Place was buzzing, you know how it is. Post-game chill vibe at 'The Spot' – Royals territory tonight. Loud music thumping underneath your ribs, the smell of overpriced cocktails and desperation hanging thick in the air. Deji was stuck mid-sentence with Marco, who was, as usual, mid-something ridiculous himself, probably another over-exaggerated story about almost spilling beer on Coach during practice. Deji was nodding, yeah, yeah, Marco, hilarious, while his eyes were doing their own damn thing, scanning the room. It's not like he was looking for anything, really. Just people-watching. Athlete's curse, always gotta be observing the field, even when the field is a crowded bar.

And then she just... pops into focus. Like the room's been blurry and someone finally twisted the focus ring just right and bam – clarity. Across the room, near the windows, all bathed in that kinda fake-sunset LA light they pump into these places. Group of girls, laughing, talking, all the usual... but her. Fuck, man. She's not even doing anything crazy. Jeans, simple top, nothing screaming "look at me!" And that's the damn point. Everyone else in here is styled to the nines, practically begging for attention. But she? She's just there. Laughing with her friends, maybe checking her phone for a sec, but mostly just... existing. Being herself. And in a room full of fakes, that shit's like a neon sign flashing "REAL" in your face.

"...and then Coach was like—DEJI! You even listening, bro?" Marco's voice yanks him back, but Deji's gaze is glued.

"Huh? Yeah, yeah, Coach, hilarious," he mumbles, waving a hand vaguely, keeping his eyes locked on her like she's the damn ball and the buzzer's about to go off. Marco just keeps rambling.

But Deji? Deji's brain is doing overtime. It's not even just that she's beautiful, objectively hot as fuck, yeah, whatever. LA's full of beautiful. It's... something else. The way she moves, the way she holds herself. Confident, yeah, but not in that bitchy, ice-queen way. More like... she knows she's got it, but she doesn't need to shove it down everyone's throat. She's just... vibing. In her own space.

And that, man, that is fucking magnetic.

A smirk tugs at the corner of Deji's lips. Oh yeah. Game on. This ain't the court, but the principle's the same. Spot your target, assess the defense, plan your play.

He watches her subtly, analyzing, observing patterns. Basketball brain, always on. Her and her friends in their own little bubble, laughing, gesturing, drinks swirling. She's leaning in, whispering something to the blonde girl next to her, then throws her head back laughing – loud enough to be heard over the bar buzz, but not obnoxious. Genuinely amused. Cute as fuck.

Minute passes. Maybe two. Marco's story finally winds down. He takes a swig of his drink, eyes still tracking her. And then, jackpot. Movement.

Yes, bless the alcohol gods, she's peeling herself away from her girlfriends. Not making a big deal, just a casual slide-out, like she's going to grab a refill or hit the restroom. Perfect. Opportunity window – opening.

Deji straightens up, pushes off the wall, moves with that effortless glide he's got on the court, the kind of movement that looks like zero effort but is honed from years of drills and sweat.

He cuts through the crowd without even seeming to try, people parting around him like he's Moses and this place is the Red Sea of douchebags. He can feel eyes on him, the low hum of recognition, whispers, maybe a phone or two discreetly angled his way. Doesn't give a shit. Tunnel vision engaged. Target locked.

He stops a few feet away, not crowding her, giving space. Not some animal pouncing on prey. He's Deji Adebayo. He's got finesse. He lets her get the bartender's attention, order, lets the transaction play out. Patience, my brother, patience. This ain't a three-pointer, can't rush this shit.

He catches her eye, holds it, that half-smirk playing on his lips. No cheesy grin, no puppy-dog eyes. Just... Deji. Confident, amused, a little bit dangerous maybe. And then he speaks, voice low and steady, cutting through the bar noise like a perfectly timed pass.

"You look like you're about to commit a serious crime in here."