do me a favor and stop talking."

Trae leaned back against the bench, utterly unbothered. "You know, most people spiral inward. You spiral on a schedule."

"Trae."

"I'm just saying—"

"I will strangle you with this peel."

He held up both hands, grinning. "Got it. Love is war. Bananas are weapons. Carry on."

Theresa rolled her eyes and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. On the court, the team was finally settling into real drills. Jalen had linked up with a couple rookies in the far corner for a passing sequence, his form easy, calm.

She couldn't hear him. But she could read his body language. Controlled. Focused. Different. It made her feel even less in control of her own.

She took out her phone—not to check anything. Just to have something in her hand. Her thumb hovered above the last opened thread. Still muted. Still glowing like a threat.

Zaccharie jogged past with a foam roller and a tragic playlist blasting from his headphones. He paused just long enough to mouth still watching and point between her and Jalen before jogging off again.

Theresa sighed. Deep. Bone-level.

"Anyway," she muttered, standing. "I have a calendar to rewrite."

Trae leaned back, watching her go. "Tell your chaos boyfriend I said hi."

She flipped him off again, but there wasn't much heat behind it.

She walked toward the side hallway, toward the back offices—where her laptop, her to-do list, and her work face waited.

Inside the media office, the lights were too bright, and the Wi-Fi was mid-tier at best. But it was quiet. Blessedly, mercifully quiet.

Theresa dropped her bag onto the nearest chair, set her coffee beside her laptop, and pulled out her charger like it was a lifeline. The weight of the gym stayed in her chest, pressed between her ribs like a bruise that hadn't shown up yet.

She sat down. Didn't move for a full minute.

Then:

Click. Calendar. Friday shoot logistics. Content capture windows. Player schedules. Graphic drafts. Voting push templates. More names than she could hold in her head.

Including his.

Another tab: her inbox. Still full of unread approvals and creative assets and promo plans for a weekend that wasn't even real yet.

Her phone buzzed on the desk.

Serena: did you cry in your car again this morning or are you emotionally stable now

Serena: scale of 1 to 10 how feral is the jalen tension

Serena: also reminder: buy makeup wipes. you're out.

Theresa typed out:

Theresa: you're the worst

Theresa: it's a 7

Theresa: maybe 8

Theresa: shut up

She didn't send it.

She closed her messages instead. Locked her phone. Pressed it to her chest and exhaled like that could pin everything back down.

A knock at the door broke the quiet.

Not a loud one—just two soft taps, followed by the unmistakable creak of it opening before she could answer.

"Hey," came a familiar voice. One of the younger media interns, Eli, poked his head in, all nervous energy and oversized credential lanyard. "Sorry to bug. They're starting upstairs. Think you're needed for the brand thing."

Theresa blinked like she'd forgotten how time worked.

"Yeah," she said after a second. "Yeah, I'm coming."

Eli hovered awkwardly, glancing once at her coffee cup, then her unread inbox. "You want me to bring up your charger? You left it plugged in—"

"No," she said, already rising. "I've got it. Thanks."

He nodded and slipped back into the hallway, sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile.

Theresa stood, smoothing down her shirt, twisting her phone so it faced screen-down again. She picked up her clipboard, checked the time, adjusted her face into something almost unreadable.

Half of this job was showing up before they even knew they needed you.

The other half? Pretending you weren't falling apart in high-definition.

She pulled the door closed behind her and walked down the hall, clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, spine straight.

The court buzzed behind the walls—movement, noise, comfort. Familiar. Contained. Safe.

For the next ninety minutes or so, that would have to be enough.

Because the real disaster wasn't scheduled until February.

Chapter Text

The studio was freezing.

Not the kind of cold that came from a broken thermostat or poor insulation—but the curated, overcompensating kind. Industrial AC pumped through high ceilings and concrete walls, meant to offset the intensity of cameras, lights, and the dozens of bodies moving in coordinated chaos across the open space.

Theresa stood just past the lighting rig, clipboard tucked against her hip, headset balanced on one ear. She hadn't spoken in ten minutes, but her mic was still on. Just in case. Her other hand held a half-finished iced coffee that had long since melted into bitterness, but she drank it anyway. Not for the caffeine. For the distraction.

Across the room, a set assistant crouched beside a rack of jerseys, carefully steaming out the creases. A photographer adjusted his camera strap. A makeup artist dabbed at someone's forehead. The room buzzed with the kind of movement that felt like progress, even if nothing had officially started yet.

"Where's Ball?" someone asked behind her—again.

Theresa didn't turn around. "On the way."

The man grunted. One of the senior coordinators from the league. Expensive haircut. Too much cologne. The kind of guy who treated everyone with respect as long as the cameras were rolling.

He moved on, muttering something about rescheduling the B-roll order, and Theresa exhaled slowly through her nose.

This wasn't her first time running point on an All-Star campaign. It wasn't even her first time doing it in New York. But there was something about today—about this roster, this schedule, this studio air so sharp it scraped against her lungs—that made it feel different.

Worse.

Riskier.

LaMelo Ball was scheduled third in the lineup.

Jalen had gone first—steady, composed, almost overprepared. He'd shown up early and texted her from the car, a simple: "You already inside?"

To which she replied: "In the back. Walk straight through."

When he walked in—black sweats, diamond studs, eyes softer than they should've been in fluorescent lighting—he gave her that look. The one that landed somewhere between amused and unreadable.

"Morning," he said, stopping beside her.

"You're early."

He'd shrugged. "Didn't wanna be last."

They didn't say anything else. They didn't need to. Not with everything unsaid still ringing from Atlanta.

Jalen moved through the shoot easily. Cameras liked him. He took direction well. Even when the art director asked for a looser expression—less serious, more heat—he didn't flinch. Just dropped his shoulders, stared straight down the lens, and let something smolder behind his eyes.

Theresa pretended not to look.

And still—LaMelo hadn't shown.

"Where's Ball?" someone else asked.

Theresa didn't answer. She just checked the clock again and told herself it didn't matter.

That she wasn't counting the minutes. That she wasn't bracing for the exact second his laugh would ricochet off the studio walls. That she hadn't already rehearsed three different tones for greeting him—casual, cold, indifferent—depending on how he entered.

None of it mattered.

She shifted her weight onto her back foot and scanned the studio again. Every time the door opened, she didn't look. Not immediately. Not until she knew it wasn't him. She'd done that seven times already.

The eighth time? She knew.

The sound hit before anything else. Not his voice. Not even his laugh. Just the subtle change in atmosphere—like the air shifted to accommodate him.

And then the door opened and he walked in.

LaMelo Ball. In gray sweats, white tee, heavy chain. Hair a mess of curls. Energy dialed all the way up.

He didn't stroll in. He sauntered. Like the day belonged to him. Like the cameras had been waiting.

He didn't look around, didn't pause. Just made a straight line toward the setup—toward her.

Theresa didn't move. She just lifted the coffee back to her lips, slow and controlled, like she hadn't been bracing for impact all morning.

LaMelo stopped a foot away.

"Morning," he said, like it was casual. Like they hadn't shared two months of tension thick enough to cut with a Gatorade lid.

Theresa arched one brow. "You're late."

He grinned. "Miss me?"

She didn't answer. Didn't need to.

Because his smile widened like she had, and that was enough to make her wish she'd brought stronger coffee. Or armor.

From the other side of the studio, someone called his name. A crew member waved. A stylist held up two different sneakers.

LaMelo didn't break eye contact.

"You got my call sheet?" he asked, nodding at her clipboard.

"Your call time was ten thirty," she replied.

"It's ten forty-five."

"You're still late."

He leaned closer. Just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for her pulse to trip.

"Guess I owe you something then," he said, voice low.

Theresa didn't flinch. "An apology would be a start."

LaMelo tilted his head. "You sure that's what you want from me?"

She stared at him. Just stared. And then, slowly, flipped the clipboard open to the next page.

"Wardrobe's waiting," she said, perfectly neutral. "Let me know if you need help reading the schedule."

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

She didn't see the way his smile lingered. Didn't see the way he watched her walk all the way across the studio, headset wire bouncing against her hip, back straight like defiance.

Didn't see the way he finally exhaled, like he'd been waiting for this more than he realized.

Because if she was this angry? Then she was still in it. Whatever it was.

And that was all he needed to know.

LaMelo disappeared behind the curtain to wardrobe, and the studio buzzed back to life. Theresa didn't move from her post near the monitors, but she switched her headset mic off. Just for now. Just for her own sanity.

The assistant director clapped twice, sharp. "Alright, people. We're rolling through Segment Three in ten. Get final touches on set, and someone cue the lighting shifts for frame D—y'all know the drill."

Someone else muttered, "Why's it always the basketball boys who run late?"

Theresa ignored them. She was used to the sideways comments. Used to the micro-eye rolls, the low-level shade, the way everyone assumed she only held this position because of her brother. But none of them ever said it to her face. Not because they respected her. But because she ran this floor like a general—and they knew better.

Ten minutes passed. The camera rig clicked into final position. Spotlights cooled and shifted angles. The photographer, some Brooklyn creative with dyed buzzcut curls and two cameras strapped to his hips, took a sip from a can of yerba mate and said, "Okay, let's get weird."

Which was, Theresa had learned, his way of saying "we're starting."

As on cue, LaMelo stepped out.

She didn't look at first. She didn't need to. She could feel it.

But the studio quieted, just for a second. Enough for her to glance over.

He was wearing black. Not full uniform—this wasn't a team shoot. But Nike-branded joggers and a sleeveless top with the All-Star crest centered across his chest. His chain was tucked in now. His arms bare. Tattoos catching in the light.

He stepped onto the taped X and spun the ball once between his hands. "Alright," he called, "let's make me look good."

"You're not shooting for GQ, Ball," someone fired back.

He winked at the lens. "Give it a minute."

Theresa shook her head and kept her eyes on the monitor. One of the production assistants brought him a ball with the logo angled for frame, and the photographer raised his voice.

"Okay—head up, eyes low. Athletic stance. Give me calm menace."

LaMelo grinned. "Calm menace? That a real thing?"

"Think, like, 'I'm about to ruin you in a game but look good doing it.'"

"Oh, that's just me all the time."

The flash popped. Once. Twice.

Theresa watched from the monitor as LaMelo dropped his chin and stared into the camera, deadpan. Then he cracked a smile right as the shutter clicked.

"Reset," the photographer called. "Let's do one with motion. Bounce the ball, half-spin, give me shoulder tension."

LaMelo nodded, dribbled once, then stilled.

But just before the click—he glanced at Theresa.

Right into the monitor lens. Straight through it. Like he knew she was watching.

Theresa tensed.

The photographer cursed under his breath. "He broke again. Who the hell's he looking at?"

LaMelo didn't answer. Just reset.

Another beat. Another look. Another direct shot at Theresa's control.

The stylist leaned in and whispered, "He always this much of a menace?"

"Worse," she muttered.

From the left side of the studio, the curtain flapped again—and this time, Trae strolled in.

Headphones around his neck. Hoodie slouched. Zero urgency.

"Yo," he called out. "Who let Ball get here before me?"

Theresa blinked. "You weren't scheduled till after lunch."

He shrugged. "Flight landed early. Got bored."

LaMelo perked up immediately. "Ayeeee. Look who it is."

"Back up," Trae said, holding up a hand. "Don't hug me. I saw your fit on the 'gram last night. You glittered."

"Style's eternal, bro."

"And sweat's contagious," Trae shot back.

Theresa couldn't help it. She smiled.

"Alright, alright," the photographer said. "Let's use this. Put the two of them on the court together. Ball on the left. Young on the right. I want contrast—light vs. dark, fire vs. ice, the whole drama package."

LaMelo smirked. "Y'all ready for this visual tension?"

"Just pose, man," Trae grumbled.

They lined up under the spotlight, LaMelo bouncing the ball slowly under one hand, Trae with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

Click.

"Perfect," the photographer muttered. "Now switch sides. No talking."

They did. But not without jostling shoulders like brothers fighting for the remote.

Theresa watched it unfold in real time. Her headset buzzed with chatter from production, but she barely heard it.

Because LaMelo glanced over again.

And this time, it wasn't playful. It wasn't loud.

It was quiet. Direct. Like he was peeling her open from forty feet away.

Trae noticed.

He walked off set during the next frame, tugging his hoodie down and grabbing a bottle of water. Made a straight line to Theresa.

"You okay?"

She nodded. "I'm fine."

"You look... not fine."

"Just tired."

Trae followed her line of sight to the monitor, where LaMelo was mid-spin, the lighting catching the curve of his jaw like a shot from a music video.

"Want me to trip him?" Trae asked.

Theresa snorted. "Please don't."

"Say the word."

"I'm serious. He's just—"

"A lot?"

She nodded.

Trae bumped her shoulder. "He's got a crush."

Theresa pretended to choke, then said, "He's just annoying. He does that to everyone."

"Uh huh, sure," Trae drawled, slow and southern. "He messes with everyone."

The next round of poses started: jersey over shoulder, locker room vibes. LaMelo took off the sleeveless and pulled on a zip-up. Then unzipped it slowly like the camera was his mirror.

The stylist groaned. "He's such a flirt."

"He's such a menace," Theresa said at the same time.

Trae leaned in again. "You sure you don't want me to trip him?"

Theresa sighed. "Only if he breaks the frame again."

"Deal."

She turned back to the monitor, jaw set, pulse annoyingly off-beat. Watching LaMelo pose like the shoot was fun. Like none of this meant anything.

"Yo."

Theresa glanced up from her clipboard just in time to catch Zaccharie drifting into frame, holding a prop basketball under one arm like he'd been assigned it personally by Nike themselves.

She arched a brow. "Aren't you supposed to be on rotation?"

"They said I'm chilling until wardrobe fixes the lighting or whatever." He spun the ball once on his fingertip, purely for drama. "So I thought I'd come check on you. Make sure you weren't getting hexed or something."

"Hexed?" she echoed.

Zac nodded subtly toward the opposite side of the set—where LaMelo was standing in front of the backdrop, jersey half-zipped, jaw sharp, and gaze drifting over just a little too often. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough for someone like Zaccharie to notice.

"That one keeps looking at you," he said flatly. "Too much. It's suspicious."

"He looks at everything," she muttered, brushing invisible lint off her clipboard.

"Mmm," Zacch said, dragging the sound out like he was thirty years older and held degrees in both psychology and petty behavior. "It's giving possession."

She gave him a sharp look. "Possession?"

"You know. Like the ball. Not that you're the ball," he added quickly. "Just... metaphor. You know what? Never mind."

Theresa sighed. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm observant," he corrected. Then, after a beat: "If Jalen sees him looking at you like that again, I'm standing way back. I'm not getting caught in the crossfire."

"There's no crossfire."

"Uh huh." Zacch nodded, lips pressed together, clearly unconvinced. "Well. Just know if I go missing later, it's 'cause I tried to warn you."

A voice crackled over the intercom. "We're clear. That's a wrap for Segment Three. Next rotation heads to lounge for off-camera B-roll."

Theresa stepped away before Zaccharie could say anything else.

The room shifted again—crew moving like a tide, pulling cords and lights and lenses back to their anchors. The photographer dabbed sweat off his neck with a towel, muttering something about Ball being a walking shotlist. A runner handed out granola bars. Someone's Bluetooth speaker kicked on in the back, low and pulsing.

Theresa slipped down the side hallway toward the break lounge, where players rotated for behind-the-scenes footage—casual shots, water breaks, half-interviews where everyone pretended to be effortlessly charismatic.

She checked her phone for messages, quickly scanning notes from the league's content manager and a flagged update about lunch running late. She didn't look up until she turned the corner—and nearly ran into him.

LaMelo stood just outside the lounge, one shoulder against the wall, his phone in hand but face up, unread.

She blinked.

He grinned. "You stalking me?"

"You're in the way."

"You always this sweet after a shoot?"

"You're lucky I'm letting you breathe after all that posing."

He tilted his head. "Come on. You liked it."

"No, I tolerated it."

"That's not what your eyes said."

She rolled hers. "You're still delusional."

He stepped aside, letting her pass. But just as she did, he leaned in slightly. "You cold?"

She paused. Glanced down at her arms, the way the air was still pricking her skin beneath the sleeves. "The whole studio's cold."

He hummed, pulling off his team-branded hoodie. "Then here."

Theresa blinked. "What?"

LaMelo held it out. "Take it."

"I'm not cold."

"You literally just said—"

"Not cold enough to wear your ego."

He laughed, teeth flashing. "You're stubborn."

She didn't argue. Just looked at the hoodie. Then back at him.

He didn't lower it. Didn't tease. Just stood there, steady, waiting.

And maybe it was exhaustion. Or something quieter. But she took it.

Only shrugged it over her shoulders once he looked away.

LaMelo smiled to himself and pulled his phone out again like nothing happened.

Theresa turned to go—but then someone else's voice cut in.

"Yo, you done?" Jalen.

He walked up from the other direction, dressed in his travel clothes again—hood up, sneakers on, duffle slung low over his shoulder. His eyes flicked between them.

Theresa straightened. "Yeah. I was just—"

"Waiting on me," Jalen finished, stepping closer. His gaze dropped to the hoodie she was wearing. Then paused.

LaMelo didn't say anything.

Didn't smirk. Didn't move. Just leaned against the wall, unreadable.

Theresa swallowed. "Everything okay?"

Jalen's jaw ticked once. Then he nodded. "Yeah. Just wanted to check before I left."

She opened her mouth—but LaMelo spoke first.

"She's warm now," he said.

Jalen blinked. "What?"

LaMelo gestured toward the hoodie. "Said she was cold. I fixed it."

Jalen's eyes narrowed—just for a second. Then he smiled. "Sweet of you."

LaMelo shrugged. "She looked like she needed it."

"I would've given her mine."

"But you weren't here."

Silence stretched.

Theresa stared at the floor for half a beat before cutting in. "I'll bring it back."

LaMelo's eyes flicked to her, then softened. "Nah. Keep it. Looks good on you."

Jalen's shoulders went tight.

Theresa stepped back. "I have to go log everything before the uploads. I'll see you later."

She didn't wait for a reply.

Didn't look back.

But she heard it—the small scoff Jalen made. The low chuckle LaMelo returned. The quiet undercurrent of rivalry neither of them was going to name.

And beneath all of it, her own pulse—too loud, too fast, too involved.

"So... we just letting the Joker flirt with Gotham's PR director now?"

She rounded a corner and met with Zaccharie again. Propped against a wall with a sports drink, grinning like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"How long were you standing there?" she muttered.

"Long enough to know you didn't deck him. So either we're soft now, or the villain is winning."

"He's not winning," she snapped. "He's just... loud."

"Loud and lingering," Zac said pointedly. "And weirdly calm about it."

She threw him a look, but he just held up a hand in surrender.

"I'm just saying," Zac added, backing away. "If Ball pulls out a gold toothpick or starts playing a theme song when he enters the gym, I'm putting in for hazard pay."

"Didn't you say you'll go missing?" she asked, biting back a smile.

"Consider me gone," he called, jogging backwards. "Just don't let him monologue you into a team switch!"

Theresa didn't respond. She just kept walking—fast, hoodie sleeves tugged low, clipboard hugged tighter than it needed to be. Not because she was cold. Not anymore.

Because her chest was doing that thing again—tight and hot and stupid, like she'd swallowed a grenade and the pin was slowly dissolving inside her.

Back near the production monitors, the next rotation was already being mic'd and prepped—rookies mostly, younger faces less used to the lights, the pressure. Theresa exhaled once, sharp and grounding, then slipped back into motion like nothing had happened.

Laughter echoed from the far side of the court setup—rookies throwing a foam basketball at each other between shots, energy a little too big for the frame.

Theresa moved through the chaos like a current, steps measured, clipboard back in hand, headset mic live again.

She checked her notes—next segment was a group layout, media-bait stuff. A mix of All-Stars, veterans, rookies. Trae was already on deck, nodding along to instructions with half his attention on the rookies messing around behind him. Jalen was gone. LaMelo wasn't.

And neither was the weight in her chest.

She crossed the floor with purpose, half to redirect a wandering camera op, half to put distance between herself and everything LaMelo Ball-shaped.

Zaccharie reappeared, now holding two protein bars and a smug look. He extended one toward her without breaking stride.

"Eat," he said. "You look like you just got emotionally hit by a truck."

Theresa blinked. "Thanks?"

"I'm a people person."

She took the bar. Tore it open slowly. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Do you ever admit when I'm right?"

She didn't answer.

He turned to leave, only to pause mid-step and squint at her outfit. Then, deadpan: "That hoodie looks suspiciously not-Hawks-issued..."

Theresa didn't respond fast enough.

Zacch raised both brows. "I KNEW it."

He held a hand to his chest like she'd just admitted to treason, then pointed two fingers at her and backed away slowly like she was cursed.

Theresa shot him a look. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting," Zaccharie said. "I'm just observing. Like a good teammate. Observing that you, Head of Media, are currently repping enemy gear."

She tugged the hem of the hoodie lower, trying—and failing—not to smile. "He gave this to me for the shoot. That's it."

"Right. Totally normal villain origin behavior. Very chill."

"It was cold."

Zaccharie gave her a knowing look. "Mm-hmm. That's usually how infections spread."

Theresa didn't dignify that with a response. She just flipped to the next tab on her clipboard and kept moving, feet brisk against the polished floor, even though her chest felt like it was still playing catch-up.

Across the studio, the rookies were being wrangled into formation—some laughing, some blinking nervously under the lights. One of them dropped a foam ball mid-pose and tripped trying to catch it. The photographer just shouted, "Leave it. I want motion!" and waved the assistant away.

Theresa stepped in like she always did—calm, efficient, grounding. She adjusted a mic on someone's collar, redirected the lighting crew, gave one of the younger guys a quick pep talk. But her hands were colder than they should've been, even under the hoodie sleeves.

Even now, she could still feel the shape of LaMelo's gaze. That unshakable, direct weight of him. Not cocky, not teasing. Just there. Like gravity had a new anchor and decided it was him.

"You good?" someone asked beside her.

She turned—one of the media team leads. Camila. Bright lipstick, high bun, clipboard of her own.

Theresa nodded automatically. "Yeah. Just hungry."

Camila eyed the protein bar in her hand. "That why you're eating like someone just broke your heart?"

Theresa nearly choked. "I'm not—what?"

Camila grinned. "Relax. Just messing. You do look like you're five seconds from emotionally blackout tweeting, though."

"I don't even have Twitter."

"Good. Then I'll tweet it for you."

Before Theresa could fire back, a sudden loud crack echoed through the studio—a foam ball ricocheting off the lighting rig and smacking straight into someone's coffee. Laughter erupted. Someone shouted, "It's always the quiet ones!"

Theresa exhaled hard, grateful for the distraction. She turned back to her clipboard, scanning the rest of the day's schedule.

Just two more hours. Then the shoot would be over. Then she could go home. Or back to the hotel. Or anywhere that didn't smell like sweat, hairspray, and LaMelo Ball.

She rubbed at her temple, barely aware of the hoodie still hugging her frame.

Two hours. That was it.

The shoot wrapped later than expected.

Not because of LaMelo—shockingly—but because someone from the league's marketing team insisted on capturing "bonus content." A few extra slow-motion spins. A behind-the-scenes handshake sequence. Close-ups of the All-Star patch like it held state secrets.

By the time the final shutter clicked, the studio lights had begun to dim and someone had cracked open an emergency pack of granola bars like it was a war zone.

Theresa finally let herself step off the floor, retreating to a small corner by the equipment carts. She pressed her headset off and let it hang around her neck, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.

Her shoulders ached. Her head buzzed. But the set had survived.

Mostly.

"Hey."

She looked up.

Trae.

He leaned against the wall beside her, hoodie half-zipped, curls a mess from pulling a beanie on and off all morning.

"You look like you need water," he said, handing her a bottle he'd stolen from somewhere.

Theresa accepted it wordlessly.

They stood in silence for a moment, just listening to the shuffle of breakdown crew and quiet clink of metal poles being disassembled. It was the kind of tired that didn't hit until the adrenaline left.

"How'd he do?" Trae finally asked.

Theresa didn't answer right away. She took a long sip of water, then capped the bottle with practiced care.

"He was... fine."

Trae gave her a look.

She gave him one back.

"Better than fine," she muttered. "He's too good at playing the part."

"Did he give you a hard time?"

"He's LaMelo Ball. It's his brand."

"True," Trae said, stretching his neck lazily. "But you handled it."

"Barely."

Trae nodded. "Still handled it."

Theresa's lips twitched, just a little. That familiar big brother cadence—the kind that reminded her who she was even when her nerves frayed. Even when her walls cracked.

"You staying for teardown?" Trae asked, nudging her elbow.

"I should."

"You should go breathe instead."

She didn't argue. Didn't agree either.

"Nice hoodie, by the way," he added over his shoulder.

She scoffed and kept walking. She forgot she was still wearing it. When she turned the next corner, Jalen was standing at the vending machine.

Not looking at her. Just watching the little spiral coil try to drop a Snickers bar. Suddenly, the hallway felt colder than the studio.

The vending machine whirred, stalling.

Jalen didn't move. Didn't kick it. Didn't shake it. Just stared at the candy bar like it was the one who betrayed him.

Theresa stopped a few feet away, the air between them thin and fragile. She shifted slightly, tugging the borrowed hoodie lower on her hips, suddenly aware of its weight. It smelled like cologne and something warmer, something dangerous.

He must've heard her steps, must've known she was there—but he didn't turn around right away.

Didn't say her name.

Didn't make it easy.

Theresa slowed as she reached him, her steps quieter now. The hallway was dim, all overhead fluorescents and polished concrete, humming just enough to fill the space between words.

"I thought you left," she said softly.

Jalen looked up. His eyes didn't sharpen like they sometimes did when she surprised him—they just settled on her, calm and steady.

They flicked to the hoodie. Paused. Then flicked back. He didn't say anything about it, not directly, but the air around them shifted.

The vending machine thunked too hard for the snack it gave up—Snickers, barely caught before it bounced.

Jalen turned it over in one hand, but didn't open it.

"I did," he said. "Came back for my phone. And this."

He held up the candy bar like evidence. "Didn't wanna leave it behind for Ball to take over too."

"Oh my god," Theresa muttered under her breath. "This stupid thing?" She pinched at the fabric and then shrugged it off.

He grinned. Just a little. "I was just joking. Kind of."

She let out a soft laugh, bunching the hoodie in her hands, her pulse ticking up.

"You always pick Snickers," she said, like she was smoothing over the tension he barely hinted at.

"I'm consistent," Jalen replied with a shrug. "It's part of my charm."

She huffed again, lighter this time.

"You were good today," she said. "At the shoot."

Jalen leaned his shoulder against the vending machine, still looking at her—not pressing, just present.

"So were you."

"I wasn't in front of the camera."

"Didn't say you had to be."

She looked down then, fingers absentmindedly twisting her headset wire. He watched but didn't comment.

They stood like that—still, easy. Like the tension hadn't fully disappeared, but at least had loosened its grip.

Jalen unwrapped the candy and held it out.

"Bite?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"You always steal mine anyway."

She leaned in, took a small bite, and wiped her lip with her thumb.

"Still your favorite?" he asked.

"Still yours?"

He smiled. "You already know the answer."

And for a moment, that was enough.

"Get some rest," he said. "You've been on since before I even got here."

"You too."

"I will. Before some loud dude with bad hair tries to win you over with charm and stepbacks."

"Oh, please," she said, biting back a grin. "He couldn't steal me even if I gift-wrapped myself and left the receipt."

Jalen huffed a quiet laugh—low and warm like it got caught in his chest. But there was something else behind it too. Something flickering in his eyes, fast and fleeting, like maybe he almost believed her. Like maybe he wanted to.

"Sorry," he said, holding both hands up with mock innocence. "Just keeping it real."

But his voice was still warm. No jealousy. Just honesty. He took another bite of the Snickers bar, chewing slowly, watching her the whole time.

"You don't really like him, do you?"

Her brows lifted slightly. "LaMelo?"

He shrugged, casual—but his eyes stayed locked on hers. "You act like he gets on your nerves. But not in the way people usually do."

She hesitated. "He's... loud."

"You're loud sometimes."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you defending him?"

Jalen smirked. "I'm just saying—I've seen you ice people out for less. But with him? You get riled. That's not the same thing."

Theresa looked away, jaw tightening. "I don't like him."

"Okay," he said, taking her word for it.

Then his eyes dropped—just briefly—to the hoodie still clutched in her hands, wrinkled now from her grip.

"I'll see you later," he said finally, quiet.

And then, like it wasn't a big deal at all, like none of it meant what it did—he turned and walked down the hallway, leaving her standing there, holding the hoodie she swore she didn't want.

Jalen disappeared around the corner, the sound of his steps swallowed by the hum of the building. Theresa stayed rooted in place, thumb still brushing the edge of her lip where a smear of chocolate had lingered. She wasn't smiling exactly, but she wasn't not smiling either.

She was still warm with it—quiet, rare warmth that didn't demand anything in return.

And then—

"Damn," came a voice from the opposite end of the hall. "Should've brought my own candy bar."

Theresa didn't flinch.

She didn't have to turn to know who it was. The air gave him away before the sound did. That shift again—the subtle current of attention that trailed behind him wherever he moved.

LaMelo strolled toward her like he'd been here the whole time. Hoodie loose over his shoulders now, hair a little messy, chain still glinting. He moved like he hadn't just wrapped his shoot ten minutes ago and disappeared for longer than necessary. Like this hallway was his.

Theresa's heart stuttered once. "Do you always lurk like this?"

He smiled, easy and slow. "Just making sure you weren't getting jumped in the vending machine hallway."

She exhaled through her nose. "You're unbelievable."

"Most people say fun but sure."

"I figured you'd vanished with the lights." She said without looking up, voice bone dry.

"I don't vanish," he replied, grinning. "I linger. I was following the trail of chaos. Led me to you."

Her gaze cut to his, flat and unimpressed. "Try harder."

He laughed, slow and amused, like he liked her more when she was prickly.

"Looked cozy," he added, nodding down the hallway. "Was that your boyfriend, or just your post-shoot Snickers plug?"

She crossed her arms. "Why do you care?"

"I don't."

"Then stop staring."

LaMelo didn't. He just tilted his head a little, like he was examining something under glass. "He seemed... thrown."

She raised a brow. "Why would he be thrown?"

"Maybe 'cause you were wearing my clothes all day."

Her stomach flipped. She hated that it did.

"I didn't exactly plan that," she said tightly.

"No?" He tilted his head. "You could've given it back."

She opened her mouth—then shut it.

He grinned, but his eyes dropped—just briefly—to the hoodie she was holding. His hoodie.

"Didn't look bad on you," he added.

He leaned against the wall beside her like he had all the time in the world. But that look in his eyes? Possessive. Like he was already replaying the moment she put it on and wasn't ready to give it back. He liked that more than he should've.

"Anyway, as I was saying," he went on, voice lower now, "if that's what gets your attention—a vending machine and one-liners—then damn. I need to reevaluate my approach."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "You need to reevaluate a lot of things."

He smiled wider. "But not you, right?"

She hated that her cheeks felt warm again.

"You're wasting your time."

"I've wasted it on worse," he said with a shrug. "And less interesting."

She stared him down, eyes sharp. "This isn't a game."

He leaned just a little closer. Not enough to break her space—but enough for her to feel him there.

"Then why does it feel like I'm winning?"

For one stupid second, she didn't have an answer. Just the sound of her pulse and the smugness in his grin.

She stepped back. "Enjoy your Snickers fantasy, Charlotte."

"Leaving already?"

Theresa straightened up.

"You're good at this," LaMelo said finally, nodding toward the set. "Running all of it. Keeping people in line."

"I don't need your approval."

He smiled, slow and deliberate. "Good. 'Cause you don't have it."

Theresa blinked.

LaMelo tilted his head. "You think I'm here handing out gold stars?"

"No," she said flatly. "I think you're here to stir shit and call it charisma."

He laughed at that—quietly, like she'd said something clever. Like she amused him more than she annoyed him.

Theresa didn't move. She stood grounded, clipboard now resting against her thigh, one finger tapping lightly against the spiral edge. Her other hand still held the water bottle Trae gave her, cool against her skin, a sharp contrast to the warm current buzzing just under the surface.

He tilted his head. "You ever stop?"

"From what?"

"Being the one who holds it all together."

She bristled. Just slightly.

"I don't see you doing it," she replied.

He smiled again. "I'm chaos. You're the system. Balance, baby."

Theresa didn't know what to do with that. So she didn't do anything. She looked at him then—really looked. At the set of his jaw, the looseness in his stance that didn't quite hide how he watched her like a read he hadn't cracked yet. His eyes were darker here, away from the flashes and spotlight. Less showy. More dangerous.

"You still mad?" he asked, softer this time.

"I'm always mad."

LaMelo's mouth curved. "Yeah. That's what I figured."

He stepped in—half a step, no more. Not close enough to startle, just close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his cologne, sharp and clean beneath all the leftover heat of the shoot.

Theresa didn't move. Didn't breathe too deep. Didn't trust herself to.

"I'm not mad because of you," she said finally. "Not just because of you."

LaMelo tilted his head, a tiny shift that somehow read like full-body attention. "But I'm on the list."

She hesitated. "You know you are."

Somewhere behind them, a cart wheeled past, creaking under leftover camera gear. Someone called out a thank-you to the lighting crew. The world was still moving. But here, in this strange in-between, they weren't.

"You looked good out there today," she said before she could stop herself. "The shoot. You—you worked the frame."

He blinked, surprised. "You giving me a compliment?"

"I'm being diplomatic."

"And this?" he asked, nodding slightly to the hoodie. "Still diplomacy?"

Another pause. Then Theresa extended her arm for him to take it back. He just looked down at it and then back up at her.

"Keep it."

"I don't want to."

LaMelo didn't budge. Didn't reach for the hoodie. Didn't take the out.

He just looked at her—really looked. Like the bullshit had evaporated and there was only this hallway, this silence, and the way she kept choosing to stand in it with him.

"I said keep it."

"I said I don't want to," she repeated, firmer this time. Like saying it louder might make it true.

But her fingers hadn't let go yet.

His gaze dropped, not to the hoodie now, but to her hands. The way she gripped it like she wasn't sure which version of herself she was trying to protect.

"You wore it all day," he said quietly. "Didn't see you rushing to give it back then."

"I was working."

"You looked warm."

"I was cold."

His lips twitched. "Exactly."

Theresa stared at him, jaw tight, trying to find the line between her voice and her pulse. "You giving your warm-up gear out like souvenirs now?"

"Nah," he said, stepping back like the conversation hadn't just turned her whole bloodstream upside down. "Just that one."

"You're not making sense."

"I am," he said, that calm confidence sliding into place. "You're just not ready to admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you didn't hate it as much as you think you do." His voice softened.

She hated the way her breath caught. Hated the way he noticed it.

"You can toss it if you want," he said. "Burn it. Forget it in your hotel room. I don't care."

Theresa stared at him, still gripping the hoodie like it was evidence in a trial neither of them had agreed to.

The hallway stretched quiet around them—just the distant echo of someone wheeling equipment cases and the low thrum of leftover tension. Her fingers twitched. She should've let go. Should've shoved the damn thing into his chest and walked away.

But her hands didn't move.

"You know what's wild?" he murmured. "You're wearing me, and I still don't think I've gotten close enough."

Theresa stiffened, heart stuttering. She hated him a little more for knowing exactly what to say—and even more for how much it landed.

"You think that line works on everyone?" she said, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Nope," he said, stepping back. "Just on you."

She wanted to laugh. Or glare. Or run.

Instead, she stayed right where she was. Still warm. Still caught in it.

"Don't get comfortable," she warned.

LaMelo said lightly. "I just think it's interesting."

She crossed her arms. "You think everything's interesting."

"I think you're interesting."

"Don't."

He blinked again. Slower this time. Less amused.

"I meant it," he said. "You run this whole thing, and you don't even blink when people talk at you sideways. You make it look like nothing touches you. Not even me."

Theresa's throat tightened. "Maybe that's the point."

LaMelo didn't smile this time. He didn't flirt either.

He just nodded, once, like he understood something he hadn't before.

And then—because he couldn't help himself—he added, "Still wouldn't hurt to admit I looked better on camera than Jalen."

That got her. Just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. But not nothing.

"You're ridiculous," she muttered.

LaMelo nodded once, like he expected it. Like it was fair.

Then he smiled, crooked and maddening. "Next time, I'm gonna make you laugh."

"That a promise?"

He leaned in, just enough to be heard. "A threat."

He stepped back then. Just slightly. Enough to let the tension breathe.

"Good shoot today, Young," he said, voice even. "Let me know when you're ready to run it back."

She stepped past him, clipboard tight against her chest. But his voice followed her.

"Hey."

She paused at the hallway entrance.

LaMelo didn't move. Just shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I'll see you in LA?"

Theresa blinked. "What?"

"All-Star weekend," he said, like it was obvious. "You'll be there."

"I don't—"

"Don't worry," he said, grin curling at the edges. "I'll make it worth your time."

And then he turned, walked off like he hadn't just derailed her again without trying.

Theresa stayed still. Back pressed to the wall. Headphones still half-hanging from her ear.

Warmth still blooming in the space Jalen left—and now tangled with the static LaMelo stirred.

She didn't move for a long time. Didn't trust herself to. Because that had not been part of the schedule.

And for the second time that day, she wished she'd brought armor. Because LaMelo Ball had a way of getting under her skin.

But worse? He was starting to figure out just how deep he'd already gotten.

Chapter Text

Atlanta smelled different when she came back.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Not like the city had changed while she was gone or the air carried some poetic reminder of what she'd left behind.

It just smelled like home. Warm pavement. Faint car exhaust. That strange blend of rain-soaked trees and fried food wafting from the corner bodega that always overcooked their wings.

Theresa stood on the curb outside the airport, suitcase handle in one hand and her phone in the other, waiting for the car to swing around. Her hoodie was pushed to her elbows. The same black one she always traveled in—soft, broken-in, nothing remarkable. The city buzzed around her, a dull hum she didn't mind this time.

The shoot in New York was already receding in her brain like something she'd dreamed. Not because it hadn't happened. But because everything that had happened there felt like it didn't belong here. Not in this air. Not in this sky. Not under this light.

Her phone buzzed just as the car pulled up.

Serena:  you alive or nah
Serena:  because if you are i'm bringing wine and judgment tonight
Serena:  if not i'll still bring wine, just drink it in your honor

Theresa smiled despite herself.

Theresa: landed. not dead. will confirm wine status in an hour.

She didn't text anything else. Didn't mention the chaos of the set, the way her chest still hadn't fully settled. Didn't mention how hard it had been to keep her balance while juggling camera crew schedules, Jalen's unreadable silences, and LaMelo's... everything.

Nope. She was home now. This was a reset.

The car ride was quiet. She didn't talk to the driver. Just watched the streets peel by, familiar and unmoved by anything she'd done in another city. The highway gave way to narrower streets, and the skyline thinned to match the steady rhythm of her pulse.

When she got to her apartment, she didn't unpack.

She never did right away—especially not after road stretches or long days. She left her suitcase by the door, still zipped. Still sealed. Like opening it would release everything she was trying to contain.

Instead, she showered. Stood under the stream until her skin itched from the pressure and her thoughts slowed just enough to breathe normally again.

She dressed in an oversized tee and socks, curled onto the couch, and was halfway through answering emails when Serena let herself in without knocking.

"Okay," Serena announced, holding up a bottle in each hand. "Your choices tonight are overpriced Pinot Grigio or judgment disguised as rosé."

Theresa didn't even look up. "You brought both."

"Obviously." Serena kicked off her sneakers and dropped the bottles on the coffee table. "And I expect full chaos disclosure. Starting from the top. I saw the clips."

"What clips?"

Serena stared at her like she was insane. "The behind-the-scenes footage. TikTok already wants to ship you with Ball. He did that thing with his hands and you looked away like he killed your family."

Theresa groaned. "It was one second."

"One charged second. You can't fool me. I speak fluent tension."

Theresa leaned her head back against the couch cushion. "I'm not talking about this."

"Oh, you will," Serena said, twisting open the rosé with a dramatic sigh. "But I'm kind. I'll let you spiral on your own timeline."

She poured them each a glass, handed one over, and sat cross-legged on the floor.

"You and Jalen good?" she asked after a beat, softer this time.

Theresa didn't answer right away. She stared into the wine, then took a sip.

"He's been... present," she said finally. "More careful. More thoughtful."

Serena nodded like she understood—because she did. Her teasing softened, eyes scanning her friend's face like she was trying to read between the lines Theresa wasn't saying out loud.

"And is that what you want?" she asked gently.

Theresa exhaled through her nose, pressing the rim of the glass to her lips again without drinking. "I think I want... to trust it. But sometimes it feels like he only shows up when he senses he's slipping."

Serena raised one brow. "Possessive, not consistent?"

"Something like that."

There was no bitterness in her voice. No heat. Just observation, like she was stating facts she hadn't fully decided how to feel about yet.

Serena leaned back on her hands. "Well. You don't have to marry him tomorrow. You just have to know what's real for you right now."

Theresa smirked slightly. "Is this the part where you tell me to follow my heart?"

"No," Serena said immediately. "Your heart is chaos. I'm telling you to follow the facts and your gut. That dangerous little combo."

Theresa laughed, soft and genuine, and finally let herself relax into the cushions.

They stayed like that a while—wine slowly disappearing, the city humming low outside the windows, Serena occasionally firing off unsolicited opinions about everyone's All-Star fits and the NBA's broken algorithm.

Eventually, Serena stretched, cracked her back dramatically, and got up with a groan. "Alright, I'll leave you to your quiet spiral. But you better have something to wear Saturday. That Foundation Dinner is not the time for your sad black trench."

Theresa rolled her eyes. "It's classic."

"It's depressing. I'll text you options."

And with that, Serena was gone, taking the empty bottle and half the tension with her.

Theresa moved back to her bedroom, picking up the luggage she left by the door and carrying it down the hall without opening it.

It landed with a soft thud near the foot of her bed. She stood there a moment, fingers still wrapped around the handle, eyes fixed on the zipper like it might bite.

She picked her phone up from the charger and opened it without thinking. Notifications stacked at the top—work stuff, a group chat with Serena and one of the stylists, a reminder from Delta about unused flight credits. She ignored all of it.

Until her phone buzzed with a text from her brother.

Trae: dinner tomorrow, my place, mom's cooking

Theresa:  what time

Trae:  6. bring your appetite and a decent attitude.

Theresa huffed a laugh through her nose.

Theresa:  No promises.

A beat later, another buzz.

Trae:  Also. Heard about your lil camera moment.
Trae:  Charlotte better relax before he gets fouled off court.

She stared at the screen, one brow lifting slightly.

Theresa:  Why are you like this
Theresa:  Don't tell mom.

Trae:  Too late. Dad showed her the clips. She said "that boy has beautiful eyes."

Theresa slapped the phone face-down on the bed and exhaled like the wind had been knocked out of her.

Of course they saw it. Of course the internet wasted no time.

Of course LaMelo Ball had to ruin her peace again.

Trae: and dad wants to talk about your "media moment."

Theresa:  i'm bringing wine

Theresa:  and if dad starts quoting interviews again i'm taking it back with me

No reply. Just the ominous "Read 8:42 PM" and a bubble that flickered before disappearing again.

The next morning came slow, hazy with November light. Atlanta hadn't decided yet whether to be cold or mild, so the day hovered somewhere in between—brisk air, clear skies, and the kind of sun that didn't warm much but looked pretty trying.

Theresa moved through her apartment methodically. Coffee. Emails. A call with the campaign director about next week's All-Star promo rollout. Then a scroll through socials she should've avoided.

The campaign team had already posted a few selects from the shoot. LaMelo's frame came up first.

Then Jalen's.

Then—her. Off to the side, hair slicked back, headset around her neck, giving some last-minute cue to the director.

Comments flooded in. Most were harmless. Some tagged her name with heart eyes. Some were already speculating about "the love triangle energy" in the Nike promo set. One just said she looks like she doesn't play, and I like that.

Theresa tossed the phone across the couch. It landed with a soft thunk against the cushions, facedown like it knew better than to say anything else.

That afternoon, she made her way to Trae's like she always did—head down, hoodie on, sunglasses big enough to hide a week of half-sleep.

She didn't even have to knock. Her brother opened the door before she reached for it, leaning against the frame with a smug grin and no socks. "Took you long enough."

"I'm literally three minutes early."

"That's late by mom's standards." He stepped aside and waved her in. "Hurry up before she thinks you died in a ditch."

His house was buzzing with the usual chaos: music low, sports highlights echoing faintly from the living room TV, and the smell of their mom's famous rosemary chicken already curling down the hallway.

In the kitchen, Candice—their mom—was stirring something in a heavy pot like it owed her money.

"Theresa, baby," she said, glancing up with a smile that didn't slow her hands. "Grab a plate. Everything's almost ready."

Theresa kissed her on the cheek and set the wine down.

"Cabernet," she said. "Pairs great with chaos."

Their dad was at the table already, flipping between ESPN and some basketball podcast he swore wasn't biased—despite all evidence to the contrary.

He looked up and beamed. "There she is. Our family's claim to ESPN fame."

Theresa groaned. "Don't start."

"Too late. I've got quotes pulled up and everything."

"Dad," Trae warned, but his smirk gave him away. "Let her eat first."

Their mom turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. "Let her breathe first. You vultures."

"That Ball kid has a smug face. But good camera presence."

Theresa blinked at him. "Please never say that sentence again."

"And you made headlines again," he added without looking up.

Theresa groaned and set a plate down harder than necessary. "Can we not?"

"I'm just saying—if I had a dollar for every tweet calling y'all a power couple—"

"I'd be rich," Trae deadpanned.

"I'd be retired," their dad corrected.

Theresa dragged her hands down her face. "Y'all are insufferable."

Her mother saved her by swooping in with a serving dish. "Okay, everyone sit before this gets cold. Reesa, baby, you look tired. You eating enough?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Mmm," her mom said, which usually meant I don't believe you but I'll let it slide until dessert.

Dinner was warm and loud. Her mom asked about the shoot. Her dad gave unsolicited media advice. Trae kicked her under the table when she got too quiet, then passed her the bread like a truce offering. They moved like a unit. Familiar. Unchanging.

Except when her dad said, "He's got good footwork, that Ball kid. But you can tell he's used to being watched."

Theresa blinked. "What does that even mean?"

He shrugged. "Just an observation."

"I don't need your scouting report," she muttered, buttering her bread with a little more force than necessary.

"Didn't say it was a bad thing," her dad added, lifting his wine glass. "Just means he knows how to work a room. You should be careful with boys like that."

Theresa's knife clinked a little too loudly against the plate.

"He's not my boy," she said coolly, not looking up.

"Didn't say he was," her dad replied, and it was the kind of answer that somehow made it worse.

Trae, bless him, changed the subject.

"Anyway," he said, mouth full, "we good for Tuesday's run-through?"

Theresa nodded, grateful. "Already sent the agenda. You need me to wrangle the rookies again?"

"Please. Zaccharie's still afraid of you."

"He should be."

Trae snorted and shoved another forkful of chicken in his mouth. Their dad mumbled something about fear being a useful leadership tool, and their mom rolled her eyes so hard the room tilted.

Theresa was mid-sip of her wine when her phone buzzed.

She didn't think anything of it at first—probably Serena again, or a reminder from her calendar. Her hand moved on instinct, sliding the phone toward her without even looking.

Then she saw the preview.

melo: did you keep it?

She didn't even remember what he meant, not at first. She thought maybe he was playing games. Stirring the pot. Planting a thought just to see if she'd bite.

But then it came back—fast and sharp, like static under the skin.

And just like that, the sip caught.

Her breath hitched mid-swallow. Wine slid the wrong way down her throat.

She choked.

Not delicately. Not like a quiet little cough you could pass off as nothing. No—this was a full-body, red-faced, water-in-the-wrong-pipe kind of choke that had her eyes watering instantly.

"Yo—Tess?" Trae shot up from his chair, half-laughing, half-concerned. "You good?"

Theresa coughed once, twice, then turned away from the table, fist to her mouth, shoulders shaking as she tried to swallow air and embarrassment at the same time.

Their mom appeared behind her with a hand on her back, warm and immediate. "Deep breaths, baby. Breathe in. You're alright."

"I'm fine," she rasped, waving them off with one hand while clutching her phone in the other like it had burned her.

"You sure?" Trae asked again, brow furrowed now.

"Yeah," she croaked. "Wine went down weird."

Their dad chuckled, already retreating back to the wine bottle. "That's what happens when you try to keep up with your mother's roast chicken and cabernet combo. Rookie mistake."

She forced a thin, breathy laugh, nodding once. But her eyes darted back down to her phone the second no one was looking.

The message still sat there like it had been etched into the glass.

Trae clocked it immediately. "Who is it?"

"No one," she said too quickly.

Her dad leaned in. "That didn't sound like no one."

"It's literally nothing," she muttered, setting the glass down with more care this time.

Their mom stood, starting to gather plates. "I made dessert. Shall we move to the sitting area?"

The living room lights were dimmer than the kitchen's—warm, low, familiar. The TV glowed in the corner, casting flickers of blue across the coffee table where her dad had already set up camp with his second glass of wine and a generous slice of cake.

Theresa stayed behind for a moment, lingering by the fridge as her mom plated up dessert for her. Lemon cake. Her favorite. She took the plate without a word, the fork already resting on top, and started slowly down the hallway.

"Yo, Tess!" Trae's voice rang out mid-bite. "Get in here. Your boy's on TV."

She didn't flinch. She didn't roll her eyes. She just paused mid-step, her hand gripping the edge of the dessert plate a little tighter.

From the living room, she could already hear the commentary cutting through the noise—Charlotte game, obviously. West Coast opponent. Probably third quarter by now.

Her dad's laugh echoed next. Loud. Deep. Unbothered.

"Oh, this one again," he chuckled. "Somebody tell him the camera's not a mirror."

Theresa stepped into the doorway just as the replay cut across the screen—LaMelo Ball gliding into frame like the whole arena belonged to him. Flashy pass. Quick cut. Step-back jumper from deep.

The ball barely touched the net.

The crowd roared.

Her dad whistled low. "Alright, alright. I see it."

Trae was sprawled across the couch, fork in hand, plate on his chest, smug as ever. "He's cooking."

Theresa didn't answer. She stood half-in, half-out of the room, one foot still in the hallway like she might walk right back out.

She shifted her weight and reached behind her—casual, instinctive. Her fingers found the edge of her phone in her back pocket.

And then her stomach turned just slightly.

She looked up at the screen again. The game was live.

Live.

Which meant...

Theresa blinked once, hard, like that might reset her brain.

He was texting her. During the game.