Blake Griffin Imagines

The Female Ref {Rated R}

The cameras were shining bright on Lydia as she walked out onto the basketball court for her first ever game as a full-time referee in the NBA. At twenty-six she was the youngest ref in the association by at least six years. Her hiring had raised a lot of eyebrows, and it had taken until the middle of December to even become official but even longer to finally be hired and called.

And her first game?

Phoenix Suns at Los Angeles Clippers.

The arena was loud as hell. Lydia pulled her shoulder-length blonde hair back into a new ponytail. She approached midcourt with Jason Phillips and Bennie Adams, the two officials in the crew with her. Obviously, she wasn’t the head ref for the game, seeing as it was her first official night on the job. The plan was for her to just do her job in silence.

“Good evening fellas,” Jason said at half court. He shook hands with the representatives from both teams.

The players started shaking hands and greeting one another. Lydia was offered handshakes by the Suns’ players first. She gave them friendly smiles and pleasantries. Her eyes fell on the Clippers’ men—Chris Paul, DeAndre Jordan, and Blake Griffin. Even though you technically weren’t allowed to have preferences in the league, Lydia was a huge fan of basketball. And she had her teams that she followed in the league.

Chris Paul offered his hand to her. “Hello Miss Granger.”

“Do I have to call you Mr. Paul?” Lydia asked.

“That’s my dad. Just call me Chris.”

DeAndre Jordan was next to say hello. He was so tall. It was still a little weird to be surrounded by such big men and have a degree of control over their actions. Lydia didn’t take advantage of that by any means. She knew referees who let their title and their power in the game overtake them and abuse it. That wasn’t her thing at all.

“Good evening,” Blake Griffin said. He smiled down at her.

“Good evening to you too,” Lydia blushed slightly. Griffin’s eyes were dark and assessing. Somehow, she was kind of glad she was wearing such an unflattering outfit. The uniform made it hard to decipher her curves underneath. “You all have a clean game, you hear? I’m in the post tonight.”

“We’ll try,” Blake promised.

Somehow, Lydia didn’t put too much weight on his words. He was a boy, an athlete, and inherently competitive. In the heat of the basketball game, his inhibition would fly out the window and he’d be focused singularly on the game and more specifically the basketball. Which would probably lead to a number of problems.

Lydia held her whistle between her teeth. Bennie stood midcourt with the basketball, preparing to toss it in the air for tipoff. DeAndre Jordan bent his knees with his right arm raised above his head in preparation with the Miles Plumlee. Ben blew his whistle while sending the ball high. Chris Paul gained possession of the tipped rock, and the game was underway.

If by coincidence or by horrible chances, Lydia was on the side of the bench. Which meant she’d be getting barked at for most of the game. Although she didn’t care much because she didn’t have a problem with coaches and players bitching to her—sometimes it was funny—she just had a particular feeling that this game was going to be one for the ages.

Her eyes flittered over the banging bodies in the paint, looking for any sort of excessive contact. She was a post player sympathizer, if you had to put it into words. Her biggest pet peeve were the referees who would call a foul if a big man brushed against a guard, but a post player could be drilled play after play and nothing be called.