Off-Limits: Part 1

my offering to the nonbinary + lesbian Heated Rivalry gods

I could begin this with an essay-length explanation as to why I have written this and am offering it to you here, on my Substack. And well, that would be silly of me when your time would be better spent reading this queer college basketball enemies-to-lovers smut I’ve cooked up for you.

Do me a favor and give it a read—share it if you enjoy it. Subscribe so you don’t miss the rest. Stay tuned for part 2 next week!

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Part 1: Jude Alexander, Temple Basketball #11: 2009

I wish Gia De Luca would leave me the fuck alone. I’ve been playing against that show off since we were thirteen, all metal-mouthed and acne-cheeked, on rival AAU teams. Back then, her tantrums were worse. Once, I held her scoreless and got her to foul out of the game, and after he fifth foul, she stomped off the court, ripping her jersey out of her shorts, cursing up a storm, and refusing to slap any of her teammates’ hands. I imagine they were used to it, but what pissed me off the most was that it didn’t stop the influx of recruiting letters. UConn, Stanford, Notre Dame, you name it. She was the number three recruit in our class. The top point guard —my position.

When we finally went our separate ways to college—me to Temple and her to Notre Dame— I thought that would be the last of her; I’d never have to see her snotty face again if I didn’t want to. I would just have to stay away from ESPN and the Tumblr accounts of fans who, for some reason, find her hot. It’s mostly men, who don’t really count in my book. Anyone with a pulse can attract men. She’s one of those feminine ballers who overuses a hair straightener and has a perfect ponytail, complete with prewrap to keep her flyaways tamed. Wears foundation and mascara for games. Struts around the court like she’s hot shit. I was happy to be rid of her and her cocky ass once and for all, but no—she had to transfer to Richmond, to my conference, after our freshman year. Turns out she missed her family and wanted to be closer to home to help take care of her grandma with Alzheimer’s. Okay, so maybe she has a heart. Maybe that’s sweet of her. Whatever. Now we’re seniors and her team is, against all odds, ranked #10 in the country. Once she transferred to Richmond, they started getting top transfers from bigger schools and big-name commits. How the fuck were we supposed to compete with that? This is the year that we take them down, win the conference championship, and get our long-overdue NCAA tourney berth. We are going dancing, baby, do or die. And I’m going to lead us there, whether I break my whole body in the process.

First conference game of the season, and it’s against Richmond, of course, so here’s De Luca on our locker room TV screen and on our scouting reports. Hitting logo three after logo three. Pushing off on her step backs. Sticking her tongue out in celebration.

“In case you can’t read, De Luca is averaging 27 ppg, shooting a whopping 43% from three. Add six assists and three steals per game to that, and we’ve got our work cut out for us,” says Coach O’Bryan, our head coach. He’s old and white and stuck in his ways because his ways often work, but not always. I often think he might have been better suited as an officer in the Marines.

I’ve got to admit: De Luca’s got sneaky, quick hands. Playing against her means I’ve always got to pay extra attention to caring for the ball because she’ll poke it out of nowhere. I’ve got to use my body to protect what’s mine. She’ll have to go through me.

Our defensive strategy? An extended zone. Hands up well past the arc when De Luca has the rock. But also don’t let her penetrate the paint because she’s dangerous when she can draw the defense and create. Dangerous, give me a fucking break. Beneath that cocky facade is just an insecure baby. And I’m going to break her.

Once we are done with our film session, we file out of the locker room to head upstairs to the gym. Two of my teammates, Janay and Lindsay, make eyes at each other in the hallway but don’t dare touch, not even a small bump or hand grab—you never know who is watching from the athletic department, they’re all like spies I swear, and Coach has a strict “no dating a teammate or opponent” policy, because of distractions, and bias. And with the latter, well, conflict of interest. How could you play your best against someone whose pants you’re going to get in later? He doesn’t say it exactly like that; he does have some decorum, but that’s the implication. But Janay and Lindsay are so sweet together. And I think loving each other makes them play even better together. Doesn’t seem distracting to me at all. When they’re both on the court with me, I can at least count on them to set real screens for each other, unlike some of the other fake, dipping-away-from-contact screens some of my teammates set.

“Aww,” I whisper to Lindsay because I can’t help myself.

“Don’t even start,” she says, but she’s smiling. Maybe it’s a joy for their love to be witnessed, even on a minute scale, even for just a second. Janay raises her eyebrows at us, then speeds ahead to throw her arm around Simone’s shoulder.

“Ready to be De Luca and chuck up any shot you possibly can?” I ask.

That’s how game prep practice works. The non-starters and the practice players (dudes who play rec and like helping us out) play important roles on the other team. Since Lindsay is De Luca’s height— 5 ft. 8 in.– and has a lightning-quick release, she gets to step into her arrogant shoes.

“Honestly?” she says. “There are worse ways to spend a practice.”

“That’s fair, that’s fair.”

Practice starts the same as always: stretching, a few easy runs, warm-up shots, then it’s go-time. Shooting drills, then running through our plays. Then Coach throws on the defense, modeling Richmond’s 3-2 trapping zone. They want to force us out of our rhythm? I’d like to see them try. Too bad for them, I keep my cool under pressure. I never change my face and let anyone know what I’m thinking or feeling, good or bad. You won’t see me sticking my stupid tongue out and saluting the crowd.

Then it’s time for us to play defense on “Richmond.” Lindsay as De Luca. They run a few plays, and she doesn’t take the slightly open shots she’s given.

“Williams, get your head on straight. You aren’t you today. You’re the country’s most accurate sharpshooter. Shape up,” says Coach McDonnell, my favorite assistant. She was a point guard here back in her day. She’s fierce and scary in the best way.

Meanwhile, I’m talking to my teammates who keep letting her get so open: guard her as if she has no conscience. As if she’ll chuck it up from anywhere, any time: a Hail Mary full of ego type thing.

A new play, same thing: it’s clear Lindsay—great player, great teammate, humble freshman—doesn’t know how to step outside herself and occupy someone else. Well fuck it, I’ll do it.

“Coach,” I say, grabbing the ball from Lindsay and directing her to take my spot in the zone. “You mind?”

My head coach grumbles but gives me the okay. I’m a senior now. We’ve been together for four years. He trusts me as his point guard and leader.

“I’ll be De Luca for a while,” I say.

And just like that, something clicks inside of me, and I transform. I’m no longer a quiet, steady point guard, a good player but often overlooked. I’m a superstar, and I know it. I start walking like De Luca, shoulders back, taking on the world. She walks around knowing her team would follow her anywhere, even if they wouldn’t. She only knows her reality, which is that someone would be crazy not to follow her. And now, I walk that way too. It feels good to be cocky and to show it, to be uninhibited and unashamed. To own your shit. I feel sexy in this body. I hate that I feel sexy in this body. I look down at my forearms, and somehow they are stronger, more defined, the veins mapping directions to her hands. Strong, in-control hands. Those sneaky, quick hands that poke and steal and pester, that steal the ball and go in for an easy two. While I have these hands with the quick release, the shot is in before you even know I’ve taken it. Wrists that snap hands, following through like birds taking flight. For a second, I imagine all the other things these hands are capable of: gripping thighs and ass, spanking, coaxing an orgasm out of someone. Why did I do that? Gross, I don’t want to imagine De Luca doing those things. I don’t even know if she’s gay or not. God, who fucking cares! Now it’s my turn to have to get my head in the game. Focus. Look alive inside her stupid, muscular body.

The ball is in, and I am more confident than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m not me—I’m accessing De Luca through some type of alternate plane where we can borrow each other’s bodies if only we promise to give them back in the same shape we found them. We will see about that. Anytime I have half an inch, I launch a shot. I hit more than I ever would as me, in my body. I’m unstoppable. I’m a nationally-ranked player. I’m on every t-shirt. I’m projected to go number four in the WNBA draft, and I play like it. I shake every defender, I penetrate the paint, drawing two defenders and sinking a tough and-one floater. I’ve never done that move in my life. Why hadn’t I? Why only in her body do I feel I have permission? Why only in her body am I confident enough to dominate? Direct, I can do. But dominate? Never me. Now, I can make people fall over their own feet with my crossover, then climb to their knees and beg me to stop humiliating them, to humiliate them more and bigger and better. I have all the power and control.

“Damn, what the hell has gotten into you?” says Lindsay, after I sink another trey in her face. She laughs a little. “Guess it’s Gia who has gotten into you.”

“Fuck off,” I say, even though it’s true.

Next, I run one of Richmond’s out-of-bounds plays designed to get her a corner three, and I knock it down.

“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” says the coach. “Switch back with Linds. Linds, no hesitation, alright?”

And just like that, I’m back to being me. I’m solid and smart on defense, but my hands are my hands. A little less quick. But still, they’ve done their fair share of gripping. Speaking of which, my fuck buddy, Elena, will be at our game against Richmond. I like having someone to search for in the stands. It makes me feel sexy and on display.

***

Two days later, and it’s nearly game time. We warm up on the court. The stands fill. After some scanning, I spot Elena up in the corner with a friend, holding a flask. She gives me a little wave when she catches my eye, and I shoot her a nod back. My parents sit in their usual seats with my baby brother, Marcus, ten years old and not yet too cool to be my biggest fan. He’s holding a sign that says— #11 Alexander the Great—because he’s just learned about him in school and wants to claim the title for our family. I can’t wait to learn what his next hyperfixation will be. He is my favorite person alive.

I can’t help but notice De Luca’s family on the other side. They’ve got noise makers. Countless signs. Foam fingers. Face painting. Those plastic clappers. You’d think they were drunk at an Eagles game after tailgating all day. Last time we played Richmond, my dad overheard Gia’s dad talking shit on me after, something like, That Alexander is a dirty player, she should have fouled out in the first half if they were calling the game right. So now I know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that.

Buzzer sounds, and after our huddles, we make our way onto the court, tucking our jerseys in, adjusting our shirts, our hair, the all of us ready to go to battle. Maybe it’s a shit metaphor, but that’s what it feels like every time. An immediate intimacy. The imagined threat of death, because really, losing feels like death to the most competitive among us. My entire life has been spent finding a way to win win win. One of the things I always hated about De Luca in AAU was that her team would win, and she’d throw a bitch fit if she wasn’t the leading scorer. I can’t stand that selfish type of attitude. Go play an individual sport if that’s how you want to be. She seems to have matured since then, at least externally. Maybe she reserves her bitch fits for when she’s alone, but I don’t know, I’m not convinced that anyone can ever truly change.

Richmond is heavily favored to win this game, and they play like it; that is, they play lazily, overconfidently. We take advantage. We smother De Luca. We execute our zone to perfection. Our shooters do their thing. Our post players fight for and win position; they command authority. I sneak a few elbows in De Luca’s sternum whenever I turn to box her out.

“Fuck off me,” she says, shoving me in the back. I fall dramatically, and the ref calls a foul on her.

“Blue, number 25.”

She throws her arms in the air and stomps away. “Oh my god, are you kidding me?”

We go back and forth like that. Picking at each other. Taunting each other. Getting in subtle hits whenever we can. She’s frustrated that she isn’t getting quality shots, and the ones she is getting aren’t falling. A nightmare for her and the Richmond Spiders. Meanwhile, my team remains in sync. Everything is aligned. Finally, toward the end of the first half, I’m bringing the ball up the court under pressure from her, her hands busy and prying and irritating, and finally she pokes it out, and it’s loose, and I’m determined not to let her steal it from me. Fuck her, she can score on me, but she’ll never steal it from me. I run after the ball, hungry and vicious, full of fury and heat, and dive on the floor, wrestling her for the ball, the both of us tied up, refusing to let go.

I hate her / I hate her / I hate her so fucking much: I won’t let her win this loose ball. It’s mine. This game, this season is mine. She has the pros after this—this is all I have left. God, I wish I could end her career today. I really do. I’m that cruel sometimes. While we fight for the ball, I’m only vaguely aware of the positions of our bodies, of mine on top of hers, the weight and pressure of my movements digging into her. The whistle blow, and we continue our struggle—the refs have to pull us apart.

“That’s not my leader,” says Coach. “You know better than that, Alexander.”

I ignore him. Only once we’ve been separated do I realize that my bad knee, the one with a million meniscus scopes, had been twisted something awful, and I’d had De Luca’s arm pinned down in an awkward position. My knee feels all crunchy and stiff, but I walk it off. She rubs her shoulder, grimacing, but refuses to take a break. That, I can understand. That, I can respect. Play now, through the pain; you can rest and recover later. That’s what drugs and ice are for. Still, I won’t show her that I’m in pain, too. Big fucking baby. The WNBA is going to be a lot tougher than this, I want to say. They’ll fucking chew you up and spit you out before you can fix your stupid pre-wrap.

The rest of the game goes similarly. At one point, she takes my legs out when I go in for a layup, and they call a personal foul, though she deserves a flagrant for that bullshit. I figure the best reaction is no reaction, to not let her see she’s rattled me. She stares me down as I saunter to the foul line. For a moment, I slip back into her body again. I’m back at practice, playing the role of De Luca. I get cocky with it. Act nonchalant at the line. I sink both free throws then nod at Elena, feeling myself. My brother shouts, “That’s my commander!”

We run back down the court side by side. Coach calls for us to switch to man-to-man, and I take her. She leans her hurt shoulder into mine, knocking me off balance just a little. I recover.

“Guess your shoulder’s not so hurt after all,” I say.

“Watch this next play. Deep three, from dead center. Even though I’ve told you, you still won’t be able to stop me.”

“Too bad you’re like three for thirty today.”

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me,” she says, setting up on the block. “I’m touched, really.”

“That’s my job, asshole.”

A small smile. “Not a bad job, don’t you think?”

And then she does it, even though she told me where she was going, what she planned to do: her two teammates set a monster double screen on me at nineteen feet and my teammates don’t call it out or step out on her. Three points for De Luca. She does the Michael Jordan shrug as she backpedals down the court, and I want to slap her across the face and remind her that he deserved to do that after sinking his sixth three-pointer in the first half of the NBA finals.

Despite De Luca hitting a hot streak in the last four minutes or so, we end up pulling off the win. It’s a true team win; everybody played their asses off. The coaches couldn’t be happier. We all float down to the locker room, where Coach sings our praises. We blast Single Ladies and celebrate; people make plans to go out. Some players shower there, others slip on sweats and hoodies quickly so they can run out to see family. I hate showering in public; it freaks me out to be naked in front of my teammates. I don’t know why. I get on my warm clothes and head to the training room to make an ice bag for my banged-up knee. I have the room to myself. The quiet feels nice after the loudness of the game. I grab a bag and lift the door to the ice machine, then scoop the ice into the bag. When I close the lid, Gia is standing there. In her jersey shorts and a sports bra for some fucking reason (probably to show off her six pack, like who cares). I look at her. She looks at me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking or feeling. I don’t know why I care.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as if I own the place.

“I just need to get some ice before we head on the road.”

Her voice is quieter than I expected. Her demeanor is a bit more tame, shy even. I move out of the way and prop my foot up on a training table so I can wrap the ice bag around my knee. When I’m done, she’s still scooping the ice.

“You fall in?” I ask.

I don’t know why I’m even talking to her. I should just leave. But my body doesn’t want that. What does it want? I should find that out.

She doesn’t respond, so I approach her. “Hey, you okay?”

She lowers the lid and smiles at me. Cocky as all hell. She has an ice bag in one hand and a piece of ice in the other. She lifts the ice to her cheek and then rubs it down her neck, leaving a trail of water.

“I was overheating in your gym. Have they ever heard of AC?” she says.

“It’s January.”

“So, I can still be hot in January.”

“I guess so,” I say. I watch her hand drag the ice down the other side of her neck. I watch the small bursts of pleasure on her face, the sharp intake of breath. It’s almost too much to take.

“Want one? It feels so good.”

Before I can answer, she removes the ice from her neck and reaches around to the back of my mine, running it from the base of my skull down to the top of my spine. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. She laughs.

“That good, huh?”

I don’t know what she’s doing, what I’m doing, why I’m allowing this to happen. She brings the ice around to my front and dips it under the layers of hoodie and t-shirt, tracing my one collarbone and then the other. I hold my breath and flex my jaw, terrified to reveal that I like it. That’s just what she would need, another reason to be obsessed with herself. I wonder what it would feel like for her to put it in her mouth and get on her knees, bringing that ice to my clit. But wait, why the fuck did I think that? I don’t want this fucking asshole, De Luca, like that. No, I just like the sensation. It has nothing to do with her. It could be anybody. Hell, next time Elena’s in my bed, I’ll bring an ice tray out for her to use on me.

Just when I think I might crumble from pleasure, she pulls the ice out of my shirt and pops it in her mouth, grinning.

“My coach says you don’t have a weakness, but I think I just found yours,” she says.

“What are you going to do, bring an ice bucket onto the court?” I ask.

She beckons for me to come closer, and I do. For some reason, I’ll do anything she says, right now, in this moment. She grabs my arm and pulls me closer. She holds the ice between her teeth and leans in as if she’s going to pass it to me. In spite of myself, in spite of all my hatred for her, I lose it, I nearly collapse with desire. My clit is throbbing so fucking hard against my boxer briefs. I’m so, so hard for her, and now I recognize that it is her, the herness of her, the specificity of this star before me—at least I think it is. It seems my hatred for her is intertwined with my passion for the game, my fear of losing—I want her as badly as I want to win, and she is, whether I want to admit it or not, a winner. I moan softly, against my will, humiliatingly so. I want to fuck the living shit out of her. I want to fuck her for some ungodly amount of hours. I want to growl at her to get on her knees. I want to pull her hair while she licks and sucks me. I want to fuck her face until I wipe that cocky grin right off of it.

The door swings open. It’s our athletic trainer, Jen. Gia recovers instantly, without a hitch.

“Thanks so much for letting me grab some ice,” she says to Jen, holding up her bag. “Appreciate it.”

Then to me: “See you around, Alexander. You won’t get so lucky next time.” And then, smiling and slightly biting her bottom lip: “Sleep well, babe.” She slaps me lightly on the cheek like I’m her pet. And then she’s gone. And I’m worked up. And confused. And turned on by the confusion. Elena asks me to hang out that night but I tell her I can’t and head back to my empty room—my roommate Natalie is undoubtedly with her boyfriend— and with my t-shirt, wet from the ice, still on, I touch myself, first rubbing my clit and then holding it between my pointer finger and my thumb, jerking it off like a cock, and I can feel the ice on my clavicle, the shakes and quivers she gave me, and I come so fast I don’t even have time to fantasize what I might actually want with her.