It’s a no brainer why the league loves her😭

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@exipredmilk
It’s a no brainer why the league loves her😭

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Azzis little head shake lol shes back to making P answer all the questions, Also that eye contact 😭🤭
Azzis little head shake lol shes back to making P answer all the questions, Also that eye contact 😭🤭
Paige Bueckers Tonight:
23 points, 9-16 FG, 2 assists, and 1 block

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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just lead me home
deliverydriver!paige bueckers x businesswoman!azzi fudd
wc: 8.3k [ao3 link]
contains: fluff, useless lesbians
summary: paige and azzi both live and work in dallas. paige is an amazon delivery driver. azzi is desperate for her attention.
a/n: hi so basically this is paige is delivery driver and azzi keeps ordering shit to see her. this got suggested to me a little bit ago by @solieloveswbb and i thought the idea was rlly funny and rlly cute so i wrote it!! hope u all enjoy
The Cannibal’s Canción
CHAPTER 1
Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd
Previous: Prologue
A/N: Guys, I wrote this last year so there might be aspects of the story that don’t line up with the current 2026 WNBA team rosters.
𝐀𝐙𝐙𝐈
I used to think I was one of the blessed ones.
Not in the casual, normal way.
Not the "good family, good health, good grades" kind of blessed.
No, I mean... really blessed.
Ordained. Covered. Shielded.
I was born into love. Raised in a house where warmth lived in the walls. Love was poured into me with every breath. My parents never once let me doubt who I was, or what I could become. Told me I could move mountains, and then stood beside me while I did.
I had talent. A family that nurtured it. Resources and money that allowed it. Coaches who saw it. Cameras that followed it. A body that could take a beating and still stand tall. And then I gained faith, too. Not just on Sundays, but the kind that wrapped around me when everything else felt like glass.
I was chosen. That's what it felt like. My name meant something. God had given me the means to make it mean everything. And Mom taught me to never take that for granted.
And then there was her.
I met the love of my life when I was fifteen years old.
Most people spend decades searching for something that real, that clear. Some never find it. Some never even find out a love so all consuming could exist. I didn't even have to look. She just... showed up.
Paige Madison Bueckers.
We built a whole life off timing and talent and chemistry and understanding each other in ways no one else could.
From USA basketball to college arenas to WNBA playoff we were side by side. The IT couple. The epitome of love. Loyalty. Devotion.
For a while there... I had it all.
Accolades.
Wealth.
Pride.
Family.
Faith.
Her.
God didn't just bless me. He flooded me.
And I thanked Him. Every. Single. Day.
So much so...
That it never occurred to me he might take it all away. Restore the balance. That I might not always be the favorite.
No one prepares you for loss that doesn't come with a casket.
No one whispers a prayer over you before they bury your bare body underneath dirt.
Left to be swallowed up.
Left to become nothing.
Left to become carcass.
A shell of who you used to be.
A void.
The glass doors of the GSV headquarters part with a soft, obedient hiss I've come to associate with mornings that feel too cheaply expensive.
Too expensive.
Too far from what matters.
Too ignorant.
My manager, Mckenzie's feet patter behind me in double-time, voice tight with updates I'm only half-hearing. I nod at the right beats. Don't slow down. Don't look back.
"They bumped the media shoot to Thursday, and Nike needs you in LA by the 12th. Your body test numbers look great. Dr. Langford said your torque's up 12%, which is...Azzi, you listening?"
"Yeah, Mack. Keep going."
The lobby smells like filtered air and new money. There's lemon polish on the floors and an art installation in the shape of a gold basketball suspended mid-air. It spins silently as we pass. I don't look at it.
My cornrows are fresh. A little too fresh. They slide against my lower back, itch along my scalp, tug hard when I squint. But I like the pain. It keeps me here. Tethered.
The muscles in my arms are twice what they were at twenty-three.
So is the weight I carry.
People think I've grown.
But really...I've just hardened.
My mind is still stuck somewhere in the remnants of what my life used to be.
There's a difference.
The heavy oak doors give a muted thunk behind me.
Natalie and Ohemaa are already there, Coach flipping through a file. Ohemaa on a call. Scouting and press staff littered around the room.
Kaitlyn's in the corner with Carla. Kait's in grey sweats, one knee up on the seat. Carla's curled beside her in her oversized black and purple GSV hoodie, a pink smoothie in one hand, phone in the other.
I scan the room.
"Where's everyone?" I ask, voice flat but firm.
Natalie doesn't look up. "Late. As usual."
I sigh and slide into the chair closest to the front of the table. The leather's still cold from the A/C. My jeans scratch against it. My fingers tap against the edge, once, twice.
Natalie finally lifts her eyes.
"Kate's leaving."
My head jerks up. "What?"
"Didn't check your phone yesterday?" she asks, glancing at me.
"You know I'm in the gym on Fridays," I say sharply.
"Well," Oheema chimes in, snapping her call shut, "Martin's leaving. Signed with vegas."
Fuck.
"Since when?" I sit back in my chair. Jaw tight.
"Few days ago. Young's retiring. Vegas needed someone fast, and Kate's always had her eye on them. She's already on a flight." Natalie motions with her pen.
I let out a slow exhale, rubbing my jaw.
"That's our starting PG." I mutter to myself.
Natalie tosses the folder down with a sharp little snap. "Welcome to roster week."
The door creaks.
Sonia slips in hoodie halfway over her head, silent as per usual. A protein bar is clutched in one hand, her eyes sleepy but focused.
Saniya trails behind her, thumbs flying across her phone, nails tapping away like Morse code. "Texting good morning to Marina, Rivers?" Kaitlyn grins at her.
"Happy wife, happy life." Saniya shrugs, smiling, which immediately drops when she senses the tension floating in the room.
"Now who shat in who's coffee?" Saniya mumbles, dropping into the chair across from me, pocketing her phone.
"Kate's gone," I say.
Sonia stops mid-bite. "...Damn." Then: "To Vegas?"
I nod.
She makes a low noise in her throat. "She always liked the white jerseys. Reminded her of Iowa."
"She'd like to win a ring more," Saniya cocks an eyebrow.
"Don't we all, Rivers." Sonia says, barely above a whisper, side eyeing Saniya.
She grins sideways. "Just sayin' Citron."
The next wave comes loud.
Monique and Veronica walk in mid-convo, Veronica calm, Mo already cracking jokes.
"Here comes the girlfriend." Saniya whistles eyeing Veronica.
"Morning, captain," Mo says, smacking my shoulder.
"Morning." I reply. "You okay, V?" I ask Veronica as she settles in her seat.
"Oh..." She says, almost dazed. "So I guess cat's outta the bag."
"Why else would I be up at six in the morning?" Monique presses a finger to her temple.
"Not the time, Billings." I deadpan.
"Mhm?" Kait hums, "but are you okay?" She asks Veronica.
"Yeah, yeah I'm good. We talked about it. We're both grown women, our careers are our priorities right now. We ain't lettin' that affect our relationship."
"That's great and all but what are we gonna do?" Sonia slips the hood of her hoodie off her head.
"We can just sign another one." Mo adds nonchalantly. "Trade our draft pick for a guard."
"If only it was that easy." Oheema leans against the table. "Kate's been with us since we started. A rookie can't compete with that."
"Okay yeah, we're fucked." Mo concurs.
Then the door opens again and in walks Li Yueru, iced coffee in one hand, her bag threatening to knock over a lamp. Laeticia strolls beside her.
I smile despite myself. "How was the flight, Li?"
Li grins wide. "Jetlag not so bad." Then in a lower voice, "the hostess gave me extra cookies, I think she was flirting." She says with her signature bright and heavily accented voice.
"This everybody?" Natalie asks, glancing at her wristwatch.
The door creaks one final time. Diamond Miller slips in, hood up, earbuds in, chewing gum like it's the only thing keeping her conscious. She slides into her seat wordlessly.
Nine of us.
No Kate.
No point guard.
Oheema clears her throat, flips the tablet on, and swipes through something that makes her sigh under her breath.
"Alright. We're down a PG, and none of the free agents left are exactly... first-string material."
"Trade window's open," I say, leaning on one elbow. "There's guards in Atlanta. Maybe call in a favour. Get Te-Hina maybe?"
"Locked down," One of the scouters replies. "If we're spending, she better be playoff-grade. And Te-Hina can't lead. Not yet."
"What about CC?" Saniya says with an almost humorous lilt.
"You think we got enough in salary cap to afford her? The fever are paying her eleven million.” I scoff.
The whole room collectively sighs.
"What about that kid from South Carolina?" Laeticia suggests, eyes lighting. "The one who played backup for the Liberty last year? She's got a nice handle."
"Ciarra Langston?" I wrinkle my nose. "She's quick, but she's rough. We can't shape a rookie in five weeks to have Kate's poise."
"We need someone who can run this shit from Day One." Mo says.
A pause.
Diamond finally lifts her hood off, chews her gum louder than necessary. "You want someone who can lead, score, take hits and dish without losin' steam? Uhh... where we gon' get a miracle from?"
"She's right," Kaitlyn adds. "Training Camp runs in five weeks. We need a machine."
Carla, who's been quiet until now, shifts in her chair and stretches like a cat.
"We need someone who can do what Kate did but better." She leans forward, steeling her posture. "My contract ends after this season and if I leave for France, I want to leave with a chip." She says with a distinct french accent.
That lands heavier than it should've.
No one says anything for a second too long.
I exhale slowly and leans back, my arms folded across my chest.
Natalie clicks her pen.
"Alright. The execs have cleared us." She points to the scouting staff. "We start reaching out this week. I want tapes reviewed, calls made, numbers on contracts. If there's a point guard on this planet who's playoff-ready, we're gonna find her."
"And if we don't?" Sonia murmurs, tossing her protein bar wrapper into a bin in the corner. The shot lands perfectly.
My voice is low, steady.
"We will."
Natalie nods toward her.
"I'll send options by end of day. We'll meet again Monday. Dismissed."
Chairs scrape. People stretch. Diamond's already halfway out the door before anyone can speak.
But I stays still, fingers tapping softly on the glass surface of the table. My eyes drift not to the file, not to Natalie, but somewhere far behind them. Through the walls.
That ache again. That absence.
I wear the GSV jersey and lead the most expensive roster in the league.
We have the gear, the press, the front office brains.
But we don't have a point guard.
I finally stand.
Oheema stops me with a hand to the shoulder. "Congrats, Fudd. You're officially captaining now."
Kaitlyn whoops from behind. "Let's goooo!"
But I just look past them. Voice dull. "Don't congratulate me when we just lost our best guard."
Oheema just takes my response for stern professionalism.
The whole room does.
But Kaitlyn's smile drops, quick.
She knows.
We won a natty together. She's seen me with joy still alive in my bones. Lived with the real me.
But since I joined GSV last season. After leaving Dallas. She's only known the version of me I had to build to not crumble. To keep being grateful. To make good of my privileges and luck.
•••
The city hums beneath me cars threading through the Mission like soft murmurs, headlights blinking through fogged glass. But up here, the silence hangs thick. Heavy. Like it's settled into the furniture.
I sit at the marble island, one arm resting beside a glass of red wine. My glasses are low on my nose, and the blue glow of the tablet reflects against the stemware, casting long, tired shadows across my cheekbones. The tension in my shoulders pulses with every breath.
My back aches. My braids pull tight at the scalp. My eyes burn from scrolling through stat sheets and scouting reports for the last four hours.
I take another slow sip, lips coating in merlot. The very familiar smoky taste sloshing at the back of my throat.
One thing about the offseason...you can drink.
No media. No fines. No early shoot around with Natalie hovering at your six like a disappointed mom with a clipboard.
Just quiet.
And wine.
I scroll. Tap. Scroll again.
Point guard from Italy. Turnover rate's a mess.
Breakout rookie from Phoenix. A highlight reel. No real grit.
Free agent from Spain. Smart shot selection, but too small for our tempo.
None of them fit. Not one.
No one commands the floor. No one has that grip, that gravity, that fire-under-ice control that made Paige—
I exhale hard through her nose. No. I shake my head and shuts my eyes for a second too long.
Don't go there.
But I do.
I always do.
It's like a bruise my mind keeps pressing over and over. Paige.
The way she used to move like the floor belonged to her. The way she chirped at defenders with that crooked half-smile. How her eyes would gleam after a win not because of the scoreboard, but because of the fight.
The way she'd melt into me on buses, planes, hotel couches. Her body folding like she trusted me more than anything and for sometime she did.
I flop back onto the couch with a grunt. Spine hits cushion, head hits leather. The tablet slips off my lap and clatters to the floor.
I lift my wine glass again. Swirl. Sip. Drain what's left.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
It's the kind of place that used to be reserved for movie stars or NBA players. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Exposed beams. Smart lights that shift with the sun. The league's changed. Boomed. Partly, because of Paige. Partly Because of me. Partly because of us and the storylines we brought with our connection.
It's not how it was when I came into it. Rookies don't start on seventy thousand dollar salaries anymore. We don't need to have a roster full of brands for our bank accounts to hit a million.
The W isn't just a league anymore. It's a billion-dollar brand. TV deals, sold-out arenas, Europe tours. We fly private. We wear custom Nike tunnel fits. Our paychecks got commas. Real ones.
This place—top floor, corner unit in a high-rise above Dolores Park—is proof of it. Proof that the world finally started watching. Finally started seeing us. For how we play and not what's between our legs.
And yet, all this luxury? All this space?
It can't fill the Paige-shaped hole in it.
Despite the ungratefulness of it, the thought can't be stopped.
There's a knock at the door.
At first, I think I imagined it. No one knocks here. Barely anyone even has the address.
Mom and Dad are preparing for a camp.
KK is in Storrs to coach a training camp.
Caroline is back home in Virginia.
Then it comes again. Three sharp raps.
I freeze.
I set the glass down slowly. Barefoot, I cross the living room and pass my fingers over the security cam near the door. My heart's already thudding. Not from fear. From something worse.
"On my God.."
My hand trembled as I open it, my breathe skittering as the booze makes my mind heavy.
He's huge. I mean, he was always lanky, tall for his age, but now? Now he towers. Broad shoulders. Grown-man frame. Atleast 6'5. There's a Nike duffel slung over one arm, and his curls are buzzed short. His grin's still crooked, still familiar. Still him.
The little brother I used to drag around practice gyms. The kid who learned how to shoot just to impress us. Paige's shadow. My shadow.
"Drew?" I whisper.
My vision blurs for a second. Not from the wine.
"Hey sissy." Then he moves. Wraps both arms around me.
And I fold.
I hold him tight like he's air. Like he's memory and home and time, all pressed into one impossible heartbeat. I don't even realize I'm shaking until he does it.
That thing.
He buries his face into my shoulder.
Just like Paige used to.
My knees almost buckle.
I clench my jaw. Squeeze my eyes shut. Try not to sob. Because what shoots through me isn't nostalgia. It's grief. Pure, ragged grief wrapped in muscle memory.
I pull back. Before it swallows me whole. Eyes flicking over his face.
"So~ I still got a free pass to the Fudds or nah?"
"'Course you do." My voice is less words more water. "Come in," I manage.
He steps inside, ducking under the doorframe like he owns the place. Drops his bag. His eyes scan the apartment with casual awe.
"Damn," he mutters. "You livin', Z."
I huff haphazardly picking up the traces of clothes and miscellaneous items thrown around my living room.
I huff a small laugh. "Don't act like you don't already make more than me."
"But still. The W isn't what it used to be." He grins, sprawling across the couch like it's the good times all over again. "Was in town for a game. Got the address from Jon."
I nod, even though I'm still stunned. Still studying him. He's got the same gentle face. The same energy. But it's been years.
"Did you win?" I ask settling on the couch opposite to him.
"I'm Duke's prized possession ain’t I?" He wiggles his eyebrows.
God.
Just as cocky as Paige—
Fuck.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to make the water retreat. Silence settles. Not like how it used to settle. It's not warm or comfortable. It's awkward and stiff.
He straightens on the couch. Fiddles with the sleeve of his nike crew neck. Pondering my face for something.
I suck in a breath. "I wasn't expecting—" My voice snags, fragile at the edge. "—you."
He shrugs, casual but not careless. "Didn't wanna text...wasn't sure you'd answer."
I look at him. Really look.
He's taller than I remember. Shoulders filled out, arms defined, jaw sharper. Cross necklace and a rolex glinting. But it's still Drew. Same lopsided grin. Same warmth simmering under the quiet. Still Paige's little brother.
Still my little brother, in a way.
"I always would've," I say softly.
And I hear it. The disappointment curled around my words. The way my voice drops like I'm hurt by the assumption even though he had every right.
Every Christmas. Every Thanksgiving. Every Fourth of July. Drew had always been there. With me, my parents, my brothers. My whole family. And what used to be ours. Mine and Paige's.
But this past year?
It must've looked like a funeral.
One where nobody came.
Be clears his throat. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't." Drew's eyes lock on mine. Steady. No flinch, no smile. "Not after what Paige did." His voice is calm. But I feel the blow anyway.
A shudder rips through my chest. It comes fast and jagged, like my body's trying to reject the name before it settles.
I swallow. Hard.
"Can we not..." My voice is a thread now. Barely there.
He nods once, lips pursed. "Yeah. Sorry. Got it."
Then Drew's eyes fall on the wine bottle. His brow quirks.
He leans forward a little, squinting at the bottle resting beside the half-full wine glass.
"Wait. Hold up."
He shifts, tilts the label toward the light.
His face perks. Smirks.
Fuck my life.
I don't even need to look.
I already know what he's reading.
La Crema Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir. 2026 reserve.
"When'd you start liking red?" he grins, eyes flicking up to mine. "Thought you only drank white wine."
The back of my neck prickles.
My lips twitch, caught somewhere between a lie and a confession.
"Uh-huh," he hums, dragging it out with that knowing tone. He leans back into the couch, one arm draped over the cushion, eyes still on the label. "She let me try this once. Thanksgiving, like... four years ago? We were at your place. Everyone had already knocked out for the night."
His smile crooks, a little crooked, a little sad.
"She was out back, sitting by the firepit with a blanket around her and already missing you while you showered."
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.
"I begged her for a sip. Just one. Swore I could handle it."
His eyes flick to mine.
"It was horrible. Like drinking fuckin' mud or something."
A breath of laughter escapes me.
"P was the only one who could enjoy something like that." He adds.
And I hate how fast my own memories crashes over me.
That damn bottle.
She used to curl up on the balcony of our old Dallas penthouse, knees caging me in, me back pulled firm against her, muscled arm around my waist.
The sky would stretch out purple and quiet, and she'd hold hold the bottle with one hand, sipping slow like it was a ritual. Always the same wine. That same label. That earthy, smoky red with the cherry finish. One I never liked until all that was left of Paige was the memories.
She'd hum against the shell of my ear. Whisper something soft, stupid, sweet, filthy and then press merlot-stained kisses to my temple, my cheek, under my ear, the back of my neck.
Then trailed down, bottom lip dragging, eyes locked, down to my collarbone and press another kiss. She'd sip again. Let it float in her mouth. And she'd lock her lips with mine, letting the wine slip into me. Some dripped between us. Once on my chest which she then licked off.
Red lips. Red wine. Red sky.
And me, in her arms. Just... safe.
That bottle on the counter now feels like a shrine.
Like an accident I let happen.
I snap out of it with a dry little laugh.
"It was on sale," I lie, reaching for the glass again. "Didn't even notice the label."
Drew just raises his brows. “Like you needa be buyin’ anythin’ on sale.” He mutters, voice gradually reducing to nothing.
Silence again. It hums between us.
"You..." I start, voice shaky. "You want something to eat? I made dinner."
His brows shoot up. "You cooked?"
I glare. "Don't laugh."
"No, I'm just—" He grins, and this time it's real, full of warmth and disbelief. "When did the people's princess start cooking?"
I roll my eyes, but my mouth lifts a little. "First time for everything, right?"
He shakes his head, chuckling as he kicks off his sneakers and leans back on the couch like it's still 2026. "You know she never let you touch the stove. Said you were gonna poison or burn us all."
"She liked my scrambled eggs."
"She tolerated your scrambled eggs."
That gets a laugh out of me. I rub at my braids, the tightness tugging me back into the moment.
"I made chicken, jasmine rice and collard greens. Tried to make it like Dad's." I offer, already drifting toward the kitchen. "Didn't burn anything. Pretty proud."
"Oh shit! Welp, color me impressed," he calls after me.
I pull out a plates from the cabinet, still half-listening to his footsteps behind me. The kitchen is wide and open clean lines, soft gold fixtures, matte black countertops that cost more than my first car. I set the plate down gently, careful, like noise might break the spell.
He leans on the island, watching me.
"Smells good," he says.
"It's edible. Don't get too excited."
We move like muscle memory easy, familiar. We've done this before. A hundred times. When he'd try and help me do the dishes but couldn't even reach the sink.
He takes a bite. I slide him a glass of water.
And for a moment, the world slows.
"You been good?" I ask, chewing slowly.
He nods, wiping his mouth. "Yeah. Duke's solid. Starting's fun. Coach gives me room to run the floor."
"What made you choose Duke? Everybody thought you'd follow...Paige to UCONN."
"That's why I didn't go," he says quietly, then hesitates. "There's just... too many reminders there. Of who she was. Who you both were. Who we all used to be."
He exhales. Looks away.
"I needed something new."
I just nod.
I swallow. My mouth is dry again. "You still talk to her?"
He pauses. A long one.
His fork scrapes against the plate. Then stops.
He looks up at me. And I see it, right there in his eyes. That same glint Paige used to get before she told the truth, no matter how hard it hit.
"Yeah," he says. "But it doesn't really feel like her anymore."
My chest caves in a little.
I close my eyes for a second. The silence rings.
And I don't say anything.
But even now—after all the silence, all the space—I still see her when I close my eyes.
I still love her like I never stopped.
And I hate that.
I hate that with everything I am.
Drew finishes the last bite of roasted chicken with a quiet hum of approval and leans back into the stool, his long limbs folding lazily like he belongs here. Like no time has passed. Like everything's still fine.
But I know better.
He's not just here to catch up. Not just here for my cooking or a hug or old memories that ache more than they comfort.
"I have a feeling you're not just here to reminisce, Drew."
He blinks, caught. His throat works around a swallow.
There it is.
That shift in the air. The quiet unmasking.
He exhales, rubs a hand along the back of his neck. "I didn't come here to guilt trip you or anything, I just..." He trails off, eyes flicking away like he's still trying to soften the blow before it lands.
"Just what?"
His silence says enough.
I straighten. A bitter twist coils behind my ribs.
"Drew," I say, voice low and flat, "what do you want from me?"
He flinches. Like the words landed too hard. Maybe they did.
"I just—" His voice cracks, and he looks up at me, wide-eyed and raw. "I'm just clinging to the last thread of hope. If there's anybody on this earth who can still reach her... it's you."
And then, slowly, he pulls something from his pocket.
A yellow note.
My eyes drop to it. "What is this?"
He taps it once on the counter, then slides it toward me like it's a chess move he didn't want to make.
"I'm not trying to pressure you into anything," he says, gently. "Just... if you ever change your mind."
He taps the note again.
"Keep this with you."
The room goes still. The hum of the city slips away. The scent of lemonwood candles, of roasted thyme still faint in the kitchen air, curls around us like a reminder of what normal should smell like.
"Drew..."
"I know, Az. I know. You genuinely don't have to." Then firmer, "only if you want to."
He stands.
I follow.
He slings his duffel over one shoulder and heads toward the door.
"Leaving so soon?" I ask, keeping my voice casual even though my chest squeezes tight.
He stops just past the threshold and glances back.
"Yeah," he nods. "We're flying back to Durham in a few hours. I just..." His voice softens. "I needed to see you."
I nod once, lips pressed together. And then he steps forward again, closing the distance, and wraps his arms around me.
I hug him back, arms locking across his back. Tight. Fierce. Familiar.
He stays pressed there. Face buried in my shoulder.
"And to try and do whatever I could," he whispers.
The knot in my throat rises too fast to swallow.
"Jesus Christ," I sniffle, fingers threading gently through the short curls at the back of his head. "How did you grow so fast?"
He lets out a smug chuckle, muffled in the crook of my neck. "Bueckers speciality."
That breaks me. I laugh, shaky and warm. It feels like something small cracking open in my ribs.
We untangle slowly.
He takes two steps back, but he's still facing me. Still looking at me like I'm a person worth missing.
Goofy grin rising again, like the sun peeking past grief.
"Bye, sissy."
"Bye, Drewski." My voice is soft, almost inaudible. "Stay safe."
He gives me one last salute with his two fingers, backwards-walking down the hallway like we're kids again.
And then he's gone.
The door shuts behind Drew, and just like that
The silence grows teeth again.
I don't move right away. Just stand there.
Still facing the door.
Still breathing in his hug.
Still feeling the sting of his voice when he said her name.
The note he gave me is still on the counter. Untouched.
I walk past it like it doesn't burn holes through my peripheral vision.
My apartment is dark. Expansive. Bare.
There's floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking San Francisco's skyline. A skyline I used to dream of. Now it just feels like glass. Tall. Silent. Cold.
The GSV contract came with everything. Team chef, luxury loft, a mattress you could drown in.
None of it helps when you sleep alone. Without the warmth that had become more important than oxygen.
By the time I make it to bed, the city's humming a low lullaby through the glass. Neon buzz from somewhere downtown. A siren three blocks over. Nothing loud. Just... ever-present.
I strip down in silence. Pull on the same UConn tee I've worn too many nights to count.
It's soft with age. The letters are cracked and curling at the edges—
It drowns my frame.
It always did.
Paige gave it to me my freshman year—after the night we stopped pretending. The night she devoured me.
We were just two kids in her dorm bed, skin touching for the first time like it was sacred. An intimacy so intoxicating I'd felt heaven.
I remember how she held me that night—like I was the last thing on earth she never wanted to let go of. The night I handed her the last part of me.
The night she became mine.
And I became hers.
The night she promised she'd never let go.
She's a fucking liar.
I climb into bed, sink into the sheets. They smell like lavender detergent and my bath and body works lotion and nothing else.
There's no weight beside me. No hand across my hip. No whisper in the dark. No fingers sneakily trying to slip between my thighs. Or lips on my neck. No head buried between my breasts.
Just me.
Or whatever is left of me.
My fingers trail absentmindedly along the edge of a braid at my temple.
I used to sleep tangled up in her.
Now I just twist my own hair and wait for sleep that never comes easy.
My eyes are open. Staring at the ceiling. And I do something I haven't done in months.
I let myself think about her.
Really think.
The real Paige.
The girl who never shut up during films. Who always cut her nails with her mouth and left clippings on the bus floor.
The girl who never took her AirPods out unless she was listening to my voice instead.
Who called me "sweetheart" in the goofiest Midwestern drawl when she wanted to make me laugh.
The girl who broke herself for us.
And then broke us for herself.
I should hate her. I want to hate her.
But I don't.
Because every time I watch a point guard zigzag through a screen and mess up the second rotation, I think:
Paige would've nailed that.
Every time I come home and see her old hoodie still folded in the back of my closet, I think:
Maybe she might've stayed if I had begged harder.
Every time I try to unlove her—I just remember another reason why I can't.
And it's never the big things.
Not even the first "I love you," whispered into my shoulder in the dark after a road game in Tennessee.
It's always the quiet shit.
The mundane, the stupid, the stuff no one else would ever notice.
The way she'd bite her lips until they bled when she was thinking too hard. How you could see the gears turning. It gave her away every time.
The way she'd call me "baby" in six different tones, and each one meant something different.
There was the teasing "mama" when she was up to no good.
The sharp "mama" when I wasn't listening.
The broken "mama" when she needed me to hold her without questions.
The shaky "mama" when she was about to cum.
She used to hum when she sloppily braided my hair. Drake. Sometimes SZA.
She used to say my name twice when she was half-asleep.
"Azzi... Azzi..." like maybe if she said it again, I'd stay longer.
She hated oatmeal. Loved grape jelly and slim jims.
Had a weird obsession with mints that made her breath smell like a winter storm.
She used to drill her finger on my thigh when she couldn't sleep.
Just that—tap, tap, tap, tap, tap—like my skin was a metronome that could settle her rhythm.
And I knew them all. Every quirk. Every soft edge. Every goddamn crack in her.
So how do you unlove that?
How do you unlearn someone who's mapped into your muscle memory? For thirteen fucking years.
People have tried since then. To get close to me. Shoot their shot hoping it lands. But it never did. Not even close.
Because no one says my name like she did.
No one makes me laugh with just a look.
No one knows how to hold me when I'm all jagged and buried under grief.
No one knows how to make me see stars with a simple touch.
No one knows how to make me see stars with a simple touch.
Because loving Paige wasn't just romance.
It was recognition.
Like something ancient in me looked at her and said, there you are. I've been waiting.
It was magic.
Divine.
Specially crafted by God for me only.
So yeah.
Every time I try to unlove her—
I just find another memory curled up in the back of my ribs. Another echo I can't shake.
Another reminder that even now, even broken, even lost, even incomplete and barely there—
She's still the only home I've ever wanted.
I close my eyes.
The ceiling disappears behind her laugh. Behind the sound of her voice in the locker room, that first time she called me "mine."
God.
What if she's still that girl, somewhere under the hurt? What if she needs someone to believe in her the way she used to believe in me?
What if is she needs someone to force her?
To drag her out and put her on the frontlines until she has no choice but to fight?
What if I'm the only one left who can?
The thought plants itself like a thorn in my chest.
And it grows.
It grows until I can't lie still.
This better lead me somewhere good.
I sit up in bed, legs curled under me, heart thudding.
My hand slides across the comforter, finds my phone on the nightstand.
Every night when I come back home, my finger presses down and slides until Paige’s face lights up my screen.
Back when we still smiled with our whole faces. Back when her arms wrapped around me like a promise and possession.
Back when we couldn't go ten minutes without a kiss.
I open my Notes app.
My thumbs hover for a second. Then move so fast half the words are spelled wrong.
"PG Replacement Possibilities" becomes the heading.
Then: a bullet list that spirals.
Te-Hina Pao Pao—good handle, bad composure. Lacks leadership skills.
Julie Allemand — EuroLeague. Excellent passer. Struggles with pace and physicality at this level.
Destanni Henderson — flashy, quick off the dribble. Decision-making in halfcourt sets is shaky. Defense is inconsistent.
Tyasha Harris — steady hands, mature floor general. Too passive. Lacks scoring aggression. Won't take over when needed.
Marina Mabrey — shot-maker, streaky but explosive. Can create her own shot. Low efficiency. Not a pure facilitator.
I start a second column. Objections. Contracts. Mental notes.
"Team-first but not team leader."
"No clutch film."
"Can't carry pace into 4th."
"Loses voice on the floor."
I reach for my tablet on the nightstand. Scroll. Opem tabs. Look up tape on YouTube. Euro clips. W highlights. Rookie film from last season's benchwarmers.
Everyone has something—a flashy drive, a tight pull-up, a highlight reel block that could fool someone less seasoned.
But I'm not fooled.
I'm hunting for something different. Something rarer than skill.
Command. Selflessness. Enthusiasm.
I want a floor general who makes the court her altar.
Who tells defenders where they're supposed to stand and they listen.
Who controls tempo like a fucking orchestra conductor with just a glance.
I leave the room. Grab a bottle of white wine from the celler. Don't even bother with a glass. Take a big gulp. Slide back into my bed.
New tab. New name.
One more. Just one more.
But they all blur together. Highlight tapes bleeding into one another like bad dreams. Pretty plays, no soul. No spine.
I type a final note with a dull finger:
"None of them are her."
The words hang there on the screen.
Black text against white light.
A sentence I didn't mean to write but couldn't stop myself from typing.
I stare at it.
And it stares back.
Like a truth I've tried too long to outrun.
By the time dawn breaks, I've built an entire blueprint in my head.
And at the bottom of it, one name blinks like a loaded question.
Paige Bueckers.
The cursor pulses behind it, slow and steady.
Like a heartbeat.
I exhale. Close my eyes.
But it's too late.
I lean back on the headboard.
My arms go slack.
I stare into the dark.
I've avoided this moment for over a year.
Buried it under game film and conditioning and forced leadership.
But there she is again.
That crooked grin. That low voice barking out coverages.
That wild gleam in her eyes when the game clock hits 0:10 and the crowd's standing and she's got the rock.
She was born for that moment.
No—she owned it.
And I know it.
Because I played beside her when she did.
My throat tightens.
I tilt my head to the side, one braid caught between my fingers, rolling it absently.
It aches, the way memories ache. Deep tissue. Old bruise.
She could lead us. I know that.
She could run the floor in her sleep. She could see plays before they formed.
She could do what no one else on that list could:
Make five people move like one mind.
But then I remember the last time I saw her.
Not the game. Not the injury.
After.
Her in that hospital bed, eyes hollow. A shell. Her leg wrapped up like a punishment.
I reached for her cheek and she didn't even flinch. Just turned away.
Then she vanished.
No contract renewal. No press release. No goodbye.
And that was the part that really killed me.
Not the silence. The choice to stay silent.
It would be stupid. Risky. Messy.
She might laugh in my face. Might slam the door.
She might still be broken.
Or worse—
She might have rebuilt a life without me in it.
My eyes flicker down to the tablet again. I close the app. Lock the screen. But my mind won't lock with it.
She's there now. Fully.
Filling up every inch of the room, the night, the breath in my lungs.
And I know.
There's no escaping this now.
There never was.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃
Chapter 2
i love them
most unserious press conference ever LMFAOOO?

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dallas vs LOSS angeles 6-5
#blessed.
DOUBLE DOUBLE FOR PB
I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME
if this bitch keeps calling certain things weird shit istg.
assist = helper
layup off the backboard = “english” whatever tf that is
why is jj not available?
that was before the buzzer idk what they talking about

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Her in a backwards hat 😫 I’ve had to post this like 5 times cause tumblr is tweaking
Natasha Cloud on her friendship with Paige and what makes her special. Also talks about watching Paige/Azzi grow up