If you’d asked me a year ago what would keep me apart from Natalie Czapski, I might have said her refusal to commit, or my inability to ask for what I want, or our mutual reluctance to be a public couple. I never would’ve guessed that, at some point, the main thing coming between us would be airplanes.
My flight is only about an hour from Los Angeles when the plane lurches, the ice in my gin and tonic clinking ominously. The PA system crackles to life, and the pilot—with a vocal cadence so similar to other pilots that they must teach it in pilot school—says, “Folks, we’ve got some bad news.” A collective groan rumbles through the cabin.
My trip started out like a fairytale: Natalie just signed a sponsorship deal with Delta (“the official airline partner of the WNBA!”), and in exchange for some very stilted “acting” in a series of semi-funny commercials, she got permanent first-class status. Somehow, her magical upgrade powers extended to my flight, so here I am in 3A with a real cocktail in a real glass.
I’d sent Natalie a screenshot of the new seat details, and she’d texted back, “Happy anniversary, babe. Wish I was with you.”
It’s not our actual anniversary, not by normal standards, but it is the Friday of All-Star Weekend again, which Natalie is insisting on celebrating as The Day It Began.
After (nearly) a year of dating, I’ve gotten used to being a WAG. It doesn’t even register anymore when she posts a goofy video to TikTok, and taking couples photos during Natalie’s red-carpet events doesn’t make me anxious or avoidant like it used to. Those moments are a banal kind of awful, like doing my taxes. But there is something nice about being in her arms in a way that the whole world can see.
What I haven’t fully gotten used to is the consideration Natalie gives me when she’s acting like my girlfriend, not a fuckboy—especially when she’s trying to make up for acting like a fuckboy. It turns out that Natalie Czapski in a relationship is a full-on assault of kindness, attention, and understanding. She books me cars, she slips notes into my luggage, she dog-ears novels so I know what parts she loved.
The plane jolts again, and I squeeze my glass.
“Looks like LAX is having some signaling issues,” the pilot continues, “so for our safety, they’re diverting us to the Phoenix airport for now.”
I hear a lot of annoyed sighs and outraged chatter. Someone behind me tries to bargain with the flight attendant—something about officiating his niece’s wedding—as if she has the power to land this plane in Los Angeles herself.
“Bad news, babe,” I text Natalie. Between her latest road trip, my time in LA for Cougars training camp, and my travel to report on an LGBT-friendly youth football camp run by one of the New York Giants’ tight ends, we haven’t seen each other in two weeks.
“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!” she texts back. “Fuck, I miss you so much.” Then a selfie, her brow furrowed with sadness and two of her fingers sucked into her own mouth. It’s nothing explicit, not really, but it makes me go liquid hot.
“Don’t get me worked up, I’m in public!” I type back.
By the time I board the new plane, I have already read half of Hanif Abdurraqib’s There's Always This Year. I know I’m not going to make it in time to see Natalie before the All-Star events start, and I send her a quick “See you at Crypto” with a broken heart emoji as we take off again.
By the time I arrive at the arena, I’ve missed the orange carpet and most of the pre-event cocktail party. A heroic coordinator finds me an empty office where I swap my sweats for black jeans and spray myself with enough deodorant to cover up the smells of perspiration and airport before I make my way to one of Crypto’s VIP lounges.
I look underdressed in the thinning crowd, standing amidst cocktail tables littered with Glossier-pink napkins discarded by guests who were leaving to find their seats. I scan the room for Natalie, having the same problem I always have when I look for her at a work event: Almost everyone here is as tall as she is. But then I see her, standing in the corner of the room, and I try and fail not to think sappy things, like how seeing her for the first time in two weeks is like watching the sun rise. I also try and fail not to rush like an idiot across the room.
I’m halfway to her when she turns her head and spots me. Her face breaks into one of her supersize smiles. Another sappy thought: Her smile looks brighter because she’s smiling at me.
Natalie excuses herself from her conversation partner—who is, holy fucking shit, Diana Taurasi—and I fling myself into her arms like I’m a soldier coming home from war. We slot together in the way that’s now familiar, her chin on top of my head and hands on the back of my neck, my face against her collarbone. She’s wearing one of her arguably-too-sexy suits with no shirt underneath, and I have so much access to her skin.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say. “You smell good.” I brush just the tip of my tongue against her clavicle, for a clandestine little taste of her.
“Pervert.” She chuckles low in her throat, and she dips her head to kiss my neck.
It feels so good to be back in her arms, and it feels equally wretched to be pulled apart again almost immediately. Looking too busy to care about our sad little saga, Ashley comes to take Natalie to her courtside seat before the broadcast starts. Natalie isn’t participating in any of the skills challenges, having told reporters who asked about this choice that she “wanted to give the other girls a fighting chance to win this year.”
I make my way to the unofficial WAG section and claim a spot with Romy and Jay. We catch up as we root for Jada in the three-point shootout, my eyes following the swing of Natalie’s braids as she cheers everyone on.
When the events end, Natalie and I pile into a Range Rover with three of her teammates, off to the first after-party. Everybody’s rowdy—high on the night being young and sweet.
We claim the back seat. Then Natalie squeezes my hand and bends down to whisper in my ear. “We only have to stay an hour.”
I cock an eyebrow, knowing how people at these parties make demands of her. “Oh, really? Is that what your Reebok contract says?”
“I swear, I’m telling Ashley one hour, then I’m gone.”
I resist rolling my eyes or dismissing this as wishful thinking. I let Natalie believe in her pretty lie, and prepare myself for a long night.
When we pull up in front of an artfully rustic restaurant, she kisses me quickly on the lips, squeezes my hand, then lets herself get swept away into the event.
At the one-hour mark—and after catching up with some of the players who were my sources during the brief stint when I covered the W—I snag two little pots of chocolate mousse and pull away from the crowd. Then I make my way to the back corner of the patio, where Louisa sits beneath two huge olive trees. She invites me to join her and clinks her beer bottle against my half-full martini glass.
“I’m overstimulated.” Louisa’s velvety voice makes that observation sound almost sweet, less a complaint.
“Nat claimed we were going to stay one hour and then get out of here.”
Louisa snorts. “I hope you didn’t believe her.”
“Not a chance.”
We sit quietly together, watching the people around us socialize.
After another hour, Natalie comes to find me. We are some of the last people to leave the party. But on the way home, she’s in a mood I find so charming—when she’s incredibly sleepy but also very chatty—monologuing about everyone she talked to all night and everything she’s done for the past fifteen days, her words coming out soft and a little slurred, everything mumbled from exhaustion.
When we get to her apartment, she kisses me against the closed door and promises to fuck me within an inch of my life, a sentiment that is immediately undermined by how deeply she yawns between words. Like the lie about the party, I don’t believe her for a second, but it makes me feel enveloped in love to hear her say it. She gets into bed to wait for me, then falls asleep while I’m brushing my teeth.
When I wake up, the rumpled white comforter is glowing under the soft morning light. Natalie’s big hand is under my oversized sleep T-shirt and splayed over the curve of my lower stomach. The long line of her body is pressed to me. I feel like a fish in a net, if the fish loved the net and wanted to have sex with it.
As much as I want to stay wrapped up in her, I know from experience that within minutes, my little movements would wake her up, and I want her to get as much sleep as she can before we have to get back out to her brand events and cocktail parties and the actual All-Star Game.
Carefully, I shift my weight, trying to slide out from under her various limbs, but the hand on my stomach moves to my hips, tugging me in tighter.
“Not so fast.” Her voice is gravelly from sleep.
“Sorry I woke you up,” I say, shifting my hips back so my ass rubs against her.
She purrs, satisfied. “Nah, I’ve been up for a while. I was waiting for you.”
Her hand around my hip makes its way between my legs, rucking up the hem of my loose boxers. Natalie knows I don’t sleep in underwear, but she doesn’t move her fingers any higher, content to tease at my thighs as my skin burns hotter and desire starts to pulse between them. It’s delicious; it’s terrible. I’ve waited long enough.
“Touch me,” I slur, already on my way to being sex-delirious.
“Mmm.” Natalie moves her fingers in achingly slow circles. “You can wait a little longer.”
I shift my hips with a whine. If she won’t move her fingers to my pussy maybe I can move myself to her fingers.
She bites my shoulder, and I hiss.
“Impatient,” she admonishes.
“Uh-huh,” I agree.
Natalie’s hand moves from my thigh and pushes my shirt up. She teases one nipple, then the other, pinching them as they harden under her fingers. I can’t help the little begging noises that escape my throat as she draws this out, ignoring my desperation.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I roll on top of her so we’re chest to chest, face to face. I don’t give her any time to protest before I’m kissing her, deep and wet, messy and possessive, in the way I know she likes. She groans into my mouth, sliding a hand up to the back of my head and wedging her thigh between my legs, as if it’s possible to get closer than we already are.
Her lips still on mine, Natalie starts undressing me, hastily and inexpertly tugging at my shirt, only breaking the kiss for the second it takes to pull it over my head.
She puts her mouth back on mine and pulls down the waistband of my boxers. Then I’m naked, and Natalie’s pushing me onto my back, kissing down my chest between my breasts, not even taking the time to stop at my nipples, and then her mouth is on me, hot and wet. She sucks on my clit, flicking it with her tongue, and I’m shocked by how fast I get to the edge, spasming like I could come already.
“Natalie, oh my god, I’m close,” I whine, and she shifts her mouth, kissing and licking everywhere she can reach, biting at my inner thighs. As if this is a reprieve. Then her tongue is back on my clit, applying pressure where I need it. My thighs start quivering, and in a rush, I come.
I laugh stupidly, breathlessly. Natalie lays her head beside mine on the pillow, kisses my cheek, and says, “I’ve been thinking about that for fifteen days.”
I turn so I can reach her mouth with mine, kissing and tasting myself on her. I let my fingers slip carefully between her legs, pressing against the seam of her boxer briefs where she’s wet for me. She groans, so softly.
Before we got together, Natalie told me, she mostly topped, mostly didn’t like getting fucked, but as we slept with each other again and again, she found herself curious, eager to experiment and try, and now it’s something that we explore, when she wants to open up or when I want to be a little bit possessive.
I press my lips to her neck and whisper, “Do you want my fingers?”
“Yes,” she hisses, jerking her hips. I find her clit through a layer of fabric and then undress her slowly, taking my time to reveal her muscular stomach, her little breasts, her hard nipples, her strong thighs.
I slide my fingers so carefully down into the fuzz of her dark pubic hair. I start with one finger, getting her used to the stretch, loving the feel of her, warm and wet. Then I slip another finger in and curl them. She moans, her voice breaking, and then the stillness breaks, too.
The thing I realized when I started fucking Natalie is that she bottoms athletically, and I’m along for the ride. She shifts us so she’s half over me, holds onto my shoulder for support, and starts rolling and thrusting her hips, kissing me where she can reach. Her movements are inelegant; she pants and gasps. I let her work herself on me, keeping my fingers pressed into her G-spot, sucking on her nipple, bringing her closer to the edge. When I feel her start to clench and stutter, I carefully slide my fingers to her clit, circling again and again until she shakes, collapses, and comes.
We lay together, breathing against each other’s skin, smelling each other on our hands and tasting each other on our mouths.
“We really missed each other, huh?” Natalie says, dazed.
Yes, we did miss each other, and I realize that this is what being with Natalie Czapski is going to be. Bits of time apart, the ache of longing for each other, texts and FaceTimes sent across the country as reminders of how much we care, and mind-blowing reunions. Missing each other and coming back together is as much a part of how we love each other, how we live with each other, as basketball games are.
Nat kisses me again. Then, with her big smile, says, “C’mon, let’s get up.”
And I’ll follow her anywhere, so I do.
