Imagines (Beyonce x y/n)

Crush

The silence in my agent's office was deafening, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic tapping of his pen against a legal pad. Across from me, Mark, my agent, wore a grin wider than the Grand Canyon.

"You, Y/n Reid," he declared, finally looking up, "are officially a pop culture phenomenon."

I chuckled, running a hand over my freshly faded haircut. "Just trying to play some ball, Mark."

"No, no, spare me the humility. Did you see the numbers? The Vogue interview dropped two hours ago."

I had, indeed, seen them. My phone had been vibrating off the hook since the email notification popped up: "Y/n Reid: On the Rise, On the Court, and Crushing on Queen Bey – A Vogue Exclusive."

The article itself was beautifully shot – me in sharp suits, me mid-dunk, me laughing candidly. It talked about my journey from a overlooked high school player to a viral sensation, the "y/n Jumps" clips that first caught the internet's eye, my work ethic, my surprisingly nerdy love for sci-fi. But as Mark said, it was one specific part that had completely exploded.

Vogue: So, Y/n, with all this sudden attention, are you feeling the love? Any celebrity crushes we should know about?

Me (with a hopeful, slightly goofy grin): Oh, man... that's easy. Beyoncé. Always Beyoncé. Since I was like, seventeen. I saw her at the rodeo with the girls back then. The GOAT.

Vogue: And what about your go-to pre-game pump-up artist? Who's on repeat in your headphones?

Me: Still Queen Bey. 'Rocket' gets me hype. Or 'Heated.' Honestly, half her discography. But if I'm branching out, I'm really into SZA right now. Her storytelling is insane. And Kendrick Lamar, always.

That last part, about SZA and Kendrick, got some traction. But the Beyoncé mention? It was like I'd thrown a grenade into the internet.

Mark scrolled through his tablet, showing me screen after screen. "Twitter is a warzone. 'Y/n Reid has good taste,' 'Beyoncé needs to holler at her,' 'She said what we're all thinking!' And the memes, y/n, oh God, the memes."

I'd already seen a few. My face photoshopped onto a Renaissance album cover. A side-by-side of me looking lovestruck next to a fierce Beyoncé. My favorite was a GIF of me hitting a three-pointer, with "I GOT 99 PROBLEMS BUT A BEYONCÉ AIN'T ONE... YET" captioned underneath.

"My DMs are a mess, Mark. People I haven't spoken to since elementary school are hitting me up."

"It's the price of fame, kid. But this is good fame. Authentic. Relatable. You didn't posture; you just told the truth. And everyone respects that." He leaned forward, suddenly serious.

"The team got calls almost immediately. Endorsement offers are flooding in. Performance wear, luxury watches, a soda company wants to make you their new face. And brands that wouldn't have touched us before? They're suddenly interested in a girl who's just as good on the court as she is charmingly honest in a magazine."

My head was spinning. All I'd wanted was to play basketball. The fame was a byproduct, a chaotic, exhilarating, slightly terrifying byproduct

"Think she saw it?" I asked, a nervous tremor in my voice. The thought of Beyoncé, the Beyoncé, stumbling across my interview and reading my unadulterated adoration, made my stomach do flips

I said some...stuff yeah let's leave it at that

Mark grinned. "Honey, if she hasn't, her publicist has. And trust me, they're paying attention. Who knows? Maybe a subtle nod, a retweet from one of her dancers. Or maybe, just maybe..." He winked. "A courtside seat at the next home game."