Imagines (Beyonce x y/n)

Crush 2

The next forty-eight hours were a blur of flashing lights, buzzing notifications, and Mark's increasingly exasperated sighs. My phone, which had previously been a tool for connecting with friends and keeping up with stats, transformed into a direct conduit for the internet's collective obsession. Every news outlet, every sports blog, every celebrity gossip site seemed to have one question: "Is Y/n Reid the NBA's newest romantic hopeful?"

"Remember what I said, Y/n," Mark coached me during a frantic lunch break between a photo shoot for a shoe brand and a rapid-fire interview with ESPN. "Humble. Appreciative. Brief. And for God's sake, don't trip over your words."

I nodded, trying to chew my sandwich without looking like a deer in headlights. The ESPN reporter, a sharp-eyed woman named Brenda, smiled at me. "So, Y/n, the internet is absolutely losing its mind over a certain Instagram like. Any comments on the Queen Bey situation?"

My palms were sweating. Mark had prepped me for this ten times over. "It's... it's incredibly humbling," I started, trying to sound as sincere and non-fangirl as possible. "Beyoncé is an icon, an inspiration. To know she even saw the article, let alone liked a photo... it's surreal. I'm just focused on my game, on the team, and doing my best for the fans."

Brenda's smile didn't waver. "But you did say she was your crush since seventeen. Any chance this could evolve into something more than just a digital acknowledgement?"

I swallowed, glancing at Mark who gave me the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "I'm a basketball player," I said, trying to sound firm but not dismissive. "My focus is on the court. Anything else is just noise." I shrugged "but it's Beyoncé we'll see how that goes"

It was the best I could do. Brenda moved on to my pre-season training, but I could feel the tension in the air. The "noise" was deafening. Lamar, had just sent me a screenshot of a new meme: my face on a basketball, being dribbled by a cartoon Beyoncé. My team, surprisingly, found it hilarious. They'd been giving me relentless grief, but it was lighthearted. "Reid, you gonna get us vip tickets when you take her out?" my captain, Jamal, had ribbed me during practice.

Practice itself was a challenge. My mind kept drifting, replaying the notification, wondering if I'd said the right thing to the press, if she was watching. But then I'd focus, push harder, use the nervous energy to fuel my drills. Mark was right; I had to stay humble, stay focused. I had to prove I wasn't just a meme, but a serious player.

Finally, game day arrived. The air outside the arena was electric, buzzing with a different kind of energy than usual. SUVs idled near the entrance, paparazzi were set up like snipers, and the usual roar of fans felt amplified, expectant. My stomach did flip-flops, a mix of pre-game jitters and something far more personal.

As I walked through the tunnel, the lights of the arena blindingly bright, the roar of the crowd hit me like a physical wave. My name was being chanted, mixed with a rhythmic clap. I looked up at the rafters, then down at the sea of faces, searching. Searching for what, I wasn't sure. A sign? A feeling? A glimpse?

During warm-ups, I shot free throws, each one a silent prayer for composure. I tried to block out the flashes from the stands, the heightened buzz. But then, as the national anthem segued into our team's intro music, the lights dimmed, and one corner of the arena seemed to erupt in a completely new, deafening wave of screams.

My head snapped up.

She was there.

Courtside.

Not alone, but with a small entourage. A dark, impossibly stylish outfit, sunglasses perched on her nose even in the dimming lights, a subtle smile playing on her lips as she took her seat. The cameras flashed like a supernova around her. The crowd's roar surged, the "Y/n! Y/n!" chants momentarily forgotten as everyone collectively gasped at the sheer, undeniable presence of Beyoncé Knowles and her eldest daughter Blue Ivy Carter