Being too drunk to remember who you were making out with while drunk is… debatably still fun. And judging by the constellation of hickeys splattered across your neck like a galaxy, you had a hell of a time at last night’s party.

Shame you couldn’t remember any of it.

You were 95% sure you had fun. The other 5% was just vodka regret and lingering nausea.

But all of that dissolved instantly the next morning. Not because of the hangover — though that was murder.

No — it was the text message that ruined your life.

You didn’t recognize the number, and it had no message — just an image attached. You’d nearly deleted it, but curiosity (and an unhealthy sense of drama) made you open it.

Then you dropped your phone.

“No. Nope. Nope, nope—” you whispered in disbelief, locking yourself in a bathroom stall inside the women’s locker room. “That’s not me. That’s not me in the picture. Has to be fake. Or AI. Or Photoshop. I wouldn’t kiss her. I wouldn’t kiss a girl, period. Right??”

Your eyes didn’t leave the screen. Couldn’t. It was like a train crash in 4K.

The picture was taken at last night’s house party. You recognized the terrible LED lighting and the bottle of pink Whitney clutched in your hand. But most importantly… you recognized the girl you were sucking face with.

Paige fucking Beuckers.

Blonde, tall, UConn’s golden girl, America’s sweetheart, and the undisputed hottest person on the team. And, apparently, the person you had been very publicly tongue-deep with.

In the photo, Paige had one hand pressed against the wall behind you, the other wrapped firmly around your waist. You were gripping her neck like your life depended on it and had your fingers tangled in her annoyingly perfect hair. You could practically hear the moaning in the still image. It was passionate, intimate — and not at all like some drunk, joking kiss.

You looked… into it.

Really into it.

“This must be some kind of… of assault,” you said out loud, desperate to make it make sense. “I was drunk. I didn’t consent to liking it—”

Except you clearly did.

Three things were driving you into a full-blown sexuality crisis:

1. Who the hell took this photo?! What happened to “what happens at the party, stays at the party?”

2. Why the fuck would you kiss Paige Beckers?! You couldn’t stand her. She was smug, overhyped, perfect at everything, and made you feel small just by existing. And now your brain wouldn’t stop replaying the way her fingers looked around your waist—

3. Why the ever-loving FUCK did you look like the submissive one in the photo?! You’d never been with a girl before — and theoretically — you were definitely the top. Right? Right?!

“Bae? You good?” Azzi’s voice floated through the locker room. “You’ve been in that stall for like ten minutes. Coach Geno is about to come in here and throw hands.”

You threw open the stall door, sunglasses sliding halfway off your face, and snapped:

“If I was in a gay relationship, I’d be the top, right?!”

Azzi blinked. “I… you okay?”

“No. Answer the question.”

She shrugged. “I mean… love you either way, babe. But no. You’d 100% be a pillow princess.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?! I’m so a top! I dominate! I’ll prove it to you! Never call me a pillow princess again!”

“You’re literally about to cry about a girl kissing you,” Azzi deadpanned.

Before you could argue further, a terrifyingly familiar voice shrieked from the locker room entrance:

“YOU TWO BETTER NOT BE HAVING A GAY AWAKENING IN MY LOCKER ROOM! PRACTICE STARTED TEN MINUTES AGO!”

Coach Geno. 40 years of basketball wisdom and rage compressed into one 6-foot-tall walking aneurysm in a tracksuit. He may have been the winningest coach in women’s college basketball history, but he also put the fear of God in every player.

Azzi winced. “That’s your cue.”

You both sprinted onto the court, sneakers squeaking.

And that’s when you saw her.

Her.

Miss kiss-you-and-gaslight-you-into-questioning-your-entire-sexual-identity.

Paige stood in the center of the court, running drills with that infuriating “I’m not trying, I’m just naturally flawless” look. Her blonde ponytail swung behind her. Her skin glowed from the sweat. Her UConn tank was sticking in all the wrong (read: unfairly hot) places.

You glared before she even looked your way.

“You’re late,” Paige called. Her voice was smooth. Teasing. “Even for you.”

“I’m going to strangle her with a sports bra,” you muttered.

“Please don’t,” Azzi said. “Your mom already thinks I’m corrupting you. I don’t need more trauma.”

“They’re still mad about the 4th of July fireworks incident? We were eighteen.”

“Tell them that. Your mom still glares at me like I burned down a church.”

“Alright, team!” Paige clapped her hands. “Warm-ups are done. Let’s suit up for drills. Unless you need a little extra time, as always.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You think you’re better than me, Beuckers?”

“I’ve yet to see evidence otherwise,” she replied sweetly.

‘Oh my god I’m going to kill her,’ you thought. ‘And if I’m lucky, the gay panic will die with her.’

That thought — and only that thought — is what got you through the rest of practice with a smile.

Coach Geno made good on his threat.

You were the last one on the court, still recovering from practice drills that felt more like medieval torture than conditioning. So of course, he left you behind to clean up all the gear.

“Azzi got here on time,” Coach barked. “You didn’t. Do the math. Thirty push-ups if I find one cone out of place!”

So there you were, stacking up balls, wiping down mats, and muttering curses under your breath about blonde six-foot devils with blue eyes and hypnotic cheekbones.

You figured Paige would be long gone — golden girls didn’t clean up after practice — but apparently, fate hates you.

Because when you finally made it to the showers, ready to rinse off the sweat and shame… she was already there.

In your shower.

“Hey, fake blond!” you shouted. “Get out of my stall!”

Paige turned her head just slightly, water cascading down her bare back. “There are literally seven other stalls.”

“Yeah. But that one is mine. Ask anyone.”

“Well, no one else is here. So what are you gonna do about it?”

She turned to face you fully.

And now you were the one frozen.

Water rolled down her toned abs. Her skin glistened under the harsh locker room lights. Her hair was plastered to her shoulders. She looked like an underwear ad and a Greek statue had a love child. This was a violation.

“I’m gonna…” You blinked. “Do something.”

“That’s convincing.”

You stomped into the stall.

Paige actually looked startled that you did. Got her, you thought. She expected you to back off. She didn’t expect you to confront the demon in its natural habitat — a communal college shower.

“You think you’re hot shit,” you growled. “Bet you think you were the top that night. But you’re wrong.”

“What are you—”

You kissed her.

You slammed your lips against hers and shoved her into the tiled wall, water raining down on both of you. She let out a muffled gasp into your mouth — surprised, maybe — but she didn’t stop you.

You pressed your chest against hers, kissed her harder, deeper. Your tongue pushed into her mouth like you had something to prove.

(You did.)

This was about winning. About not being the blushing wreck in that photo. About taking control.

But Paige caught on fast.

Before you could even finish your internal monologue about dominance, she grabbed your wrists, twisted you around, and slammed you against the wall instead.

You gasped. “Jesus Christ—!”

She pinned your hands above your head with one hand and leaned in close, her mouth brushing your ear.

“You were saying?”

Your knees nearly buckled.

“I—I…”

You tried to get words out, but she was close. Too close. Her body pressed flush against yours, warm and slick from the water. You could feel everything — the curve of her hip against your thigh, her breath on your neck, the way her thigh slid just barely between yours.

You were losing.

And worse — you kind of liked it.

You struggled half-heartedly, twisting against her grip.

“This doesn’t mean you’re winning,” you gasped.

“Oh? You sure?” she whispered, trailing her fingers down your soaked tank top, over your abs, pausing just above the waistband of your shorts.

Your whole body shivered.

She leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time — like she had all the time in the world to make you melt. You whimpered. Whimpered. A sound escaped your mouth that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

Paige smirked against your lips. “Still think you’re the top?”

That did it.

You slipped one hand out of her grip — she hadn’t expected that — and slid it down her body, fingers wrapping around her hip, then lower, cupping between her thighs.

That wiped the smug look off her face.

“Oh?” you whispered. “What’s the matter, golden girl?”

She groaned.

Her head tilted back, hips pressing into your hand. You could feel the tension in her body, the low moan she tried to stifle as your fingers moved with more purpose, teasing, taunting.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered. “Bet you thought you had me all figured out.”

She reached for you again, mouth on your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin.

You let out a breathy sound you would deny to your grave.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you gasped. “I’m just… proving a point.”

“Sure,” she breathed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”

Your legs were trembling. Her mouth was everywhere — your throat, your jaw, your collarbone. Her hands had found their way under your top now, brushing the underside of your sports bra.

You were soaking wet — from the shower, obviously.

And maybe a little from the situation.

Just maybe.

Then her fingers slipped into your shorts.

And all bets were off.

You let out a broken sound, hand gripping her shoulder, legs weak. She was kissing you again and god, you should pull away. You should stop this. This was Paige. You hated her. You were straight. You were—

“Faster,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

She pulled back, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger. “What was that?”

You gritted your teeth, face burning. “I said faster, okay?!”

She didn’t hesitate.

She picked up speed, and the pressure built until you couldn’t think anymore. You clung to her, mouth open, nails digging into her arm as your orgasm slammed through you like a tidal wave.

You bit her shoulder to keep from screaming.

Your legs almost gave out, and Paige caught you.

Of course she did.

The shower was still running.

Your head was resting against her shoulder. Your arms were around her neck. Her hands were still holding you, like she hadn’t just destroyed every lie you’d ever told yourself about who you were.

“Why’d you do that?” she asked quietly.

You didn’t answer.

Because Coach Geno’s voice boomed from the hallway:

“You two better not still be in there! Showers are for cooling down, not starting the goddamn Kama Sutra!”

You practically threw yourself off Paige, cheeks on fire, stumbling out of the stall.

You dried off, yanked on your sweats, and marched out of the locker room without a single word.

But the entire way back to your dorm, one thought kept echoing through your mind: