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The lights in the gym are bright, but not brighter than the spotlight already on my back.
Chicago. The Windy City. My new home... for now.
I show up ten minutes late to make a statement, not because I'm reckless but because I know how to command a room. The moment the gym doors creak open, conversations die mid-sentence. All that heavy breathing, all that post-drill exhaustion—it stalls. And every pair of eyes locks on me.
Good.
I walk slow, dragging the moment out. My bag hits the floor with a loud thud. White kicks fresh out the box. I'm not here to fit in. I'm here to take over.
"Damn." I said eyeing the team. "Y'all already look tired. I just got here."
It hits like a dagger dipped in honey sweet and sharp. And right on cue, Angel Reese turns around.
There she is. The self-proclaimed Barbie of Chicago basketball. Tall, fierce, hair pulled back in that signature slick ponytail, expression cold enough to freeze fire. That look in her eyes? That's not surprise. It's rage.
She knew this day might come. Just didn't think it'd be so soon.
"YN," Coach Tyler calls out, like I'm some hero walking into a war zone. "Glad you made it. Ladies, meet your new teammate."
Teammate.
Angel doesn't even flinch.
"We don't need her." she says, eyes still locked on mine. "We got chemistry...we don't need a headline."
There it is. That familiar sting of her words always cutting, always wrapped in that holier-than-thou attitude. She's the media darling. The fan favorite. And me?
I'm the chaos.
"Funny." I reply with a shrug. "Cause the front office begged to differ. Guess they finally wanted someone who can finish a game properly."
Gasps. A few chuckles. Somebody mutters, "Damn." I don't look to see who. My eyes stay on her. Always her.
Angel steps forward. That heat between us? It's always been there. From college scrimmages to pro-level matchups, every game between us was a headline waiting to explode.
"This is not college Y/N, you not running nothing around here."
I smile slow.
"Come on Angel, we both know you could never fuck with me on or off the court."
Coach jumps in like a referee saving a game from turning ugly.
"Alright! Alright! Enough. This is a team, not a damn reality show. You want minutes? Earn' em together."
Together.
Angel turns her back, and I watch the tension coil in her shoulders like a spring. She's pissed. Good. She should be. I'm not here to play nice. I'm here to win.
