𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐢𝐧’𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐞
⭑ pairing: Caitlin Clark x cocky!UConn!player!reader
⭑ genre: sports rivalry, tension, slow-burn flirtation
⭑ summary: You’re UConn’s rising star. Caitlin’s already a legend. Too bad she has a boyfriend… not that it matters to you.
⭑ warnings: light swearing, sexual tension, implied cheating
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The lights in the arena are searing. The crowd’s loud enough to rattle ribs, but it doesn’t touch you. You’re calm. Locked in. This ain’t your first rodeo—it’s just your first one against her.
You roll your neck as you step onto the court, your sneakers biting into the hardwood. All around you, noise. But right in front of you, Caitlin Clark. Eyes sharp. Ponytail tight. Jersey tucked to perfection. She stands with her hands on her hips, gaze already pinned to you like you did something personal.
Which, technically? You haven’t. Yet.
Your lips curl just enough. Not a smile—more like a warning. She clocks it.
“You ready for this?” she asks, tone light but her eyes doing the heavy lifting.
“Always,” you say, voice low. “Are you, though?”
She scoffs. Classic Caitlin. But her gaze dips—for a second—to your mouth. You file that away.
Connor’s courtside, arms crossed, jaw tight. Like he’s the one checking you. You raise your brows at him. Then, without missing a beat, lean closer to Caitlin and tug gently under her chin, just enough to lift it.
“Chin up, superstar,” you whisper. “Wouldn’t want you to miss my highlight reel.”
She swats your hand away, cheeks tinged pink. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You say that like it’s not your type.”
The ref blows the whistle. Game on.
———————————————————————————————
It’s a blur of elbows, screens, and sharp footwork. You stick to Caitlin like second skin, shoulder-to-shoulder, step-for-step. She tries to break past you on a fast break—you cut her off without blinking. She shoots a fadeaway—you’re already in the air, fingers grazing the arc of the ball.
You don’t talk trash. Not loud anyway.
You just exist in her space.
Every missed bucket of hers? You tilt your head.
Every time she sprints to recover? You’re already there.
When she drops 12 in the first quarter, you drop 14. Silent. Surgical.
———————————————————————————————
By halftime, the arena is pulsing with tension. You’re both drenched in effort but not sweat—neither of you looks tired. Just locked in.
ESPN’s courtside cam zooms in on the two of you during a timeout, faces inches apart, words exchanged with no mics picking them up.
“You’re not even sweating,” she huffs, brushing her arm against yours.
“I don’t break a sweat for regular,” you murmur. “Even when it’s wrapped in Nike and ego.”
She laughs, incredulous. “You think you’re better than me?”
“No.” You step close, dropping your voice. “I know I make you think about me more.”
Connor shuffles in his seat again. You glance over your shoulder. “He always look that uncomfortable when you’re enjoying yourself?”
Caitlin rolls her eyes but doesn’t answer. That’s answer enough.
———————————————————————————————
The third quarter starts. You come out hungrier.
Dimes. Stepbacks. Lockdown D. You’re in it.
Her? She’s fighting. She’s fired up. She’s pissed. But there’s that glint in her eye—the one that always comes back to you. That edge of frustration mixed with something else. Curiosity. Attraction. Resentment. All tangled into one unspoken confession.
You catch her again after a foul. You both stand there while the ref sorts it out. Just breathing. Close.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she finally asks.
You glance at her. “Cause you hate it. And love it.”
She bites the inside of her cheek.
Later, you hit a corner three with her draped on you. Nothing but net.
You backpedal down the court, eyes on hers the whole way. “Smile for me, Clark.”
She doesn’t. But her cheeks give her away.
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The game ends in a tight finish—UConn wins by two. The buzzer sounds, and the handshake line forms. You make your way over. She’s waiting.
“Nice game,” she says, cool and polite.
“Don’t lie. You missed me all week.”
Caitlin shakes her head but her lips twitch. “Shut up.”
You lean in, real close. “Or what, Clark?”
Before she can answer, cameras flash. Fans scream. You wink at her once—just once—and turn away, your smile unshakable.
You’re not going anywhere.
And she doesn’t want you to.
