#wbb fic

For context, let’s call my best friend ‘A’. A’s been my best friend for over two years, and we’re both D1 athletes on the same team. She’s our pitcher, and I’m the catcher, and if you know anything about softball, that basically means we’re attached at the hip. We do everything together. 

Yesterday in practice, instead of setting up cones with me like usual, A was off chatting and laughing with one of the new girls on the team. This is the same girl A told me I’d “really like” if I ever got to know her. Whatever. Fine. I partnered up with new girl for warmups.

We were doing that drill where partners throw a ball to each other at the same time and both have to catch. Everything was going fine, until one rep when I threw the ball and this girl just… stopped. Like fully stopped, because she wanted to talk to A again. You literally cannot stop halfway through that drill. 

My ball hit her straight in the head. An ambulance ended up taking her to the hospital. 

I know it’s awful, but also, you don’t just stop to chat halfway mid-drill?

So here’s where I’m struggling. Instead of understanding that this was a freak accident, A has dropped completely everything for this girl. She rode with her in the ambulance. She’s cooked meals and brought them to hospital. She spends hours there filling her in on what happened during practice. Which, sure, that’s nice. But a minor bump to the head shouldn’t mean she suddenly doesn’t have time for me. We even had to reschedule our movie night because the girl was getting out of surgery.

Now everyone on the team keeps joking about how I’m “dangerous”, which feels dramatic. It’s not even that serious, and it’s not like I beaned her on purpose. Most of all, I really don’t think this situation warrants A acting like this girl is her new dependent.

AITA for being upset about this?

TL;DR: I accidentally hit a teammate in the head so hard she had to go to hospital. Now my best friend keeps bailing on me to take care of her and I’m feeling like I’m about to rip my brains out. 

Before she was ever interested in girls, or hunted down age records, or chased national championships, Paige’s first love was T-ball.

As a kid, she spent entire afternoons after school with a bucket of whiffle balls, hitting in her backyard until the moon pushed away the sun. She quickly got relocated to the bigger field after putting one too many dents in her dad’s metal fence, and immediately made the A team on her first tryout. With that swing, home runs were more of a guarantee rather than a lucky shot.

When it came to fielding, no specific position called her name straight away. At first, her school coach placed her in the outfield. Her arm was strong, and her aim wasn’t bad at all, so it all made sense on paper. But definitely not in practice. 

Like in all typical younger leagues, the ball barely got hit past the pitching mound. So Paige spent most innings mucking around, dragging her co-outfielders into conversations, and doing pretty much anything but field the ball. So even for that one time it would miraculously fly their way, her teammates were always too distracted and laughing on their bellies while Paige was halfway through telling a story.

Understandably, she got moved to third base next. Still to this day, Paige refused to the moon and back that it had anything to do with her stirring up trouble in the outfield. The previous girl who manned third base got directly smacked with a hard hitter and Paige was the only one not too afraid when the coach asked who’d step in. So, honestly, it probably did come out mostly of necessity.

Third base was… okay. She wasn’t scared of being stuck in front of fast spinning balls, and her arm strength ensured she could jet them back home without any trouble. But the same problem persisted. Because of her fast shooting and sniper aim, players barely made it onto third base. In other words, the occurrence of her babysitting a runner in her territory was pretty low, which meant long stretches of standing around with nothing to do. And Paige, left to her own devices, was still the same distracting menace that coaches had yet to find an answer for.

The final straw came when she had, God knows how, managed to distract their second basemen into walking over mid pitch just to have a chat.

“Alright. I’ve had enough,” her coach barked. “You’re getting moved.”

So that was how Paige ended up here. Directly behind the plate, sweating balls in this heavy ass catcher’s vest, knee pads and helmet (like surely this was overkill at this point). And yes, her coach made her run those torturous field laps in full gear while the rest of her team laughed about their weekend in the warmdown circle. If her coach’s kids were cursed into the next century, that was not her fault.

Every day, for two straight weeks, she would complain all throughout practice to anyone who’d listen.

“Bro, I’m literally about to throw up in here. You’re gonna have to clean it up.”

“Hey, fuckface! You look big enough to be a catcher. Get over here!”

But despite her insistent nagging and constant protests, it certainly didn’t help her case that she was completely, and utterly, a natural.

She guarded the home plate vigilantly, squat in a low crouch to resemble a doberman in her all-black gear. From the top of the diamond, her arm revealed itself to be an explosive cannon when it came to stopping runners before first. And don’t even think about stealing– one too many teams learnt that the hard way.

And as she grew older, Paige developed her most unique, untraditional skill that separated her from every other catcher in the country scouts watched: her charisma. 

Every game was governed by the umpire, who shadowed the diamond from the tip and wielded the power of every call with their fist. Paige caught on early that in close match-ups, the difference between a ball and a strike came down to millimetres, and power wasn’t always the right answer to pressure. During short pauses, when batters walked up and the dust settled, she chatted. She learned names and asked about kids she’d never met. She remembered when little Johnny had a pickup game last weekend and coined nicknames that stuck. And while it didn’t work every time, it worked when it mattered. 

With the bases loaded and only one run left for the win, when it came time for #5 to bat, the umpire didn’t just see another player stepping up. It was Paige; the catcher who listened, joked, and made the their long hours behind the plate feel shorter. And when the pitch dipped low, brushing her knees, and maybe just catching the edge of the zone, luck had a way of nudging the call in her favour. 

The opposition never quite understood how. Had they known, some might have called it dirty. But scouts from the University of Connecticut didn’t care. As long as she was on their side of the diamond.

Top comments

u/ballrider333

Definitely YTA. Maybe not for the accident part, but for making this situation about you… your teammate literally went to hospital. 

u/softballdaddy67

INFO: I’m wondering why you seem to be more upset about the movie thing than about someone needing surgery!?!?

u/justiceforoutfielders

Half YTA. Yeah, you know, I totally get it. Accidents happen. But this is sounding like you’re jealous, not concerned.

u/baserunner15

Hello?? “not even that serious” Why do you keep downplaying the head injury?? Ummm ?

Azzi’s parents signed her up for T-ball at the ripe age of four years old. But honestly, hitting a stationary ball with a metal bat over and over again ranked last on her list of preferred ways to spend an afternoon.

But by the time she advanced into proper softball, the new element of the game had somehow translated her stubborn reluctance into passion. At fourteen, her name was already making rounds around the country, passed between coaches and scouts as the star pitcher on the rise, with a viscous fastball that felt unfair to bat against.

For a typical audience, softball appeared simple enough when viewed from the stands. The batter hit the ball, they ran the bases, and tried to make it home. Win. 

But Azzi comprehended the game differently, and at a much, much smaller scale; one that she’d separated down into moments so precise they bordered on obsessive. Everything began with the exact pressure of her fingers gripping the red seams, aligning them with careful precision. The ritual came from superstition and routine more so than mechanical technique. The ball disappeared behind her glove next, so as to conceal the pitch she would soon unleash. Then came reading the batter. Right or left-handed? Tall or short? Was this just another name in the lineup, or the one she needed to break. Then finally: the pitch.

When she combined all those pieces together, they collapsed neatly into a single, decisive outcome. 

Strike!

Azzi had spent hours at the back of her house rewinding her pitch again and again, until the battered target could no longer hold itself upright. Hours became weeks, then weeks became years. Every fundamental was locked in. Every step was practiced until it became instinct. No scout could find another pitcher with a windup so powerful, a drive as fluid, or an acceleration that snapped the ball forward with such violence that made it nearly impossible to bat.

One particular afternoon in her senior year, her high school came head to head with the second-ranked team in her district. The opposition spent all morning brazenly trash talking about how exactly they planned to thrash them in the finals. But Azzi didn’t need to respond. Her game could do all the talking.

By the second inning, parents in the bleachers were calling for age checks, drug tests, or anything that could possibly explain their kids getting their asses so badly handed to them. Even when a batter managed contact, the ball spun off with such a perfect angle that it bounced directly to first base or whipped straight back into Azzi’s glove like a boomerang. The game ended almost as soon as it began. She walked away with zero free balls, zero walks, and a trophy clutched tight to her chest.

A certain coach watched it all go down from the stands. A blue cap casted a shadow over his eyes, but nothing could obscure the complete belt to ass hand delivered by #35, who didn’t let the pressure up off the opposition’s neck for a second. When the two teams climbed back onto their buses, only one school rode home laughing.

But there, underneath all that dominance, was where her one flaw crept in; a crevice where she sometimes, albeit rarely, floundered. To dominate the mound, a pitcher required three things. Azzi had the first two, game IQ and flawless technique, in spades. Unfortunately, the third, the mental game, was an entirely different beast.

The pitcher's mound was an unassuming thing: a dirt circle with a white rubber plate just off its center. But Azzi felt it for what it really was. A pressure cooker.

A softball game lasted seven innings. That meant seven rounds of landing the right pitch; seven opportunities to control the diamond. In those long games, any pitcher knew that sometimes the ball just wouldn’t cooperate with your intentions, and that was okay. When something went wrong, you brushed it off as a calculated loss. Reset. You adjusted your cap, tapped your knee once, and left the mistake in the past where it belonged.

And she understood the concept well enough. But that was just all theory.

Once a pitch didn’t spin the way she needed, or one batter didn’t stumble the way she expected, her momentum was washed.

She let the pressure rip through her chest. She lay down and allowed the sting of failure to throb in every movement. In those rare moments the ball felt like stone in her hand. Azzi was a girl who chased perfection with everything she had, but once it slipped from her grasp, she didn’t yet know how to get it back.

op replies

u/catchermyballsac5

GUYS first up, I am concerned okay? I obviously didn’t want it to happen. I’m only trying to say I don’t get why A is acting like this is all her responsibility now

u/catchermyballsac5

no just to clarify, I’m not mad at the girl. Just confused as to why A hasn’t checked in with me at all.

u/catchermyballsac5

Yo the accounts saying I’m jealous are kind of missing the entire point?? Explain how it makes sense to abandon your best friend over a tiny accident. She’s out of hospital now, it’s fine

u/catchermyballsac5 (later edit)

Okayyy wow. Didn’t expect this many responses!! Might talk to A tonight. Please stop private messaging me saying I’m in love with her. That’s ridiculous.

“Paige? There’s a man at the door here to see you.” Her mum’s voice muffled its way up the stairs to where Paige was gaming in her bedroom.

She recognised who it was the second she stepped into the dining room. Anyone with even the slightest interest in her sport knew the square set of this jaw and the steely eyes of the man who led teams to countless victories and sat through millions of conference interviews.

Geno Auriemma sat at her dining table like he commanded the room. He sped through pleasantries and introductions before swiftly digging into the meat.

“Lots of players want to be in this position,” he said, while raising his hand. “There’s good.” 

His palm lifted to indicate each level. “Then there’s special.” Higher still. 

He paused, then raised it once more to signify a new benchmark altogether. “Your daughter is gifted. Most players are lucky to have one or two tools. But Paige has the power, speed, and the arm.” His gaze flicked over her quickly. “Hm, maybe not the look.”

“What’s wrong with my look?” Paige questioned before she could stop herself.

“You’re small for a catcher,” he said after appraising her once more. “Everyone at this level is going to be faster. Stronger. Your size is going to be a problem up in the big leagues.”

Over his years of recruiting, that harsh truth had afforded Geno every possible response in the book. Some kids raced to reassure it wouldn’t matter. Others listed credentials or insisted they’d been playing their whole life, so they shouldn’t change what wasn’t broke. Some even went as far as to turn it back on him, as if insulting the head coach’s appearance might earn them a spot in the lineup. But Paige’s answer was exactly what he wanted to hear. 

“I’ll work on it, sir.”

“Yes, you will,” he nodded, before standing up to leave. At the door, he shook her mum’s hand, then hers. 

“I’m confident about what we’re building in UConn, Paige. With you, we’ve secured the top two recruits from my list. I’m curious to see how you will gel together.”

“Together with who?”

Geno, unforthcoming as ever, gave nothing away.

“You’ll see.

They had heard about each other long before they’d ever met. The softball world was far too small to have not. Whispers travelled fast about the pitcher from Virginia who closed more games involving shutdown innings than not, and of a curveball that sent batters crying off the field before they even settled into the box. 

There were just as many stories about the catcher from Minnesota, the one who stared down lineups full of the fastest runners and the heaviest hitters, then sent each player trudging back to their dugout after rendering them into nothing.

But it took leaving their hometowns for their paths to finally cross.

Paige was stuck pondering in a gas station aisle when her dad slid up beside her, holding out a protein bar for her approval.

“How about this one?” he asked. The fourth time in the past three minutes.

She took one look at it and almost gagged at the sight. “Yuck, no. Quests are the worst, seriously. The texture alone is criminal.” She pulled a sour face at the memory of the chalky feeling and rancid aftertaste. “And the macros are trash anyways.”

“Alright, alright!” he responded, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you to it then. I’ll be waiting in the car.”

He turned around and walked out, which left Paige to stare hopelessly at the overwhelming wall of colourful packaging, each bar printed with different numbers that after Geno’s visit, felt more important. While none of them particularly excited her, over these past few months she’d developed a fixation on getting bigger before college. She wanted to show up to day one of training camp and make it clear she was committed to showing up and giving it her all. So committed in fact, that she was individually counting every gram of protein, fat and carbohydrate entering her body.

Her go-to brand, Kind Protein, wasn’t stocked, and it was growing more and more difficult to find an alternative. She really craved something sweet, but most of the options looked artificial enough to make her stomach wheezy.

“Sorry, could I just grab-” A voice cut through Paige’s focus and its owner leaned in to pick up a bar near her foot.

“Oh- yeah. Sorry, my bad,” Paige apologised, stepping back to avoid stomping on the girl.

“It’s fine! Really,” the girl, who appeared to be around her age, insisted easily, then waved her item with a shy smile. “Just really wanted this.”

Paige couldn’t help but notice how smooth and feather-light her tone sounded. For half a second, she wondered if it would be weird to ask this stranger to record a podcast so she could fall asleep to the pretty cadence of her voice. But then she realised she was definitely being weird and decided to ask her if the bar she chose was any good. 

“Not bad for twelve grams of protein,” the girl shrugged. “I usually go for Kind Protein, but I don’t think this place sells them.”

“Wait, me too!” Paige pulled a surprised smile at having found a common interest with this stranger with a pretty voice.

“Really?” The girl seemed pleased. “Then yeah, these are probably the most similar. Were you trying to buy?”

“I guess,” Paige nodded. She reached down and picked up the same bar. “But honestly, I’m dying for something properly sweet that isn’t a birthday cake protein stick.”

The girl squinted slightly, like she was scrolling through a catalogue of options in her head. When one finally clicked, her eyes lit up.

“Have you ever tried Tru Fru?”

“Is that a cereal?” Paige guessed. 

The stranger laughed. “No! It’s only like… the best thing ever. Total lifesaver when I’m on a cut. Come over here.”

She headed for the freezer section without waiting, and Paige followed without hesitation. She noticed, distantly, how easily she fell into step beside her, like a dog on a leash. She realised how even within minutes of meeting her, she’d probably follow this girl anywhere if asked. God why did she get so down bad for pretty girls? It was actually kind of a problem. 

The girl opened the freezer door and pulled out a blue bag printed with pictures of chocolate covered fruit. 

“Wait, they’re on sale!” She exclaimed. She pointed to a sticker on the glass before reading the words outloud. “Buy one, get one free.”

“I guess it’s fate.” The words left Paige’s mouth before she properly checked them over. For a moment, she braced for the awkward pause that might follow after calling this random interaction something as intimate as ‘fate’. She was ready to laugh it off as a joke when the girl replied.

“Definitely. This means you can try more flavours!”

They walked to the counter together. On the way, Paige stole everything from the girl’s hands and popped them all on the counter along with her protein bar. She then tapped her card before her new friend could object.

“Wait. I thought we were going to split?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. You can pay me back if it’s shit.”

“You’re doubting me?” the girl volleyed back, amused as she picked up one of the shopping bags.

The two of them exited the shop and sat on a bench near the entrance. Paige ripped the bag open immediately and very quickly realised that these Tru-Fru snacks were extremely dangerous after the first bite. Her eyes widened at how good the strawberries were and almost moaned when she tried the blueberries. She wanted to devour the entire packet in one sitting.

Out the corner of her eye, she spotted her dad waiting in the car, and only then remembered she had someone waiting for her. She fully considered telling him to leave her there so she could get to know this girl all afternoon, but then realised campus was still pretty far away, and walking there wasn’t in the cards. 

“Shit, I should go. My dad-” 

“Don’t worry about it! I probably have to head as well. Still have to unpack my dorm,” the girl replied.

Dorm?

“You studying around here?” Paige investigated, or more accurately, fished for scraps of information. 

“Mhm,” she nodded, swallowing a piece of strawberry before speaking again. “University of Connecticut.”

Paige’s face lit up as if she’d just won an away game. “No way! Me too! What are the chances?”

“Then I guess it really is fate,” she laughed, calling both of their memories to when Paige used that same word just minutes ago,

“Must be,” Paige agreed. She sealed the snacks and packed them into the girl’s plastic shopping bag. “You take these home.”

“What? No, you paid for them!” she refused.

But Paige had no plans on budging and quickly conjured up a plan. 

“Okay, let’s do it this way then,” she readied herself to present a new deal to the bench. “You take both bags home,” she held up her hands to stop the girl from interrupting, “and if I see you on campus, we finish them together from your freezer.”

The stranger paused hesitantly while attempting to wrap her head around the rules and what possible rewards Paige could’ve gotten out of this. “I don’t see how this benefits you.”

“Trust me,” Paige pressed on. “It’s an equal trade, promise.”

“I sincerely doubt that… but fine. It’s a small campus anyways, so our chances should be pretty high.”

Paige grinned in triumph having persuaded her to take the bait. “Besides, we have that whole ‘fate’ thing going on too, right?” 

“Right,” the girl laughed before they both stood and said their goodbyes.

It was only until Paige slid back into her dads car that she realised she’d made it through the entire interaction without ever asking the girl’s name. Her mood dropped half a level, but she recovered just as quickly. 

She had a funny feeling that fate was really on her side. 

Paige used to think freshman year was the happiest she could ever be. If it wasn’t the freedom of being away from home, or the fact that she was finally living out her dream of playing her favourite sport at her top-choice school, then it was definitely the way Azzi Fudd slipped into her line and never left.

Not only was Azzi their team’s star pitcher and her closest friend, but she was also the same girl she’d met days before at the gas station. When they showed up to their first official training, it almost wasn’t even a surprise when they saw each other across the field. They both had kind of accepted by this point that an entity larger than them must’ve been shifting pieces behind the scenes to push their paths to overlap.

Their friendship rolled out steadily in slow steps. Paige vaguely remembered saving a seat beside her on the bus, and then Azzi just started tossing her gear bag down next to Paige’s in the dugout the next day. Soon, they were the last two at every practice, the only ones with enough energy left to stay behind and chase the sunset with worn softballs and their cleats digging into the dirt. 

During the rougher valleys of the season, Paige turned to noise to think while Azzi searched for silence to recharge. Paige would drag her to a crowded dining hall, talk a mile a minute about anything and everything, until she caught the flicker of low battery in Azzi’s eyes. Then she’d steer them to a quiet, empty field where they’d play catch until sleep grew heavy in their eyelids. 

But none of it compared to how happy Paige was in her sophomore year.

The major, developing step began in the middle of orientation week, when a poorly installed wax ring in the apartment upstairs caused a pipe to burst directly above Azzi’s dorm room. It would have been perfectly manageable had a potion of faeces and urine not leaked straight through the ceiling. After one panicked phone call later, Paige had shoved all her clothes into one side of her dresser and waved a hand at all the new empty space she’d cleared.

“It’s just common sense,” she’d explained, as if it was the most logical solution in the world. “You hang out here all the time anyways. Saves you walking all across campus.”

Everyone’s heard of that rule about friends not living together, and those who did shouldn’t expect to still be friends by the end of the year. Paige and Azzi took that rule and shoved it up everyone's asses. It was almost freaky how easily they shifted into their new relationship as roommates. Paige cooked, Azzi cleaned. Laundry got tossed into the blue hamper that sat in the middle, and Sunday nights were reserved for quiet evenings of folding and sorting. Often though, their clothes would get mixed up, and somehow Paige’s hoodie always ended up in Azzi’s side of the wardrobe. 

Paige quickly learned that unless it was for a softball game, dragging Azzi out of bed required l fighting her tooth and nail. She learned how to wrestle against groaned protests and clenched fists gripping onto bedsheets.

They turned down parties to stay in and watch horrible movies while eating chocolate until their teeth hurt. They stretched out from opposite ends of the couch, feet touching together in the middle, while they pointed out each unrealistic aspect of every film. Moneyball ended up being one of the larger offenders, and by the time it ended, more popcorn ended up thrown at the TV than eaten.

By Spring, when days grew long and classes drained every last drop of energy, all Paige wanted was to drop her bag at the door and hear Azzi’s voice call from the kitchenette. Her laugh, her high-protein yoghurt stacked in the fridge, and the simple relief of having someone who she could exist as fully herself beside. It was only then that Paige felt herself able to decompress and melt into the little home they’d formed for themselves.

Azzi would braid strands of Paige’s hair mindlessly while they watched film. They fell asleep on the couch, woke with overlapped limbs, and pretended not to notice the blush that lingered on each other's cheeks. Paige would sling an arm around Azzi’s shoulders on the walk to training while thumbing circles along the line between the younger girl’s collarbone and neck. She pressed ice packs to Azzi’s shoulders after long pitching sessions and felt her relax back into her touch. She rested a gentle hand on the small of Azzi’s back in a packed crowd, then lean her forehead on her shoulder after a harsh loss. 

As for on the field, their chemistry far surpassed anything Geno could have possibly imagined. They spoke in their silent language from opposite ends of the diamond. Communication travelled with a tilt of the head or a subtle tap on a thigh.

Now, unlike other catchers she’s faced against, Paige wasn’t usually one to chirp behind the plate. She’d always thought players who talked the most tended to not have the skills to back it up. Trash talk was lazy, unsportsmanlike, and above all, something used to overcompensate for what someone lacked.

At least, that was the rule she held everyone else to.

Time was ticking down and they were deep into a high stakes game, one with too much scrutiny and against a rival school to top it off. A player from the opposing team had spent the entire at-bat smirking, throwing sly, disrespectful remarks towards the mound in her best attempt of rattling Azzi in any way she could.

Paige noticed the tightness in Azzi’s jaw and the slight tremor in her fingers when she rubbed the ball. The hitter stepped in, bat swinging loose at her side and wearing an open smug of arrogance.

She cracked the knuckles on her right hand and readied herself to do the thing that worked every time she felt blood thicken the water. 

She tilted forward, lifting slightly from the dirt. She raised her chin just enough for her voice to travel directly into the batter’s ear.

A whisper, low and cold.

“You miss this one.”

She timed it to the second. Azzi released the ball just as the batter’s eyes jerked towards Paige. The ball flew cleanly over the plate, tore through the strike zone, past the bat and slammed smack bang into Paige’s leather glove.

Third year finally rolled around, along with the baggage of expectations that came with two championships sitting behind them. Once they’d won twice, it was no longer a question of whether they could do it again, and more of an expectation. While no one on the team said it out loud, everyone was dying for another lick of that satisfying taste of gold.

On another note, Paige and Azzi signed a lease for a shared apartment. Paige couldn’t recall there ever being a proper discussion, but convenient routines and easy habits had already formed, so resigning was nothing but the obvious choice. They both pulled up to campus a day early and unpacked boxes in the same steady rhythm they’d found the year before. They passed clothes and dishwashing soap in a production chain amongst comfortable silence. There was nothing to catch up on anyway. They’d spent most of the holidays on FaceTime, sharing small events as they happened, to the point it felt like they hadn’t been separated at all.

Sometime during the break, an email landed in the team’s inboxes that shook things up. Their shortstop had transferred out. But Geno, ever the recruiter, didn’t leave the position open for long. By August, they were informed that a shortstop from California was on her way. The name was someone Paige had never heard of, but apparently her infamous bunt sent fielders rolling to stop it.

Paige, with her jokes and easy charisma, had always meshed easily with new teammates. Over the years, she’d become a sort of unofficial vet who’d be the one to explain how the show ran and which staff member to go to for what need. She stored names in her memory quickly and attached nicknames to them even faster. She had this effortless ability to make rookies feel like they were included in something bigger than just another sports team.

So when their new shortstop, Sheena Lu, arrived for introductions, Paige expected nothing but business as usual. She swaggered up with her hands in her pockets and an easy smile that hopefully read as friendly and approachable to her future teammate

“Hey, Lu! Paige,” she introduced herself. “Welcome to the team!”

“Oh, hi,” she replied shyly. “I’m Sheena.”

“Must be pretty different over here from California summers,” Paige added, opening a conversation for Sheena to grab onto.

But the shortstop barely responded. Instead, she offered a noncommittal hum, while her gaze curved past Paige, focus already captured by someone else in the group. Paige turned and attempted to scan what Sheena was grabbed by, but came up short.

Another moment passed in silence, and Paige was beginning to feel a bit awkward. But thankfully, Sheena spoke again.

“Is that Azzi Fudd over there?” she asked, eyes wide. Though, the excitement that creeped out of her tone suggested she already probably already knew the answer. 

Paige turned once more, slower this time to properly look. There Azzi was, stood off to the side and half listening to an overly animated exchange between KK and Caroline. The brunette observed silently at the same time that she adjusted the strap on her cap. Her expression was blank and it kind of looked like she was staring off into space. To anyone else, it might have read as judgment, or as if she thought she was above this childish conversation. But Paige knew that in moments like these, Azzi was on another planet entirely, her mind drifting off without meaning to. She found herself smiling softly at the sight before she even realised she was.

“Yeah,” Paige confirmed. “You know her?”

Sheena let out a small, disbelieving laugh that sounded shaky at the end. “I wish. She’s so cool. I mean, have you seen her highlights? I’m kind of a fan, I can’t even lie. Does that make me sound lame? Oh my God, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No!” Paige reassured quickly. “Not lame.”

It definitely was, but it’s not like she had any ground to stand on. If being a fan of Azzi Fudd was pathetic, then Paige was the biggest loser of them all.

Sheena’s head couldn’t help but swivel back in Azzi’s direction. “Do you think she’d mind if I talked to her? She’s so pretty. When I found out I might be coming here, she was totally the selling point– oh my God. Sheena, shut up!” She cut her ramble off with a groan and slap to her face. 

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Paige responded. In hindsight, the words were nothing more than a mere throwaway remark she pulled from instinct just for the sake of being agreeable. But within weeks, she would be wishing she’d never said them at all.

From that moment forward, Sheena took Paige’s light, passing, barely-even-meaningful suggestion and translated it into a fully granted permission to imprint herself onto Azzi in any way possible. At team hangouts, she lingered wherever Azzi stood, and since Paige herself typically lingered around Azzi, she noticed every little thing. 

The way she laughed too hard at Azzi’s jokes, reassured her incessantly, and whenever practice called for mini scrimmages, Sheena always placed herself in a purposeful spot so she’d somehow be picked to be Azzi’s teammate every single time.

Paige brushed it off the first time, but then it happened twice. By the third time, it stopped feeling coincidental. 

Not once did Paige question why she cared enough to notice, but one thing was for certain.

Ever since the season began and the roster shifted, the balance she’d grown used to felt slightly off. She told herself it was nothing. Probably just her overactive paranoia. People came and went all the time; it didn’t always have to mean anything.

Still, something nagged at her otherwise.

The first week of December marked the change of a season. It heralded naked tree branches and icy roads you had to shovel. That was, unless you were on a Division I softball team.

For Paige and the rest of her teammates, the first full week of December meant five consecutive days of batting practice. By the end of it, if your reaction time hadn’t improved, if your stance still looked floppy, or your follow-through lacked finesse, you could kiss goodbye any chance of earning one of the few lineup spots that actually mattered.

Back in first year, Paige couldn’t think of anything better. An entire week where she and Azzi would, obviously, be drill partners. Paige imagined her correcting her form using that quiet, soft-spoken voice that Paige loved, and the thought alone made her mouth water, like a dog waiting on the promise of a treat.

Would Azzi fall for it if Paige started with the technique wrong on purpose, just off enough to justify stepping in close and fixing it properly? What would it feel like to have Azzi stand behind her, guiding her through the motions Paige already knew by heart. Azzi’s hands on her shoulders, her waist, her hips. December couldn’t come soon enough.

But when practice assignments were finally scheduled, Paige had to do a double take to read the paper. Azzi wasn’t listed beside her name at all. Instead, Azzi and the relief pitchers were to rotate feeding balls to everyone equally, so the whole team could get practice at different arms, speeds, and Azzi’s fastball. Logically, Paige knew it made sense. 

But there was no chance she was going to let it slide. Once she wanted something, everyone knew it was already considered hers. 

“Geno, give me a number.”

“I said no,” he shut it down immediately. He didn’t even offer the decency to look at her.

“I said give me a number,” she persisted. 

Geno exhaled while rubbing his temples. “I’m not budging on this. Azzi will partner with everyone equally, and so will you.”

Paige tilted her head, searching deep to find a solution. “So you’re telling me that even if I hit a home run every second elimination game, you still won’t let me and Az partner up?”

Geno thought over the proposal and must’ve thought he was about to present the impossible.

“Fine, I’ll give you this. You hit a home run in every elimination game all the way through to the finals, and I’ll let you and Fudd partner up for the entire week next year. And I’m only agreeing to this because I know it’s not going to happen.”

The following December of their sophomore year saw Paige and Azzi partnered all five days– the aftermath of a freshman season that delivered home a NCAA championship banner, and an MVP trophy with Paige’s name engraved on top. 

Geno never bargained with his catcher again.

Paige crunched a fallen dried leaf beneath her shoe as she stepped back inside. She swiped a bead of sweat off her temple and let out a loud, unrestrained sigh of relief at the cool air of the indoor training centre shooting at her. She spent a second to actively pray thanks to whoever kept the air conditioning running constantly. Their first morning session was a perfect tip off to her Monday. In between her clean swings, and solid contact, she was pleased to have identified a few things she wanted to improve. As she stretched her shoulders, her mind was already flying ahead, picturing what tips Azzi would offer as they worked through the rest of the week together.

When Geno instructed everyone to partner up at the beginning of training, not a single person bothered looking towards Paige or Azzi. Anyone who’d trained there last season knew the drill, and Paige assumed the rookies had picked up on it secondhand within the first few weeks. Besides, she figured most people weren’t eager to test her patience and risk catching her territorial wrath.

She gulped down another sip of cool water from her water bottle, and wiped away a fallen droplet. As she lowered it, an approaching body blurred the edge of her sight. 

“Paige! Do you know where Azzi went?”

It was Sheena. She saddled up with her arms bent at her hips, shaking the cotton neckline of her sweat-darkened shirt, which was as drenched as Paige’s.

“She just dashed to the bathroom,” Paige replied. “What’s up?” She hoped the faint, stirring irritation beneath the question hadn’t slipped through.

Paige sometimes wondered how her new teammate managed to survive before transferring to UConn, since it seemed like every day Sheena discovered a new reason to seek Azzi out for help.

The shortstop scratched her head then looked towards the bathroom in the distance. “I wanted to ask if she could pitch to me after lunch. I think I’m struggling with hitting the low, fast ones, and who better to learn from than the expert herself, you know?”

Paige pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek to buy herself a second to process Sheena’s words. Instead of answering right away, she lifted her bottle again and took another sip, internally shaking her head at the sheer audacity. As she swallowed, Paige already had the words prepared on her tongue. There was a set arrangement in place, one that had been given Geno’s stamp of approval. No one in their right mind argued with his word. Well, except for Paige of course. 

“Look, Sheena, I’m sorry but-”

“Hi!” Azzi’s voice cut in brightly as she saw Paige at the door. “Oh- hey, Sheena!”

Paige turned and exhaled in relief to see Azzi approach them. At least now she didn’t have to worry about being the bad guy when she turned Sheena down for Azzi. Now, her best friend could do it for herself, and Sheena wouldn’t want to argue back if the refusal came straight from her. 

Sheena’s face lit up immediately, and she didn’t hesitate to pounce. “Azzi! I was actually wondering if you could pitch to me this afternoon. There are a few shots giving me total grief, and nothing I'm doing is working.”

Azzi hesitated, just long enough for her eyes to flick to Paige for not even a full second. 

Paige clenched her jaw so tightly it ached. She held herself rigid in the hopes that any rude scoff threatening to escape would stay contained. She was acutely aware of all their teammates milling nearby, doing a horrible job at pretending they weren’t listening. They weren’t subtle at all.

Sheena on the only hand, barely paused for breath. “I really don’t want to let the team down, and I just– I really need help. And if anyone can fix it, it’d be you.”

Paige felt the early rush of satisfaction coming before it even arrived, as well as the ridiculous urge to celebrate vindictively in advance. Her hand curled into a fist in preparation to pump the air. The childish victory call of “take that!” tickled the edge of her tongue.

Then Azzi spoke.

“Okay, partner with me after lunch.”

Azzi probably added something after that, but Paige didn’t register it. The world shrank and her ears rang, the sound sharp and aching. Her back molars ground together as she waited for the noise to fade, but her mind was already pulling her backwards to freshman year.

Those consecutive nights she broke into the batting cages to train alone for hours, hitting ball after ball until the joints in her arms rattled. The late-night gym sessions that followed, long after everyone else had gone home, where she pushed her arms to failure and welcomed the burn that tore through her muscles. All the dinners she turned down, the parties she skipped, sacrifices she never questioned because of the overwhelming hunger to fulfill her end of Geno’s agreement. 

That hunger had pushed her to achieve what no other freshman had done before. She had molded her life around it, without a single complaint.

Only for it to feel as though it had all been handed away by a single sentence.

When she finally confronted Azzi, back in her dorm, the words came out with the type of sharpness that only came from a fragile, broken edge.

“What the fuck was-” She stopped herself, pulling a deep breah in to remind herself that this was Azzi she was speaking to. “What just happened back there?” 

Azzi was in the middle of something mundane, like untying her shoelace at the door, but looked up to the sudden tension in Paige’s voice.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. Her voice was filled with such innocent confusion that only worsened Paige’s frustration, and felt like pointy nails pinching her chest.

“What am I talking ab-?” Paige’s words broke off, unable to finish the sentence. It felt like smoke was clogging her throat. “You betraying me! That’s what I’m talking about.”

Azzi frowned harder. Clearly only half a light bulb clicked on in her brain because she continued to wear that scrunched up, clueless look. “Are you talking about batting practice? Paige, you’re the best hitter on the team, and Sheena was struggling. I just thought it made sense.”

The calm ease she said it with only made the sting worse. Perhaps Azzi thought Paige was being selfish for wanting to keep the best pitcher to herself, but that idea never even got close to crossing Paige’s mind. The feeling of being pushed aside drowned out everything else, and every word Azzi offered did nothing but fan the flames.

 “But you’re my partner!” the blonde cried out. 

“Paige, I’m just feeding her the balls. It’s not like I’m best friends with her.” Azzi shook her head, her tone lifting at the end, still oblivious to what had Paige so worked up.

“No, of course you’re not,” she snapped back, the words spilling raw before she could temper them. “That’s definitely the last thing new girl wants.”

Azzi spluttered before speaking. “What does that even mean? P, I’m so confused right now. Sheena just wanted help getting her distance up by the end of the week.”

Paige laughed sharply, the sound cracking any semblance of calm she was managing at the start of this conversation. “Are you blind? She practically drools all over you every practice. She has a fat crush on you– it’s embarrassing!”

Her frustration flowed out unchecked, fueled by the realisation that this was apparently not going to be just a one-off situation. Sheena had every intention of staying locked as Azzi’s partner for the rest of the week. But Paige didn’t hear the harshness of her words until it was too late.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” Azzi hurled back. 

The profanity sounded so foreign from Azzi’s mouth that it hit Paige like a slap then whipped tight around her throat.

“There is no way this is getting turned back on me,” Paige shot back, unwilling to back down.

“It is about you!” Azzi pressed on, anger finally crawling out. “You’re so bigheaded it’s insane. All these girls lining up for you, and the first one who isn’t into you must blow your mind! It’s making you crazy! You really can’t stand that someone might like me instead? ‘So embarrassing’? Like it’s impossible for anyone to find me attractive?”

Paige could barely keep up as Azzi’s tongue twisted and curled, each word spat with hurt and defensiveness coursing through.

That wasn’t what she had meant, at all. She meant it was embarrassing for Sheena– to be so, extremely desperate enough to pretend to be a bad hitter. Paige had checked the stats. Sheena wasn’t awful– far from it. She’d even batted second in the lineup for several games, a spot reserved for hitters the coaches could rely on.

But Azzi had taken it somewhere else entirely, somewhere Paige would never have gone on her own.

How had everything gotten so backwards?

Paige tried to steady herself and attempted to drag the conversation back to what actually mattered, if it could still be called a conversation at all. “I don’t know what you think I’m saying right now,” she said, shaking her head. “But I talked to some of the others, and even they think this is weird. Think about last year. Everyone knew to give us space during this week. That’s how it works.”

“Oh, so now you’re talking about me behind my back?” Azzi snapped. “Great! So now I’m this untouchable thing everyone has to avoid?”

“If that’s seriously how you think I see you, then you’re the one who’s crazy.” Paige shook her head, refusing to accept this backwards version of her feelings. None of this made sense. Now Azzi thought Paige didn’t find her attractive? Was this a joke?

“I’m done talking about this,” Azzi said finally. “I know we have that agreement and everything, and yeah, last year was fun, but I’m not buying into you calling a teammate asking for help ‘embarrassing.’ If someone’s struggling, you help them.”

 “So what? You’re going to partner with her for the rest of the week?” As the sentence fell out of her mouth, her throat tightened into a bottle neck until it felt like she was about to choke up on her words. Her chest tightened as if it was collapsing in.

Azzi sighed, then hesitated. 

“I don’t know Paige… we’ll see.”

The next day, Paige walked into practice wearing the hardest, downturned glare which dared anyone to so much as acknowledge Azzi’s new batting partner. Most of the team took the hint. Unfortunately for everyone, during Paige’s turn at the batting nets, KK– who had subbed in to feed to her– couldn’t hold back her snicker. 

Batting Net One got thrown out after practice. It was hard to aim for a target when the metal post was bent beyond repair.

By the end of Friday, Paige had left her mark on every single net in the facility. Every softball from the coaching bucket met her brutal attack that grew only more explosive as the week dragged on. Not a single one of those pitches came from Azzi.

Sheena had better be a fucking good batter by the time game season.

The intensive training week passed, and the following Monday saw the blonde and brunette walking side by side from their dorm to the practice building. For how much Paige had anticipated batting week, she was surprisingly relieved it was finally behind them. They strolled in silence, basking in the last final moments of calm before Coach inevitably started yelling, until Paige broke it.

“How’s Sheena?”

“Huh?” Azzi glanced over, pulled out of whatever daydream had her transfixed. “Oh, she’s good. She mentioned something about her family coming to visit, which should be fun. They live overseas.”

“Her batting,” Paige corrected flatly. “I was asking if she’s improved.”

She secretly rolled her eyes. As if she gave a shit about Sheena’s parents or their international, probably-only-fly-first-class kind of money.

“Oh, sorry! Yeah, she’s a lot better now. Stopped hitting them into the dirt.”

Paige let out a small huff that sounded more like a hybrid between a laugh and a scoff, then nodded without responding. 

Azzi slowed her step. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.”

“You just laughed.”

Paige shrugged and kept her gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. “I just... isn’t that the bare minimum? She should already know that.”

Azzi stopped them in their tracks and turned to face her. “Paige. That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“I’m just saying.”

“It’s not easy for her living here, you know. Her parents live in Singapore. She sees them, what, two weeks a year for Christmas? She’s basically on her own.”

Paige didn’t stop walking and didn’t wait to see if Azzi was following her or not. “Is that why you’re so close to her now? You’re filling in as her mum?”

Azzi shook her head, exasperated. “I don’t get why you dislike her so much. And don’t lie, because I see the way you look at her when you think no one’s paying attention. But I see it, Paige.”

“I just-” Paige cut herself off before she exposed too much and tightened the strap on her backpack. She needed something to do other than focus on the knot growing in her chest. “You wouldn’t get it.” 

Azzi let the words linger between them for a few more steps. Just before they reached the building entrance, she settled on what note she wanted to leave with “I think you’d actually like her if you gave her a chance. Shes really funny. Especially one-on one.”

Paige held the door open and let Azzi step inside first, borrowing a brief second of reprieve to process that detail. So now they were talking in private. She focused on the movement of her shoes to keep that information from digging deeper inside of her than it already had.

“I’m sure she’s hilarious.”

It all happened so fast. One moment, Sheena was perfectly upright and across from Paige on the field, no more than one base length apart. The next, she was flat on the ground, legs splayed out and arms limp by her head. Beside her, the softball rolled away casually, as if it hadn’t just knocked her out cold.

“Oh, shit.” 

After that, everything blurred. Voices shouted, phones were dialed, and soon, whirring sirens cut through the air in a deafening wee-woo screech. Stretchers were dragged onto the field and cleats jumped out of the way to make room. Sheena expelled a low, disoriented moan as she was lifted into the ambulance.

“Does anyone have her parents contact number?” the assistant coach asked frantically.

Everyone shook their heads. Negative. 

Azzi didn’t wait another beat. “They live in Singapore. It’s three in the morning there.”

The coach nodded once. “Alright. Azzi, you ride with her in the back. Call me as soon as the doctors assess her.”

Azzi stepped up without hesitation into the back of the vehicle beside Sheena’s stretcher. Just before the doors swung closed, she extended an arm to brush a soothing hand over Sheena’s shoulder and whispered words Paige couldn’t make out from the angle she was watching this all unfold.

And just like that, the doors shut, the sirens recommenced, and the ambulance disappeared around the corner. By the end of the entire ordeal, Paige still remained stationary, planted exactly where she’d been when she threw the softball that hit Sheena’s head.

Half a week later, Sheena was still in the hospital. Paige couldn’t quite decide whether that was a good or bad thing.

Bad, obviously. She wasn’t a monster. Of course she didn’t want Sheena suffering from a mild traumatic brain injury.

But like all things, there was a flip side that existed whether Paige chose to examine it or not. At the very least, she didn’t have to suffer through seeing Sheena’s face at early morning practices. More importantly, if Azzi was on the field and Sheena wasn’t, that limited the chances of them growing any closer than they already had. That absence gave Paige room to pretend, just for a little while, that their dynamic hadn’t shifted as much as it definitely had.

As long as it wasn’t displayed directly in front of her, she could almost believe she and Azzi were still as close as they’d always been, and that there wasn’t a third party steadily carving out more space in Azzi’s time, piece by piece.

To be fair, this dynamic where Azzi was annoyed at something Paige had done wasn’t new. Frankly, it happened quite often. The older girl always did something to get on her nerves– maybe one too many jabs to the ribs, or a small prank that she accidentally took too far. And once disturbed, worming back into Azzi’s good graces usually required a complex equation of things to make up for it. But Paige knew the formula like the back of her hand. 

Sometimes it took a well-timed compliment, or a sly act of service like a coffee waiting in Azzi’s cup holder or her gear bag being packed before practice. And when all else failed, Paige could usually rely on her trusty puppy dog eyes to get Azzi to finally relent and go back to cuddling her begrudgingly like she always did.

But, like all things in Paige’s life, the most reliable way had always been on the field.

When it came to softball, Paige knew how to read Azzi mid-game like nothing else. The younger would let an off batting stretch get under her skin. Balls that died too early would roll straight into the opposition’s mit rather than past them. At some point, the built up frustration would tighten between her shoulders and bubble up in her face, and Paige would see it all. As the game progressed, Azzi would step back into the box, brushing off the typical noise of ‘good luck!’ and unremarkable ‘you got it!’s. But then, cutting through it all, she would hear,

“Imagine the ball’s my head!”

It was such a Paige thing to say that Azzi never needed to look to know who it echoed from. And when the other pitcher drove the next ball forward, Azzi knew the opposition had already lost.

Bam!

The crack of the bat shot her gunning to first base. All of her focus was funnelled into running as fast as she could that she didn’t have time to track where her ball landed. But it was only when the cheers grew to the point of deafening, even through her helmet, did she glance up. That’s when she realised.

Her ball had cleared past the barrier.

A home run.

After something like that, it was impossible to stay mad. Not after she went home clutching the MVP trophy for that championship win, glowing from a hard earned dub. Paige has always known how convince her to never stay mad. 

But this time, something felt different. Azzi’s response hit harder than any of their endless bickerings or her fiery comebacks. This time, she was just quiet. She didn’t look at Paige much anymore and the silence hit harder than any argument they’d ever shared, and Paige knew, instinctively, that this standstill was going to be different than all those other times.

She had to adjust to a new routine. Now, she walked herself to practice in the mornings alone, without Azzi to fill the time with mumbled singing and updates about the upcoming weather that Paige had come to rely on. Without those small reminders, Paige was beginning to feel lost without anything to anchor her to remembering which day it was. She lost her headphones, so she walked in silence, and she showed up dressed for the wrong conditions on more than one occasion. Last week, she accidentally wore her brand-new Dunks on a day forecasted for torrential downpour. They were still sitting on her balcony, caked with dried mud, as if a little sunlight might somehow perform miracles on the ruined leather.

When practice was over, Azzi no longer lingered like she used to. She finished her cone stacking duties with extreme efficiency and dashed as soon as she could, leaving Paige behind to do nothing but watch her retreating figure.

She caught herself thinking back to old times, when things were as they should be. She and Azzi used to stay for hours after practice, fielding grounders, throwing loopy airballs and finally finishing by backing up farther and farther just to see how far they could throw the ball to eachother. 

They’d go on forever like that until it the sky darkened the and stormy clouds forced them to pack it in. 

And sometimes, on rare nights, they wouldn’t go home at all. Once in a blue moon, they’d lie flat on the dirt in the center of the diamond, shoulders brushing, and admiring the stars while crickets chirped into the silence around them. Their heads would rest close enough so Paige could sense the warmth radiating from Azzi’s temple, and feel small flyways tickle her cheek. Most of the time they didn’t talk, letting the cool air brush over their skin. But once in a while, they would. And every time they did, Paige felt herself fall a little further into something she knew was far too deep for her to climb out of.

On one particular night, the field lights had been long been turned off which left the diamond dim and open to the starry sky. The field smelled of cut grass and the remnants of hard effort from the day’s training. The muscle tissue deep between Paige’s shoulder blades ached in that satisfying way that only came from a long practice session.

This time, Azzi broke the silence first.

“Did you always want this?” she asked, her voice drifted quietly and edged towards caution. It was a tone Paige could’ve listened to for hours if she could. “For your whole life to end up revolving around this sport?”

“One hundred percent,” Paige didn’t hesitate even a second to answer. “Didn’t you?”

Azzi let out a short sigh which broke off into a slight laugh. “I don’t know. Well, I do know. I don’t know why I said it like that.” She paused. Her eyes focused on the scatter of constellations overhead. “I didn’t like it at first. Softball, I mean.”

“What? How is that possible?” Paige cried, immediately requiring clarification. The admission caught her off guard. Since coming to UConn, the idea of softball without Azzi Fudd in it didn’t feel possible at all. In her mind, the two had long since twisted themselves into the same thing.

“This game gave me everything,” Paige spoke on before Azzi could elaborate, the words spilling out full of earnest. “This team, a goal, something to aim toward every day. What else does that?”

“No, I get that,” Azzi agreed quickly. “I do. I like the team part too. I like winning, especially once I stopped riding the bench.” She paused again so she could select her words more deliberately this time. “But I think you love it the way you do because you’re good at it. If you weren’t, if you lost all the time, you wouldn’t be this obsessed with it. You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

Paige opened her mouth, then closed it after nothing came out. She followed Azzi by staring up at the sky, jaw set tight, because as much as she hated it, she had to admit that in her heart, there was an element of truth that sat uncomfortably in the words. Azzi took advantage of the silence to continue.

“If all that we’ve built only works when we’re winning, then what happens when that stops? When someone’s better than us. When we’re not the team everyone’s gunning to beat. Who are we then? Am I still happy when I don’t have a trophy to point at? When I can’t justify every sacrifice with a banner on the wall?”

Paige absorbed every word and held her tongue so Azzi could keep going.

“I barely have time to live outside of this,” she admitted. “I don’t see people. I don’t date. And I keep thinking… what happens when I finally do, and I’m lying next to someone I’m supposed to care about, but I can’t sleep because we lost by one run that afternoon? What if this game hardens me to the point that I forget to be normal about anything else?”

“So what,” Paige propped herself up on one elbow so she could face her properly, “you don’t think it’s worth it? You think chasing the cup fucks you up enough you’d rather choose a relationship over this team?” Over us?

Azzi didn’t look at her. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Paige let a singular beat pass, then shook her head. “No. No way, Az. I don’t agree with that. I can’t, not about this.”

“Then tell me why I’m wrong.”

She took a slow breath in and searched deep through her heart for the right words. “Why does it have to be one or the other?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Azzi frowned.

“You talk as if being tough means icing yourself out of everything else,” Paige said. “Like that somehow makes you less capable of loving someone. It’s bullshit.”

“Doesn’t it?” Azzi asked. “Okay, think of it this way. When you’re behind that diamond, and your calves are burning, and your knees are begging for rest, and your heart is beating so fast it’s screaming at you to stop. You’re trained to stand your ground while a ball flies at your face faster than your instincts want to allow. Isn’t that unnatural? How does that not bleed into everything else?”

“You’re framing it all wrong.”

“No. I’m not,” Azzi pushed back.

“But you are, though.” Paige shook her head, and an arising thought pulled a soft, uncontrolled smile to her face without her even realising. “How can you not be romantic about softball?”

Azzi scoffed. “You’re insane.”

“No, I’m not,” Paige copied. She shook her head again and shifted closer, their breaths mere inches apart. “People bring their girlfriends to our games all the time. They make first dates out of sitting on uncomfortable bleachers, eating shitty hot dogs, while watching something that technically has no real impact on their lives at all.” Her voice dropped into something softer. “And then there’s the team. When the bases are loaded and you just need that one run, sometimes the most important thing you can do is sacrifice yourself to get that teammate on third home. How is that not the purest act of love?”

She didn’t mention the intimacy that suffocated every moment she and Azzi trained together, just the two of them. How it pressed on her chest so unbearably it almost reached a breaking point. If she were being more truthful, she would’ve explained that what Azzi probably viewed as routine, or a mere necessity, was something Paige treasured deep in her bones. Azzi was famous for breaking things down to their simplest, most derived form, so from her point of view, she probably viewed their roles as functional and interchangeable. Like they could be any pair of teammates on the team who just balanced to throw to each other.

But they weren’t just an outfielder aiming for first, or a shortstop tossing to whoever was closest, whether that be second or third.

No other two players spent the hours they did together, repeating the same motions over and over until every action was perfected down to the very centimetre. Before practice, after practice, weekends, holidays. It never mattered. They learned to communicate through each other’s tells more fluently than through spoken words, able to read the smallest twitches in posture like it was breathing.

And sure, game days were chaos. Competitions were a test of who could chant the loudest and who could slide the furthest. There was no space for anything but noise and relentlessness.

But within each play, just for a small, intimate moment, there was a pause. A slim pocket of silence where nothing else could survive. The batter stood between them– just the pitcher and the catcher, breathing in sync, and responsible for everything that came next.

Paige watched Azzi breathe in, round her arm, and drive the ball straight into her glove.

If that wasn’t romantic, she didn’t know what was.

“Alright! Room assignments are here.” The assistant coach slapped the clipboard flat on a couch in the hotel lobby. She scanned the group with hawk eyes, daring someone to test her patience. “No one leaves their rooms tonight. I won’t care about whatever excuse you come to me with. Anyone caught sneaking out is running sixty laps before they even think about touching a ball tomorrow, and don’t try trick us. We will know!”

A few groans rose from the back, but most of them laughed at her strict words. The road had been wrought with tortuous bends and turns, and the narrow bus seats meant everyone’s joints were stiff. Pre-season scrimmages and early home games had shot the year off to a solid start. But this was their first true away game of the conference, and the whole team was buzzing with restless energy and itching to remind everyone of who they were.

But first, Paige needed sleep. 

The bus ride had been anything but restful. Eager to get herself a good spot, she’d hopped aboard early and claimed a window seat. Instead of sitting down, she stayed standing longer than necessary, craning her neck toward the windows so Azzi would see where she was. She spent the first few minutes killing time, leaning forward so she could joke around with KK in the seat in front. Azzi was infamous for sleeping through alarms more often than not, so Paige hadn’t worried at first. Typical Azzi. Probably still tucked under her comforter, blissfully snoozing the morning away.

Then the doors shut. And Paige was still standing.

“Paige!” CD yelled from the front. “Sit down. We’re about to head off.”

“But-” Paige started to protest, ready to jump into an explanation about how their star pitcher was about to get stranded on campus.

“Bueckers. Sit down! Now.”

You didn’t want CD telling you anything twice, much less three times. Paige grumbled under her breath and dropped into her seat just as the engine rumbled to life. That’s when the roll started.

Her coach called names down the aisle and voices answered back in varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“Present, as always,” one muttered.

“Here,” another forced out.

“Tip of the morning!” That was KK.

Paige’s name had been called early, so she stared out the window at the thin edge of road visible through her window, until she heard Azzi’s name. She opened her mouth to yell that her bus partner hadn’t arrived and had overslept her alar-

“Here.”

Paige whipped her head around so fast she nearly nicked her shoulder on the armrest.

There was no mistaking who spoke. Only one person could sound that pretty so early in the morning. Even croaky from sleep and a little rough around the edges, it was soft and unmistakable, a voice she knew too well.

There Azzi was, hidden eleven rows back. Paige realised then that she must’ve boarded even earlier than she did to escape her notice.

Then Paige’s eyes shifted to the seat beside her.

For one fleeting millisecond, she hoped it was empty. Making excuses on Azzi’s behalf came instinctually. Maybe it was her knee acting up again, and she needed the aisle to stretch it out. Sure, it would suck to sit so much further from her as usual, but at least there would be an understandable reason for the change.

But the seat wasn’t empty.

Beside Azzi, sat Sheena Lu, relaxed and already typing on her laptop like this was the everyday routine.

Everything went red. 

She twisted back around immediately, unable to stomach the sight any longer, but not before Azzi glanced up. Their eyes met for the briefest heartbeat, and Paige hated how naked she felt. She’d never been good at hiding anything and Paige couldn’t help but wear every emotion plainly on her face. She knew that Azzi had seen every bit of shock, anger and disappointed that flashed on her expression.

But worse that that, Paige caught that Azzi’s face didn’t reveal a thing. No flinch, no eyebrow scrunch as a masked apology, no hint of guilt in her eyes. Nothing.

Azzi didn’t change at all.

By the time CD finished the roll call, Paige was vibrating so hard she genuinely considered if everyone’s suggestion that she seek help might be valid for once. Nothing she did could shake the hot anger from the edges of her vision. She measured her breaths, counted down from ten, while trying to erase the image already branded into the backs of her eyelids. Azzi and Sheena, side by side.

Everything pissed her off after that. KK reclining her seat straight into Paige’s knees. Caroline’s obnoxious hay-fever sniffles from across the aisle. Aubrey laughing far too loudly while on FaceTime with her new girlfriend, with zero respect for the rest of the team. Which she could do, because they were girlfriends. In love.

Paige just about hit the fan.

“Can you shush?” she snapped, curling around to whisper-shout through the gaps between the seats, though it was definitely more of a shout than a whisper.

“Damn. Someone’s in a mood…” Aubrey dragged the last word out before turning back to her phone and raising her eyebrows, as if to silently say to her girlfriend ‘can you believe this guy?’.

So by the time they reached the hotel, Paige couldn’t have cared less about who she was rooming with. She just wanted a shower and a bed.

“Ah, crap.” Sheena’s ear-grating voice scraped Paige’s insides like nails on a chalkboard.

“It’s okay,” someone offered in consolation. “KK’s a great roommate.”

“But I wanted to be with you…” Sheena’s whining drifted off, her upset pout directed towards Azzi.

Paige almost rolled her eyes straight to the back of her head. Who cared who you were paired up with? It was just for one night, and you were sleeping anyways. Paige couldn’t have given less of a fu-

room 7: paige + azzi

Suck on that! Paige couldn’t help the blissful and immediate satisfaction that flared through her chest. She didn’t bother hiding it as she grabbed her key and jetted straight for the elevators. She was sleeping next to Azzi, and Sheena wasn’t! Sucks to suck! 

In her excitement, she must’ve rushed so fast that she reached the room first. Shrugging, she dropped her duffle and skipped directly into the shower.

The hot water reddened her skin and soothed her muscles while steam filled the small bathroom. As she scrubbed away the stuffy bus air, she found herself rehearsing lines without meaning to. What topic sounded casual enough, but still allowed room for her to joke around? Should she recycle a conversation they’d had before to play it safe? Or would that be too boring? Somewhere between shampoo and conditioner, it struck her that this wasn’t natural. Never once had she needed to prepare to talk to Azzi. From the very beginning, since that first accidental meeting at the gas station, words always flowed effortlessly between them, like something had pushed them into motion long before.

Now, one wrong word felt like stepping directly onto already-cracked ice.

No matter though. Fortune favoured the prepared, or whatever the saying was, and Paige had done plenty of it. She was confident the night would play out with its usual rhythm: chatting until lights out, pretending to sleep when coach knocked for room checks, only to whisper again until the sun rose.

But it soon became clear that someone else didn’t share those same plans.

When she returned to the bedroom, towel snug around her chest, she was met with darkness. The lights had already been switched off. On a closer inspection, Azzi was tucked in bed, her chest rising and falling, slow and even. She had her silk sleep mask pulled over her eyes, a sure sign that she was genuinely asleep. Last year, Paige probably would’ve smiled at the pink bunny detailing. Tonight, it felt like a closed door.

She slipped into her pyjamas as quietly as possible, stepping into her pants with exaggerated care, careful to not wake Azzi up. Since the younger girl was scarily sensitive to light, Paige had to stifle a yelp after tripping in the pitch-black room. The dreadful silence amplified every breath and every rustle of the sheets as she slid into bed.

It dawned on her then, for the first time, that maybe Azzi’s distance had nothing to do with Sheena. Paige had assumed that once the girl was discharged, this disruption would resolve itself and everything would snap back to normal. But now, she wondered if that had been a myth she’d been hiding behind to soothe herself- something false, like a band-aid.

Because Sheena was discharged two days ago… and Azzi was still distant.

Paige stared up into the black nothingness above her. She couldn’t see a thing, but she swore the popcorn ceiling was mocking her.

The space between their beds felt wider than it ever had.

The sun arrived without ceremony, and for the first time, Paige watched it rise without the sounds of Azzi worrying about how late they’d stayed up. She fell back asleep.

When she woke again to the blaring alarm clock, Paige opened her eyes and gathered energy into her vocal cords so she could argue against Azzi’s groggy complaints and eventually drag her out of her slumber, as she always inevitably had to do.

But when she turned across the room, she was met with an empty bed. The sheets on Azzi’s side had long since cooled and smoothed flat by the natural progression of time. She was already gone.

By the time Paige made it downstairs, Azzi was seated around a circular table shared with their teammates. She was nursing a half-drunk cup of coffee and scraping the bottom of her yoghurt bowl, with, notably, Sheena by her side.

Paige hesitated, unsure whether to pull up the chair next to her as she always did, or to pretend she hadn’t noticed her at all. The uncertainty made the top of her neck itch, and the loose cotton threads of her shirt feel noticeably more irritating against her skin than ever before.

The team filed onto the bus and rode to the field. Paige decided to sit with KK this time. She told herself it was because she needed to go over gameplay with their outfielder, but truthfully, she didn’t know if she could survive another sting of Azzi choosing to sit somewhere else again.

As soon as the bus rolled to a stop and the girls spilled out, Geno clapped his hands and immediately called for warm-ups.

Paige nodded and went to grab her mitt. She scanned the field for a throwing partner, no longer able to comfortably assume she was paired with her pitcher. She was already bracing herself to look past Azzi when her name got yelled out.

“Paige!”

The blonde barely reacted in time before a softball arced swiftly through the air and slammed perfectly into her mitt without her having to adjust. The sting of impact shot through her arm was so familiar that she knew exactly whose face she was going to see when she looked up.

Azzi stood a few metres away, mitt raised, and eyes trained back on her.

It was something so small– barely anything, really– but this was the first time in days that Azzi had chosen her without question, and God did it felt enormous. Paige transferred the ball into her throwing hand while she begged her face to please remain neutral. But when she spun it back across the field, straight into Azzi’s glove, a dizzying sense of relief loosened in her chest. She told herself not to read into something so mundane, but she couldn’t help it.

They fell into an easy rhythm, allowing muscle memory to take over. Given recent events, even something as simple as warm-ups felt like something Paige couldn’t take for granted. She found herself treasuring each catch and then each throw, as though it might all disappear if she wasn’t cautious enough.

When it was time for the coin toss, coach indicated for Azzi to head over to the home dugout.

Azzi nodded, then nudged Paige slightly with her elbow. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

Paige hadn’t noticed Coach’s signal, but she didn’t question it. When Azzi asked, she would always follow.

UConn won the toss. Indecisive as always, Azzi hesitated and chewed on the inside of her lip. Just like clockwork, she glanced at Paige in a quiet request for her to take the lead.

Very aware of Azzi’s tendency, Paige already had a response prepared. “Field first.”

The opposing captain nodded and then turned to head back deep into their own dugout. Paige was already halfway exited out the gate when a leg struck out from the side. It caught Azzi’s calf, sending her stumbling clumsily, though luckily she caught herself just before she hit the concrete.

“Oops,” Number thirty-two drawled, smiling mockingly. “Better be careful, Fudd.”

Azzi, always so painfully conflict-averse, didn’t say a word.

But Paige on the other hand, was spilling with outrage. She pivoted on her foot and allowed anger to run fast and hot. She was ready, guns blazing, to turn back and make it an issue– scene be damned. But Azzi’s calloused hand circled her wrist with a force firm enough to keep them moving towards their own dugout.

“The fuck was that?” Paige hissed.

Azzi kept her gaze forward. She didn’t look at her once. “Relax.”

“You don’t just trip a player for no reason.”

“Don’t worry.” Azzi finally dropped Paige’s wrist. Her tone cut in a way Paige hadn’t felt before. “She wasn’t flirting with me. No need to be disgusted.”

Paige jumped to correct her. “Azzi, you know that’s not-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Azzi cut her off. “We’ve got a game to play.”

They walked back to their dugout, steps fallen out of sync.

The game was falling into pieces, with the opposition leaving them behind in the dirt. The deficit had nothing to do with UConn failing to score bases. In fact, Paige’s bat came alive early and kept their first inning alive with a bang. With loaded bases and #5 fourth in the lineup, it was a guaranteed formula for a blowout home run. But offense only made up half of the equation.

By the third inning, the opposition was firing with loaded bases and the score was tilting further in the wrong way.

Azzi vibrated with ungrounded energy on the mound. She had the ball clenched tight in her hand, fingers pressing into all the wrong seams. From behind the plate, Paige’s irritation stirred as she took in the faraway look on Azzi’s face, the one filled with too many thoughts and jumbled emotions. Paige could read it like an open book.

When another fastball sailed just off the corner and the changeup died far too early in the dirt, Paige noticed the tension in Azzi’s neck, then the off-rhythm tempo of her breath. She watched one pitch miss high, the next wide, another float uselessly. She couldn’t stand to watch any longer.

Paige turned to the umpire and called for time.

She slid off her mask and jogged out to the mound, heart pounding unevenly with each step. Azzi didn’t look at her when she stepped up, eyes still locked on a single leaf folded into the grass.

“Az,” Paige spoke quietly. No response.

“You saving your pitches for the finals?” Not even a laugh, or a smile.

Instead, Azzi shook her head, unimpressed and much too proud. “I don’t need a breather.”

“I know,” Paige encouraged gently. In moments like these, Azzi’s ego was fragile, a tangled mess that required the utmost care while handling. “You’re still hitting your spots. Just wanted to talk through this batter.”

Azzi exhaled through her nose, then finally nodded.

“She’s got fast hands,” Paige explained. “Likes the fastball when it’s out over the plate.”

“So I should pitch her in this time,” Azzi suggested. Her tone was low and serious. It was a reflection of how badly she wanted to get back into the game. 

“You’re the boss. I trust you,” Paige replied, letting Azzi fully take the reins. “But we’ve got this one. Let’s stick it to her.”

“What if I get to three balls?” Azzi’s asked unsurely, unable to help the insecurity from bubbling to the surface.

“Then show off that nasty slider I know you’ve been hiding,” Paige redirected instantly. “Just throw it to me. I’ve got you.”

Azzi let the words of encouragement seep fully into her brain. Finally, she nodded with a new gathered sense of certainty.

The next time Azzi let go of the ball, it snapped directly into Paige’s mitt. And so did the next after that. Batter #32 went down swinging, frustration clear as day when she trudged defeatedly back to the dugout.

For the first time in her career, Azzi successfully clawed her way out of a rut mid-game. The game’s momentum picked up again once her rhythm had returned. She worked tirelessly, sniping through the rest of the lineup with renewed focus. But despite the surging comeback, the home team’s lead had grown too large.

The game ended. 12–11, home win.

After the girls came back home to Connecticut following the game, things between Paige and Azzi fell back into something slightly more familiar. They slipped into their previous routines of walking to training together, driving around town aimlessly, and cooking dinner for two.

But still, there was no hiding the simmering aftermath of tension lingering beneath the surface of whatever this weird thing between them was. Paige couldn’t complain, though; at least Azzi had stopped skirting around her and no longer gave her the cold shoulder. She’d take whatever she could get.

On a certain night, Paige told Azzi that morning that she planned on hanging out in Nika’s room upstairs for a bit. As much as she loved spending time with her roommate, staying for hours in Nika’s dorm was pretty routine. The dorm upstairs was just better. Nika’s couch was comfier, her TV was bigger, and most nights they ended up there long after Azzi had fallen asleep anyway. It was another unspoken arrangement that had grown naturally over time.

They were an hour into a survival game when the screen paused. It flickered twice, then died for good.

Nika flopped back across the couch and let out a frustrated groan. “Fuck, okay. I give up. It’s not going to work.”

Paige was still buzzing from her energy drink she’d down while walking here, so she checked the time and shrugged. “We can just go back to mine.”

They quickly unplugged the gaming system and headed downstairs. When Paige stepped through the door of her dorm, the first thing she noticed was the empty hook by the entryway.

Azzi’s keys were missing.

Paige placed her own keys into her slot and racked her brain, searching for anything Azzi might’ve said throughout the day. She hadn’t mentioned plans. They’d done their weekly grocery run the day before– Paige was sure of it, because she remembered ragging on Azzi’s cart, which was loaded with vegetables and cottage cheese. She, on the other hand, had tossed in Pop-Tarts, Slim Jims, and a bag of Tru Fru to balance out all the grossness.

The blonde shrugged and shoved the questions to the back of her mind. She and Nika plugged the setup back into the TV and sank themselves into the couch. Once the screen flickered back to life, one round blurred into the next, and hours passed quickly. The two kept one-upping each other and refused to be the one to finish the night with a loss. They played and played until the light outside the window faded and the hours slipped by unnoticed.

In the middle of another round, Nika yelled in victory as she shot another player dead. “Yo, just give up already, this is yo-”

A familiar creak of the door hinge interrupted her, followed by soft laughter trickling in through the hall. Paige and Nika twisted their heads atop of their necks to look.

Azzi stepped in first, shrugging off her coat and tugging her beanie free. A second figure trailed in behind her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Paige tried to remember if she’d seen this girl before, but she came up short. She moved easily, taking Azzi’s jacket without asking and hanging it on their– Paige and Azzi’s– rack.

The stranger pulled her sweater over her head to reveal a box-tee and the waistband of her boxers, then let the jumper drop onto a chair. As she settled herself in to their dorm, each of her movements were questionably smooth and with familiarity, like she’d done this all before.

Paige watched it all, static.

Azzi wobbled as she balanced on one foot to kick off her shoe. With a cheeky grin, the girl tilted her hip into Azzi’s, just forceful enough to bump her off balance. Azzi let out a unrestrained laugh and waited no more than a second to nudge her back. Both of their smiles were comfortable and careless. Too loose to be completely sober.

Nika eyed Paige, eyebrow lifting in a silent question. Paige didn’t notice. Her attention was locked on the stranger standing in the middle of her apartment.

The lights were still low, but Paige squinted to catch every detail anyway. Her hair was long, and straight so it fell smoothly behind her broad shoulders. Her muscular arms filled out the sleeves of her fitted shirt and denim stretched tight over quads. A small nose ring glinted when she walked past the lamp light.

They hadn’t bothered turning the entrance light on, seemingly too focused on giggling over whatever their conversation was about. It occurred to her all at once that if Nika’s TV hadn’t randomly broken down, she would’ve still been upstairs, and none the wiser to what was happening just one floor below her. The thought of Azzi bringing home strangers while Paige had been busy elsewhere lodged painfully in her chest. Her mind tumbled into a spiral. Who knew how many times this had happened?

Azzi leaned in and murmured something into the girl’s ear. Her guest nodded, then headed straight for Azzi’s bedroom. Not once did she look around or stop to pause at their decorations. She just reached for the handle and disappeared inside as if she already knew the way.

Paige felt the faint sensation of Nika’s socked foot kick gently against her shin.

Instead of beelining into her bedroom, Azzi approached them on the couch, forcing Paige to look away from where the girl had vanished and school her expression from sour into something passable. Up close, the little details she hadn’t noticed from across the room emerged in the light. Mascara darkened Azzi’s lashes, a light sweep of blush warmed her cheeks and earrings sparkled on her ears. They were the pair Paige knew she adored but almost never wore, since they were banned during training and usually not worth the hassle of taking in and out every day.

Paige felt her food rising back up.

“Hi, Nika,” Azzi greeted softly, lowering her volume to match the dimly lit living room. Nika hey’ed back with a casual tone that hid any possible wariness she might’ve felt. 

As Paige stared up at Azzi, her brain lagged behind the moment. She noted, absurdly, that Azzi had greeted only Nika, but hadn’t acknowledged her at all. Under normal circumstances she probably wouldn’t have thought about it twice, but lately, every look felt unusually weighted, and every omission pressed heavier than justified.

For a singular second, she considered taping her mouth shut and pushing her head down. Just let it go, her logic urged. After all, the last time she’d pushed something like this, it led to her words being misconstrued in every impossibly backwards direction. She had to be careful with what she said next. She couldn’t afford to spook whatever tiny bit of Azzi she’d been granted these past few days.

“How are you?” is what she settled on instead. She winced internally as the question flowed out. It sounded too out of place given the unignorable elephant in the room, but it was too late to reconsider.

Azzi was obviously thinking the same thing, since her head flinched just a slight touch. She blinked emptily, likely surprised the blonde didn’t jump at the chance to interrogate her about the unexpected fourth person in this apartment. 

"I'm... good," Azzi responded after a pause. A metal click flicked her gaze briefly to catch the bedroom door close, before returning it back to Paige. 

“Good… that’s good,” Paige nodded to herself, too stuck in what she’d seen mere seconds ago. 

The tension in the air was so thick it was palpable. It was a standstill that no one had balls big enough to break first. 

"I should probably head out," Nika, predictably, was the one to offer mercy. Paige and Azzi were both too chicken shit. 

"Oh- no, you don't have to," Azzi jumped in quickly. "It's fine, promise. We’re just going to-" she gestured vaguely toward her room. "We're not-"

"I was leaving anyway," Nika cut in, already rising off the couch.

Azzi offered to walk her out. Paige didn't wait around another second to observe the rest. The moment the other two rounded the corner, she stood abruptly and rushed into her own room. 

Just before she pushed the door closed, she heard her best friend murmur something to Nika.

“I thought you guys were upstairs. If I’d known, I-” the rest was cut off by the door she slammed a little harder than she meant to. 

In the bathroom, she splashed freezing water across her face and gripped the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles shook with pressure.

She leaned her head over the sink, willing gravity to wrench this nauseous swirl in her stomach down the drain. Her mind filled with images she could barely endure: Azzi's laugh, the girl’s hand lingering at her back, the way they’d pushed at the other with comfortable ease. 

Through the wall, giggling laughter filtered through again. Azzi’s voice, followed by the other girl's.

Paige closed her eyes.

It wasn't just Sheena anymore. No longer was this confined to the team, or to circumstances Paige could lie to herself were temporary. Azzi was actively building a life that no longer included her in the way it once had. And worst of all, she had absolutely no clue how much of it was happening right underneath her nose.

The moment Paige thought that tense blip from the beginning of December was over, the cruel gods of this world bumped her down a notch. Suddenly, everything felt more brittle than before, somehow worse now that neither of them bothered to pretend otherwise.

Since Azzi’s date, Paige had taken to ignoring her outright. Unlike before, she no longer made pitiful attempts at starting conversations and only acknowledged Azzi when absolutely necessary. Stubborn as Paige, Azzi matched the distance with an infuriating kind of restraint that ground at Paige’s insides. Since neither of them were pushing back, it felt like neither of them wanted to be the one to chase either.

The dynamic was foreign and icky compared to how they used to act before. Before all this mess, they shared inside jokes and random snacks scavenged from convenience stores. Now all they had in common was the air they breathed, taut with friction and strained so thin it might just implode at any moment.

This standstill lasted a full week until CD noticed, as she always did. 

“Pack it in,” she snapped after a routine drill ended with numerous dropped balls and too many unforced errors. “You’re not heading to your lockers until you sort whatever this is out. Thirty minutes on the diamond. And don’t think I won’t know if you leave early.”

One by one, their teammates, coaches, and the training staff filtered out the building. The field emptied, leaving Azzi and Paige alone as the last two on the dirt.

The light generators hummed against the crisp air as dusk settled overhead. Paige walked to her spot behind the plate without thinking. She settled low into a squat and held her mitt open, every movement guided by habit alone. She almost expected Azzi to roll her eyes and walk off. But she stayed, as if governed by the same force that had led Paige to do the same. She toed the rubber, rolled the ball once around her palm, and set her grip.

From her vantage point, Paige didn’t need an announcement to know exactly where the pitch was going.

She caught it cleanly. A familiar sting bloomed in her palm and instantly triggered her muscle memory to take over as she transferred the ball to her throwing hand and tossed it back.

The ball travelled between them like that for several silent minutes. With each catch, their breathing tangled further into sync, this unspoken push and pull tightening until the fibres of their lungs braided into one. 

"How's-” Paige started.

"Fine.” Azzi shut the ball in her glove and pitched back a riseball without missing a beat.

Paige caught it and held it a second longer than necessary before returning it. “And Sheena?”

"Why are you so curious about everyone today?" Azzi’s words landed less like a question and hit more like a jab. Her next fastball broke in sharper that time. 

“Just wondering,” Paige shrugged, shaking out her catching hand until the bite in her palm dulled. 

They repeated the motions in a steady rhythm. Azzi pitching, testing different spins and speeds, Paige catching them all perfectly each time. The gap in dialogue stretched out, which meant every smack of leather impacting leather echoed louder into the empty field. Eventually, Paige broke the silence. 

“How do you think we’ll go in these last scheduled season games?” She forced an imitation of ease into her voice in an attempt to bridge this gap between them.

Azzi shrugged, eyes tracking the ball as it spun towards her. "I was confident at the start of the year, but… I don't know anymore. Elims are coming up soon."

Too soon, is what she didn’t say. But they were both thinking it. Leading teams in other conferences had caught up. New recruits, sharper scouting, full teams built with exploiting UConn's weaknesses particularly in mind. Any cracks of weakness in their star pitcher and catcher had undoubtedly been studied with the one winning goal in mind.

"I was confident too," Paige said, pleased to have found something they could finally agree on, as small as it was. "I think since... since all of this started, the team's been kind of rocky."

"All of this?" Azzi repeated.

Paige couldn't tell if Azzi was genuinely the most naive person alive, or if she was just refusing to acknowledge the hard truth out loud.

Either way, Paige wasn't letting it slide. Coach hadn't forced them out here for nothing.

"Don't do that, Az," Paige shook her head. "We've been weird since, what, December? Before that even, I don’t know.”

"I don't have a problem with us," Azzi said flatly. Her next shot scraped the bottom edge of the strike zone. 

The ball snapped into Paige’s glove, and that final blow snapped the last thinning rope of restraint inside her.

"Why are you lying?" Paige said, exasperation slipping through now. “I know you feel it too. Ever since Sheena, and then that girl you brought home, everything's been off.

"So now this is on me?" Azzi shot back. "Paige, if you think this all just started when Sheena transferred in, then you're the one lying to yourself."

Paige paused. A sliver of doubt arose before she could stop it. Had this thing been building longer than she'd realized? Had she just been late to notice?

She shook the questions out of her head and threw the ball again. "I don't know. I just want us to go back to normal. Friends."

Azzi scoffed out a strained laugh, and raised her glove. 

“What’s so funny?” Paige asked.

“Friends,” Azzi quoted. “You think other teammates treat each other the way we do?”

It yanked Paige back into memories of their shared dinners cooked together instead of separately, of twin beds shoved side by side on away trips, of entire conversations carried in glances and sarcastic smiles in a secret code no one ever seemed to crack. Come to think of it, she couldn’t name any other two friends like that, and the realization made her feel foolish for ever missing it.

“Best friends, then,” she corrected easily, pleased with how fast she figured out a part of the mystery.

But apparently that wasn’t enough to satisfy Azzi. Once the pitcher caught the next throw, she glanced up at the clock to watch the minute hand tick past thirty. Without wasting another second, Azzi shed her mitt and stalked off to the equipment shed without a word.

Paige huffed and shook her head in disbelief. Didn’t Azzi remember they had to go in the exact same direction? They literally lived together. She jogged after the younger girl and caught her wrist just before she dumped her gear. Paige tugged Azzi to a stop, but the brunette didn’t turn around.

"So that's it?" Paige said. "You're just okay with this? We're going to lose, you know.”

"You're so focused on losing," Azzi murmured quietly, "that you can't see what's actually been breaking."

She turned against every better judgement, forcing herself to finally take in Paige’s downturned eyes and trembling lips, the offcuts of dwindling resolve holding her upright. She was all slack shoulders and despondent hesitation, like a kicked puppy waiting to see if she’d be turned away.

The sight stirred something deep down in Azzi’s gut that approached too close to pity for her liking. She forced herself not to fall back into the trap, grounding herself with a determined exhale through her nose.  It almost resembled a laugh, but there was certainly no humour in it.

“We don’t act like friends, Paige. We never have.”

Paige swallowed dryly. The words hit like a foul ball straight to the ribs.

“And besides,” she continued, quieter now. “Friends don’t get mad every time the other lets someone else get close.”

"That's not-" she started, then stopped. She didn't know how to finish it.

"If we lose," Azzi took a step back, "it won't just be because we stopped playing well. It'll be because you're asking me to pretend we're something we've never been."

She walked away, leaving Paige alone on the edge of the field. For the first time, she had the sobering realisation that this was no longer a game she knew how to win.

Paige clenched her teeth together, fighting against the persistent burn that radiated through her thighs. The constraining padding along the inside of her helmet pressed tight into her aching temples. Sweat gathered inside the foam edge and itched along her scalp. Unfortunately, her right hand was set by her side and her left was stuck inside her mitt, so wiping it off was out of the question. She wiggled her toes so as to not focus on the irritating beads of perspiration that had fallen into to the outer edge of her eye. 

The sun bore down without mercy, its blazes shooting off dirt and metal until it pressed directly into her skin. But all of it registered distantly. There was only one feeling that drowned them all; just one sensation that truly mattered:

Pressure. 

Their team had battled tooth and nail all season in their push towards the Final National Championship game. Every match leading up to this point had ended in narrow margins, and all their wins came down to the wire. Players rode the bus home nursing scraped knees and massaging sore arms. That morning, each member walked onto the field knowing nothing was going to come easy.

Paige crouched behind home plate, her shin guards digging right into the dust. Her eyelids didn’t blink as she watched the UCLA batter bend into ready position. 

It was only in tight moments like these, did the world truly narrow down. The booming of the crowd, the asthmatic wheezing of the umpire behind her, the oppositions endless chants. Every detail dissolved into a dull hum. Paige slanted her eyes behind her mask’s gridded facebar and solely focused on Azzi’s first breath.

She wound up methodically, then followed into a subtle twist of the joint at her wrist. Paige caught the tell at the exact moment before release, her fingers peeling back and up against the seams. The ball left Azzi’s hand a fraction earlier than the batter expected. 

Paige didn’t need to think. She didn’t even need to look.

All driven by instinct, she positioned her glove at the ready in the open air where she already knew the pitch would fall.

The ball broke sharp and hard into a downwards snap, swerving the bat’s edge entirely.

Strike!

The umpire’s shout was satisfying and echoed around the field. But instead of relaxing, or simply throwing it back to the mound, Paige sighted another opportunity arising.

At the edge of her vision, she spotted the runner on first creeping sneakily over to second, in search for an opportunity to steal. 

Paige didn’t waste a second. She exploded her thighs out of the crouch, squared her shoulders and fired the ball in a flat, vicious rocket, that shot straight to the inside edge of second base. Jana caught it easily, covered the ball with her free hand, and swept the tag down in one fluid motion as the runner desperately slid, bursting dust all around them.

The umpire raised his pointed finger. Out!

Cheers exploded through the dugout. Geno nodded once in approval while the bench erupted behind him, hands ferociously banging against the metal fence. Momentum pulsed from the stands all the way to the outfield.

But no one expected that it was all about to be ripped from right under their feet.

The next pitch dinged off the bat all wrong, too fast, and too unexpected. Paige barely had time to flinch before the ball slammed straight into her throat. Thankfully, her padded guard absorbed most of it, but the impact still knocked the air out from her lungs. She automatically clutched her stomach and slammed heavily to the ground. The entire field tilted on its head. 

Azzi gasped as soon as the ball made contact and was already on the move even before it finished rolling away. She crossed the dirt in seconds and dropped to her knees beside Paige before anyone else had begun to react. Sheer panic wiped away every trace of the tension that had lived between them for weeks.

"Paige!” Azzi leaned down to inspect her throat. “Are you okay?"

Paige needed a few more seconds to suck oxygen back into her airways. Her breaths were shallow at first, then grew deeper, albeit painful. 

"I'm fine," she forced out hoarsely, though it wasn’t as convincing as Azzi had hoped.

“Are you sure?” she checked. She helped Paige remove her mask and scanned over her face and neck, hovering her hands where she wasn’t sure if she could touch. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. I can still play,” Paige tried to insist.

But every coach had watched the play unfold and clocked the speed at which the ball had slammed her to the ground. The decision was unarguable. She had to sit out.

The inning continued, and Paige was forced to watch it unfold from behind the metal fence. It took only a few plays for the threads to start unravelling. Azzi stepped up to the mound once again, but without Paige behind the plate, something essential was missing. Her pitches drifted wildly, and the relief catcher failed to read her once again. She wasn’t privy to any of Azzi and Paige’s signals, and as quick as it started, all the connection was broken.

Between each batter, Azzi paced the perimeter of the circle and exhaled her stewing doubt hotly through her nose. She adjusted her collar needlessly, despite having already done so minutes ago in the hopes that it might send some luck her way.

The events laid the proof out plain. The truth was simple and impossible to ignore. The synergy between Paige and Azzi didn’t come from familiarity alone, and they weren’t interchangeable pieces who just happened to had fallen into the same system. Apart, the team rattled into broken fragments around them. But together, they were more than just teammates; two halves of a whole.

Paige didn’t need the scoreboard to know their lead had dwindled down to one. They’d reached the bottom of the final inning, and UConn’s bats were all spent up. One run from UCLA would force extra innings. Two would end it outright.

As the team put down their helmets and picked up their mitts to head back out, Paige rose off the bench.

“I’m going back in,” she said, not asking for permission.

Geno looked at her for a heavy moment. It hurt him to say the words, but it was his duty to prioritize his players’ health. “You’re hurt. Sit back down.”

“Coach, this is the championship,” Paige pressed harder. “I have to.”

The image of his catcher getting knocked in the throat replayed in his mind, and every sense of logic told him to refuse. But the dugout drummed with restless energy, suspense packed so tight it felt ready to explode spontaneously straight up into the bleachers. The hunger for the win was almost thick enough to touch. No one was ready to walk away without the trophy.

Geno took it all in, then nodded once.

Paige jumped at the chance before he could say another word. She slammed her vest on with practiced speed and slapped Geno’s shoulder on the way out.

“We’re getting you that win tonight, coach.”

Azzi was running through her warm up routine steered purely by autopilot. She shuffled into place, scuffing her cleats into the dirt, then rolled her shoulder and tested her grip. The movements were less for practice and more an attempt to slow her racing heart. She glanced at the scoreboard, then dried her sweaty hand on her pants, checked her palm, then wiped it again. 

She walked through every possible remedy for her shaky anxiety, but her usual routine fell short. She searched into the future and could only picture each pitch falling short or sailing too high above the strike zone. 

Cold doubt threatened to drown her lungs. The score weighed heavily as it knocked and banged around the back of her mind. Their slim lead felt so fragile in her hands, as though the singular point was already slipping through her fingers like sand. 

“I can do this, I can do this, I can do th-”

“You can do this.” 

She looked up sharply.

Instead of the relief catcher, Paige stood right in front of her, already suited up in her gear that fit like a second skin. Her catcher’s mask dangled from one hand, and with the other she wrapped around Azzi’s shoulder firmly, pulling them together and anchoring her amid the noise.

“UCLA thinks they’re about to watch us crack,” Paige spoke quietly, just loud enough so the two of them could hear. “But you’re about to prove them all wrong.”

Azzi looked at her with shocked, wide eyes. “Paige? You shouldn’t be playi-”

“We’re getting three outs. Right now.” Her voice was so, so solid– firm enough to knock on the door of every tower of doubt.

Still, the bleed of Azzi’s uncertainty was too fierce that even Paige’s words struggled to stem it. “I don’t know if-”

Paige stepped in closer until their heads nearly touched. The proximity blocked out the roar of the crowd. 

“You’re the number one pitcher in the country, so act like it. Let’s take this one home.” 

Without waiting for a reply, Paige jammed her mask back on, gave Azzi’s shoulder one final, solid squeeze, then jogged back to her place at the tip of the diamond.

UCLA sent their first batter up. #21 stepped her back foot into the box and measured her distance from the plate. She adjusted her grip on the bat handle, bent her knees, and flicked a glance towards first base, already mapping her trajectory for the sprint the moment she made contact.

Azzi released a slow exhale, her breath deep and steady and void of any tremor. She toed the edge of the rubber and the entire world narrowed to the forty-three feet between where she stood on the mound and the girl crouched behind the home plate. UCLA’s crowd clapped and chanted around her, but the noise melted away. Despite standing physically alone, she was not by herself. Paige’s firm voice stayed with her. You can do this. 

Azzi observed #21 sink into a low stance, then signal ready with a slide of her foot into the box. You’re about to prove them all wrong.

She drew in one final breath, lined her fingers along the seams, then snapped her arm forwards, unleashing her infamous fastball. It rode high, and snapped right into the pocket of Paige’s mitt with a deafening crack that cut through the diamond.

That first pitch was more than a strike. It was an exact echo of what Paige had said earlier. We’re getting three outs. Right here, right now. 

The second batter stepped into the chalk and readied the bat for her third attempt. Azzi looked to her left: no runner on first. She looked back to home plate: Paige, crouched as expected. But instead of her usual positioning, her glove saddled the outer edge of home, angled off to the side rather than centered.

That signal was so subtle, but just visible enough that it spoke clearly to Azzi. Once she noticed it, everything else surfaced into focus. The batter’s toes were itching forwards onto the plate, closing her stance. Her back elbow was bent tight, her wrists were cocked into her body, and her feet were stationed right on the line.

Paige might as well have been holding up a glowing sign saying “pitch away, aim outside!”

Like responding to a message, Azzi breathed in deep, gathered herself, and then drove the ball to the outside edge of the plate, exactly where Paige was waiting. It landed true.

Strike! Two outs. One to go. 

The final batter walked up, and Azzi gulped. From the previous innings, she knew this was the toughest in UCLA’s lineup– formidable and more than capable of hammering a home run to push the game into extra innings. She had studied Azzi all game. It was obvious; if not for the beady eyes that stuck to her like persistent cobwebs, then for the way she translated Azzi’s every micro-movement into a tell before the ball ever left her hand. Even when Azzi varied her pitches, the batter matched them, smashing balls deep into the outfield with far too much spin for UConn’s fielders to catch on the full.

After two lucky pitches, Azzi managed to set two strikes between them.

It wouldn't be enough to just pitch low, and aiming high was too dangerous. The batter’s agile reactions and adaptable limbs meant Azzi and her trusty fastball were outmatched. 

She would have to pull out something completely different. Let’s take this one home.

Azzi let go of all the gathered strategy she’d been collecting throughout the game and trusted her instincts to take over. She wound up, windmilled her arm around for the perfect arch, and aimed straight for Paige. As it left her hand, she didn’t calculate for spin, or try to cheat the pitch away from the barrel. The throw carried nothing more than a sacrament of her heart and trust, stitched into the seams and released with the flying spin of leather.

The ball screamed into the center of Paige’s mitt with the sound of a locked door.

Strike three.

The stands exploded into straight chaos, screams raining onto the field. The UConn team sprinted into the middle of the diamond and crashed together as they were crowned back to back to back champions. But finally between Paige and Azzi, across all forty three feet, everything settled blessedly into place.

Gloves that had been thrown in celebration were raining from the sky; it was miraculous none of them seemed to hit her. The whole team was huddled so closely together, with their arms thrown around shoulders, all tangled in a tight pack. The huddle jumped about in messy fashion, pushing the flashing cameras left and right until it was almost impossible to make it to the girl she needed to find most.

Amidst all the celebration, Paige didn’t wait for the motion to slow before she began to move. Her eyes stayed fixed on Azzi’s face, and like a force from above heard her pleas, a pathway opened for her to beeline across the field.

She tucked her fingers to curl under Azzi’s jersey, then drew her in and guided her into the tunnel without a word. As they walked deeper, the volume of the stadium faded behind them until all they could hear were each other’s steps.

Not knowing where Paige was taking them, Azzi took this opportunity to speak.

“You scared me,” she said as they walked. Her voice was quiet and croaky, vocal cords torn raw from all the chanting the match had demanded from her. 

Paige ignored that. Her breathing had yet to even out, and her chest was still wound up tight with adrenaline and something deeper coursing through her. Once they rounded the corner, just beyond the light, she pulled them to a stop. She turned on her foot to face Azzi, her catcher’s mask still hanging from one hand.

“You were wrong.”

Whatever Azzi thought Paige would say after their big win, it definitely wasn’t that. The pitcher frowned slightly, and was quick to respond, fueled by the rush of the moment. “What?”

“That night, under the stars,” Paige spoke. “When you asked if this game hardens you, if it makes you less capable of loving anything outside of it.” She took a small step closer. “It doesn’t. I promise you, it doesn’t. It… it teaches you what’s worth fighting for. Who you wouldn’t want to win without.”

Azzi’s next inhale got caught in her throat, making her trip through her next breath. “P…”

“You were wrong about something else as well,” Paige whispered, speaking the truth out loud and allowing the weight to fall off her shoulders. “I was never disgusted that she liked you. I could never think that, Az. I was just so terrified you liked her back. This entire thing between us– yeah, it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever felt, and I always knew that. But you woke me up to the fact that it’s more than just you being my best friend. I don’t want to pretend it’s just friendship anymore. You and me? Us in sync? That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever known.”

Paige took in a deep breath of air once her confession ceased, the long spew of words clearly sucked all the air out of her. For a second she was afraid Azzi would jumble the words the wrong way.

But she didn’t step away.

Azzi shook her head instead, in a slow left to right like she couldn’t believe it. Her mouth twitched into a smile like the tension of the game had finally eased off from between her shoulder blades. All the pressure from the seventh inning, the crowd, the batting lineup all fell into the mist, and unveiled the light at the end of the tunnel.

“It’s about time you noticed,” Azzi said softly. “Come here.”

She reached out and bunched Paige’s shirt in her fist before pulling her in close until their chests pressed together. Her eyes flickered to the blonde’s mouth before she tilted her head and crashed their lips together. They moved without rush, simply enjoying the shared taste of adrenaline and victory on exploring tongues. There was no urgency as they kept finding their way back to each other, lips slotting together again and again. The shared relief of finally getting a taste of each other left their heads dizzy, spinning from how long they’d waited for this moment, far longer than either of them wanted to admit.

When they pulled back, their foreheads rested together, and the rumble of the stadium rose to a distant hum again. Azzi traced her thumb along a raised vein on the inside of Paige’s wrist, feeling the frantic pulse settle under her touch. 

Then all of a sudden, Paige stiffened.

“What?” Azzi asked, already smiling.

“Fuck,” Paige whispered. She jerked back just enough to reach into her duffle back and pull out her phone. “I just realized I have to do something.” Her thumbs flew over her keyboard, jaw clenched in concentration. “Just lemme finish this, and then I’m all yours.”

Azzi peeked over her shoulder. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

r/softball

UPDATE: AITA for sending my teammate to the hospital?

Submitted by u/catchermyballsac5

So first things first. Fuck you to everyone who responded. 

I was shocked at first when my post blew up with as much attention as it did. I even had to mute this app when my PMs got flooded with people yelling at me to get my head out of my ass. Far too many of you called me jealous, a bitch, and an oblivious motherfucker (those were the more PG, and much less creative examples). Who knew there were so many kind, and giving people who are ready to share their scathing opinions of me during my desperate time of need!

Next time I have a problem, I will no longer take to the internet for advice or emotional support. It’s clear not a single one of you has any ounce of compassion, empathy or tact in your rotten hearts. 

Okay now that I’ve gotten all of my notices out of the way:

A and I just kissed.

and yeah, maybe I was a little jealous. 

You’re awake before the sun, not because you want to be, but because someone is whisper-yelling your name from the hallway.

“Mama,” Jelly stage-whispers, which is just yelling with intention. “Mama. Mama. Mama.”

You roll onto your side, eyes half-open, just in time to see her small silhouette in the doorway. Her blonde hair sticks up in three different directions, clutching her favorite stuffed animal (some unidentifiable creature that used to be a bunny before years of love).

“What’s wrong?” you murmur, arms already opening.

She waddles toward you and climbs onto the bed like she’s scaling a mountain. “No sleep,” she says seriously.

Behind her, Dax appears, already fully awake, vibrating with energy. He’s tall (too tall for almost eight) and somehow managed to outgrow the pajama pants you bought him two months ago. He’s dribbling an imaginary basketball, whispering play-by-play commentary under his breath.

Paige leans against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, watching all of it with a soft, tired smile she doesn’t realize she’s wearing.

“Good morning,” she says.

Dax grins. “Mom, can we go outside later? I want to practice crossovers. Coach said-”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “It’s six in the morning.”

“So?” he says, like this is the dumbest question she’s ever asked.

Jelly, meanwhile, has burrowed into your chest, fingers fisted in your shirt. “Mama,” she says again, content now that she’s found her spot.

Paige watches that too. Always does.

She doesn’t say anything, but you see it: the way her shoulders tense just slightly, the way her smile falters for a fraction of a second before she smooths it out. You’ve learned her tells over the years, learned them through college games and injuries and press conferences and pregnancies and late-night conversations whispered into pillows.

Paige Bueckers is an incredible mom.

She just doesn’t always believe it.

Your first pregnancy with Dax hit when Paige was at the absolute peak of her career. Endorsements, travel, expectations stacking higher and higher. She was home less. Tired more. Still attentive, still loving, but stretched thinner than she liked to admit.

She knew what to do.

From the moment Dax wrapped his tiny fingers around hers, Paige was locked in. He became her little shadow. He learned to crawl by chasing after her shoes. His first word was something dangerously close to “ball.” By the time he was four, he could name more NBA/WNBA players than most adults.

They were best friends in a way that made you smile. Inside jokes, secret handshakes, hours spent watching game film together while you pretended not to notice Paige explaining defensive schemes to a preschooler.

Dax adored her, and Paige soaked it up like proof she was doing something right.

Jelly was different from the start.

Angelica (Jelly) Bueckers was born during a strange, liminal time in Paige’s career when she was already great, already known, but still hungry, still climbing. She was terrified she’d miss something important. Terrified she’d be gone too much, that she wouldn’t know what to do.

You carried Jelly slower than Dax. Heavier. More aware of everything that could go wrong. Paige hovered when she could, hands always on your back, your stomach, your shoulders. When she couldn’t be there, she called, left you voice memos she recorded in empty locker rooms.

Jelly came into the world screaming like she had somewhere else to be.

She never stopped moving after that.

She learned to walk early, then immediately decided walking was for losers and took off running. The apartment became a hazard zone with coffee tables, corners, anything she could climb. By the time she was eighteen months, you and Paige were touring houses with yards because Jelly needed space to sprint like her life depended on it.

That’s how you ended up here.

A big house, huge backyard, grass worn down in uneven patches from little feet and basketball drills and Paige chasing both kids until she pretends she’s out of breath just to make them laugh.

Jelly loves Paige.

She just loves you differently.

You’re comfort. You’re the one who knows which cup she wants, how she likes her blanket folded, which song calms her down when she’s spiraling. Paige is excitement - games, noise, energy, the parent who riles her up and then hands her back to you when she crashes.

Paige knows this.

Some days, it eats at her.

Later that afternoon, Paige sits on the back steps with Dax, a basketball between them. He’s chattering a mile a minute, demonstrating a move he learned from watching highlights. Paige nods, engaged, correcting his footwork with gentle taps.

You’re inside with Jelly, who is mid-tantrum because you gave her the wrong snack.

“No,” she says for the fifth time, tears welling dramatically. “Mama. No.”

You crouch in front of her. “This is the snack you asked for.”

“No,” she insists, even though you both know she does want it.

From the doorway, Paige watches.

She doesn’t interrupt, rarely does when it comes to Jelly and you. She lets you handle it, even when it hurts a little to feel unnecessary.

Later, after both kids are finally asleep, Paige sits at the kitchen table, staring into nothing.

“You ever feel like,” she starts, then stops.

You wait.

She exhales. “Like I’m failing her.”

Your chest tightens. You move closer, resting your hands over hers. “Who?”

“Jelly,” she says immediately. “I mean... both of them, sometimes. But Jelly especially. She doesn’t want me the way she wants you.”

“She’s three,” you say gently. “She wants comfort.”

Paige nods, jaw tight. “I know. I just-” She shakes her head. “I’m gone so much. What if she grows up and I’m just… background noise?”

You squeeze her hands. “Paige. She’s going to grow up thinking her mom is the coolest person alive.”

Paige laughs weakly. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you say. “Right now, I’m the safe place. You’re the fun one. One day she’s going to realize you’re the one who taught her how to be brave.”

Paige looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes soft in a way the world never sees.

“You’re really good at this,” she says quietly.

“At being a mom?”

“At being… us,” she says.

You smile. “So are you.”

Down the hall, Jelly sighs in her sleep. Dax mutters something about basketball dreams. The house settles.

The car ride home is quiet in a way that makes your chest ache.

Dax sits in the backseat, slumped low, hoodie pulled over his head even though it’s not cold. His basketball bag is wedged at his feet, zipper still half open, a stray sock hanging out like it gave up trying. Normally, he’d be talking - replaying drills, complaining about refs, asking if Paige saw his text about a move he nailed in warmups.

Today, nothing.

You glance at him in the rearview mirror. His jaw is tight, eyes are glossy, fixed on the window like he’s daring himself to blink.

“How was practice?” you ask gently, even though you already know.

He shrugs. “Fine.”

It’s the flattest word in the English language.

You pull out of the parking lot, waiting. Eight-year-olds can only hold it in for so long. Sure enough, two minutes pass. Then three. Then-

“I didn’t get first string,” he says suddenly, voice cracking despite his best effort to keep it steady.

Your heart sinks. “Oh, buddy.”

“They put Tyler in,” he continues, words tumbling out now that the dam’s broken. “Coach said it’s not permanent and that I just need to keep working but I already work hard. I do extra drills. I listen. I don’t mess around like some of the other kids.”

His voice wobbles, and he presses his sleeve hard against his eyes, furious with himself for it.

You signal and pull over into a quiet side street, putting the car in park. You twist in your seat to face him. “Dax,” you say softly. “Not getting first string doesn’t mean you’re bad.”

“Yes it does,” he snaps, then immediately looks guilty. “Sorry. I just-” He swallows. “I wanted Mom to see.”

That’s the part that gets you.

Paige is in another state tonight. Away game. You’d FaceTimed her before practice, her already in team gear, telling Dax she was proud of him no matter what. You can picture her now - all locked in, no idea her son is unraveling over a gym rotation chart.

“I know,” you say quietly. “She’ll still be proud.”

He shakes his head hard. “You don’t get it.”

You reach back and rest a hand on his knee. “Help me get it.”

He hesitates, then blurts, “She’s really good at basketball. Like, really good. What if I’m not?”

The question hangs there, heavy and unfair and too big for an eight-year-old to carry.

You open your mouth, ready to reassure him, to tell him all the right things but before you can, he sniffles and adds, voice barely above a whisper, “I just want Mom.”

That stops you cold.

You don’t take it personally. You know this moment belongs to Paige. You pull your phone out without another word.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s call her.”

Paige answers on the third ring, breathless. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”

She’s still in uniform, hair damp, locker room noise echoing behind her. You angle the phone so Dax can see her.

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at her, lips pressed together, eyes shiny.

Paige’s expression changes instantly.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Ducky?”

He winces. “Don’t call me that.”

She smiles, gentle. “Mm. That’s how I know it’s bad.”

She looks at you. You mouth, first string. Paige nods, jaw setting with quiet understanding.

“Hang on,” she says, already moving. “Let me step out.”

You watch her weave through the locker room, push open a door into a hallway. The noise fades and she props the phone up somewhere and crouches so she’s eye-level with the screen.

“Okay,” she says. “Tell me everything.”

Dax takes a shaky breath. “I didn’t get first string and Coach said it’s fine but I think he’s just saying that, and Tyler’s not even better than me, he just... louder. And I practiced really hard and-” His voice breaks. “What if I’m just not good?”

Paige doesn’t interrupt, lets him get it all out, nodding along, eyes locked on his like nothing else in the world exists.

When he finally runs out of words, she speaks.

“Hey,” she says gently. “Do you know who Michael Jordan is?”

Dax sniffles. “Yeah, obviously.”

Paige smiles. “Did you know he got cut from his high school basketball team?”

Your eyebrows lift slightly. This was the story everyone heard in elementary and middle school, the one that plays at every assembly. Even though it’s not entirely true, everyone believed it as a kid. It’s like a rite of passage.

Dax’s eyes widen. “He did?”

“Yep,” Paige says, solemn. “Didn’t make the team. Went home. Cried. Thought he wasn’t good enough.”

Dax leans closer to the phone, hooked.

“And then,” Paige continues, “you know what he did?”

“What?”

“He worked. Every single day. He practiced harder than everyone else. And he became Michael Jordan.”

Dax is quiet for a moment, absorbing this. “So… getting cut doesn’t mean you’re bad?”

“No,” Paige says firmly. “It means you’re being challenged.”

He frowns. “But what if I never get first string?”

Paige tilts her head. “Then you keep showing up, keep loving the game. And one day, you look back and realize this was just a step, not the whole story.”

He picks at a loose thread on his hoodie. “It still sucks.”

She laughs softly. “Yeah. It really does.”

That honesty seems to help more than anything. He exhales, shoulders relaxing just a little.

Paige watches Dax through the screen for a second longer than she needs to. He’s still hunched, shoulders pulled inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. She recognizes it instantly. She’s worn that posture before.

“Hey,” she says, quieter now. “Can I tell you something?”

Dax shrugs. “Okay.”

She takes a breath. You can see it - this isn’t a canned speech. This is her choosing honesty.

“When I was in college,” she starts, “I was playing the best basketball of my life. Like… everything was clicking. I felt like I was on top of the world, I was number one in the country.”

Dax’s eyes flicker up.

“And then,” Paige continues, “I hurt my knee. Bad. ACL. Doctors, surgeries, months where I couldn’t even run.”

Dax frowns. “That’s the big one, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “The really big one.”

He swallows. “Were you scared?”

Paige nods immediately. “Terrified.”

She leans closer to the phone, voice steady but raw. “I thought it was over. I really did. I thought, that’s it, that was my chance and I blew it. I watched my team play without me, watched other people get better while I was stuck doing exercises that felt stupid and slow.”

Dax picks at the string on his hoodie again. “Did you cry?”

She smiles sadly. “A lot. Like… a lot.”

That earns the tiniest ghost of a smile from him.

“And you know what the worst part was?” she adds. “It wasn’t the pain. It was the voice in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough anymore.”

Dax looks up fully now. “The voice that says mean stuff?”

“Exactly that one,” Paige says. “The one that lies.”

She lets that sit for a second.

“But I kept working,” she says. “Even when it sucked. Even when I didn’t believe it would matter. And now” she shrugs lightly. “I’m playing in the WNBA. People call me one of the best.”

Dax’s eyes widen. “Yeah. You are.”

Paige’s smile softens. “And that didn’t happen because everything went perfectly. It happened because things went wrong and I didn’t quit.”

He thinks about that, chewing on the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s processing something big.

“So,” he says slowly, “not getting first string doesn’t mean it’s over.”

“No,” Paige says firmly. “It means you’re in the middle of it.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the gym.

“And Dax,” she adds, voice warming. “You’re my kid. I know how you work. I’ve seen you practice in the backyard until you’re drenched in sweat. I’ve seen you mess up and try again instead of giving up.”

She grins. “That’s not luck. That’s you.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

She smiles. “And hey.”

“What?”

“You’re still my favorite basketball buddy.”

He groans. “Mom.”

She grins. “Sorry. My tall, dramatic, very good-at-basketball Ducky.”

“I hate that name,” he mutters.

She laughs. “Sure you do.”

You watch him the whole time. How his breathing evens out, how the weight seems to lift just enough for him to sit up straighter.

“I love you,” Paige says softly.

“Love you too,” he replies, quieter now.

She looks at you. “Thank you.”

You smile. “Always.”

The call ends. Dax leans back in his seat, exhausted but calmer.

After a minute, he says, “Mama?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we practice later?”

You glance at the basketball bag, then back at him. “Yeah,” you say. “We can.”

He nods, finally letting his eyes close as the car starts moving again.

The house is loud in a good way.

It smells like grilled food and sunscreen and the faint sweetness of whatever dessert someone brought without telling you what it was. Music hums low through the speakers Paige set up in the backyard, people are everywhere, clustered around the grill, stretched out on patio chairs, leaning against the fence.

This is the first big thing you’ve hosted here. A housewarming, technically, though it’s really just an excuse for Paige’s teammates to come over and see the place and eat too much food. They’ve taken to the house like they belong in it - shoes kicked off by the door, laughter echoing down the hallway.

Jelly is in heaven.

She’s darting between people, ponytail bouncing, cheeks flushed from excitement. She loves Paige’s teammates - her “aunts,” as Dax calls them. They scoop her up, spin her around, let her steal food off their plates. She giggles loudly, and for a while everything is perfect.

Dax is outside with a basketball, of course. A small group has formed around him, cheering dramatically every time he makes a shot. He’s eating it up, chest puffed out, basking in the attention.

Paige stands near you, drink in hand, watching it all with a soft expression she doesn’t bother hiding.

“Look at this,” she says quietly. “We did this.”

You smile. “We really did.”

It happens fast.

One second, Jelly is laughing, being passed from arm to arm, her voice bright and high. The next, there’s a sharp change in pitch - a cry that cuts through the noise like a siren.

You and Paige both turn at the same time.

Jelly stands in the middle of the yard, hands clenched at her sides, face crumpling as tears spill over. One of Paige’s teammates crouches in front of her, concern written all over her face, but Jelly steps back, shaking her head violently.

Paige follows a step behind you, brows drawn together. “Jelly? What’s wrong?”

For a split second, it seems like she might come to you. She looks in your direction, eyes searching.

Then-

“Mommy!”

The word is loud. Desperate, broken in half by a sob.

Paige freezes for exactly one heartbeat.

Then she’s moving.

She crosses the yard in long, fast strides, not running but close, urgency radiating off her. You stop short instinctively, watching as Paige drops to her knees in front of Jelly.

“I’m here,” Paige says immediately, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you.”

Jelly launches herself forward, arms wrapping around Paige’s neck, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt like she’s afraid Paige might disappear if she loosens her grip. Her face presses into Paige’s shoulder, sobs hitching and wet and unrestrained.

Paige gathers her up without hesitation, one arm under her legs, the other secure around her back. She stands, rocking gently, murmuring nonsense words and reassurances into Jelly’s hair.

You see it then - the way Paige’s body softens, the way she tucks Jelly in close like it’s muscle memory.

“It’s okay,” Paige whispers. “Too loud? Too much? I know. I know.”

Jelly clings tighter, sniffling, her little hands fisted in Paige’s hoodie.

Around you, the noise dips, people pretending not to stare but watching anyway. Someone turns the music down a notch. The moment is quiet in a way that feels intimate.

Paige doesn’t rush it, doesn’t try to pass Jelly off, just holds her, swaying slowly until the sobs ease into hiccupping breaths.

Eventually, Paige carries her back over to you and sinks down onto the outdoor couch beside you. Jelly stays glued to her, cheek pressed against Paige’s chest, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Paige adjusts her grip, settling Jelly more comfortably, one hand rubbing slow circles into her back.

“Well,” Paige murmurs, attempting casual, “guess I’m trapped.”

You smile, heart full. “Looks like it.”

Paige glances at you, something tentative in her expression. “I mean... she just-”

You cut her off gently. “She knows I’m here.”

Paige searches your face.

“She just wanted her mommy,” you add, smiling softly. “That’s all.”

Paige’s lips curve into a small, almost disbelieving smile. It’s subtle, but you see it. The way her shoulders relax, the way she exhales like she’s been holding something in all along.

Jelly sighs, finally calm, still clinging but peaceful now.

Paige presses a kiss to the top of her head, eyes shining just a little.

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YOUR FOOT CATCHES on a chunk of concrete and for half a second—just half—you think this is it. You stumble, arms windmilling, gun jerking in your grip as your lungs seize and burn like you're breathing fire rather than air. The sound that rips out of your throat is ugly and panicked and loud enough to carry.

Bad. Bad, bad, bad.

You force your legs to keep moving anyway, sneakers slapping wet against cracked asphalt as you tear down what used to be a residential street in the outer stretch of Minneapolis. It's barely recognizable now. Houses gutted and leaning, roofs caved in like broken ribs around a decaying heart. Everywhere, there are abandoned cars, doors yawning open, windows spiderwebbed with old impact marks. Vines crawl up stop signs, nearly swallowing them whole. A toppled streetlight sparks weakly in the rain, stuttering, though you know well enough that it's bound to die soon—just like everything else.

Behind you, a shriek splits the air. It's not human. Or, at least, it isn't anymore.

You don't look back. You'll panic even more if you do. Besides, you already know what's there.

There's five of them, and they're close, gaining speed.

You hear them over your own ragged breathing—the slap-drag of absolutely ruined feet, the wet and hungry hitch in their throats, how their cries scrape painfully, sounds trying to claw their way out of chests that no longer works right. Paige told you that they're called Hollows a long time ago, due to the way their brains have hollowed out, the virus overtaking everything. It's not a fact you like to linger on, not at all.

The Hollows don't run, or sprint, or even bother trying to move swiftly. They don't have to. Instead, they take their time—and they just don't stop. Their prey eventually will, which is when they'll finally manage to catch up.

Your hand tightens around your pistol. You risk a glance down as you run, though you count more so by muscle memory rather than sight. Three bullets. Maybe four, if one's still jammed in the chamber the wrong way.

"Fuck," you gasp, the word tearing out of you as your chest heaves. It's loud in your ears, your heartbeat, your breath. Everything else blurs into motion and rain and the metallic tag of fear coating the back of your tongue, bile threatening to raise.

Four years ago, the world ended.

It wasn't in the way you expected. You thought maybe nuclear war would do it, possibly global warming. But the atmosphere didn't explode. There was no heat, no ashes, no neat line between before and after. It came in cracks, before it eventually splintered down the middle. News reports spread of a new and terrifying virus and then it started. Rot spread fast. Cities emptied. The government folded in on itself like wet paper, though that was bound to happen anyways. Minneapolis went quiet in stages—first the sirens, then the fires, then the long, awful silence broken only by screams and gunshots and the low, terrible moan of the Hollows.

You lost everything in those first few months. But so did Paige.

You found each other by accident in the remains of a flooded parking garage, both of you half-starved and feral with fear, weapons shaking in your hands. You'd pointed your gun at her chest. She'd raised her hands and said, voice hoarse but steady, calming, real, "Hey. I'm not gonna hurt you."

She'd been telling the truth. And, honestly, ever since, she's done nothing but the absolute opposite.

The two of you have been together for so long now that it feels wrong to move through the world without her at your side. Almost like you're missing a limb, like something essential has been torn off and left bleeding, left rotting.

And now... Well, now she's gone.

It can't have been more than a half hour since you lost sight of her in the chaos—Hollows pouring out of a collapsed grocery store, glass shattering, smoke choking the air. You remember shouting her name, even though it was stupid and would only draw more attention to you. It didn't matter; you heard her shout yours back, too. You remember turning to cover her retreat—

—and then a wall gave way, bodies flooded in, and suddenly you were entirely alone.

Your foot skids on slick pavement as you cut down an alley, barely wide enough for a car, dumpsters overturned and spilling rot. You fire behind you without much aim, the recoil jarring up your arm. A Hollow drops, skull snapping back, but the others barely slow. They trip over it, climb over it, keep coming.

"Shit—shit—motherfucking shit—"

Your throat burns, like you're constantly swallowing glass. Your legs feel heavy, unresponsive. Honest-to-God, you wouldn't be surprised if they just gave out and let you collapse right here between the trash and the rain and the dead. Quickly, though, you shove that thought away. You can't stop. Stopping is death.

Paige flashes through your mind in sharp, unwanted images—her mouth set in concentration when she lines up a shot, the way she always glances over her shoulder to make sure you're still there, the quiet You good? she constantly asks without fail, wanting you to feel as comfortable and safe as possible in a world that is neither comfortable nor safe.

You're not good. You're running out of fucking road.

The alley splits you back out onto the wider street, this one partially collapsed into a shallow sinkhole filled with murky water. You splash through it without slowing, jeans instantly soaked, nearly losing your footing again. A Hollow lunges from the side, jaws snapping inches from your arm, and you scream as you slam the butt of your gun into its face, bone crunching sickeningly.

You cringe at the sound, the sight, but, nevertheless, you keep running anyway. Your body is screaming with each movement, begging to stop, every instinct telling you to look back and confirm once more. The street ahead bends slightly left, the buildings crowding in like they're trying to close you off, and for a terrifying second, you feel small, hunted, funneled toward something you can't see yet. You risk the glance again despite yourself, just a sharp twist of your neck over your shoulder.

Just as you expected, three of them are still there, gaining ground with that awful, tireless persistence that makes them so impossible to outrun for long. Their bodies are wrong in ways your brain still struggles to comprehend after four years of this: shoulders hunched too far forward, limbs moving in jerks and stutters, mouths hanging open as they shriek. They're close enough now that you can make out individual details, the shredded fabric clinging to them, the dull, fevered shine in their eyes.

A sob claws its way up your throat, sudden and violent, and you have to bite down hard. Your teeth click together, jaw aching with the effort of holding it back. You can't cry. Crying would be the end of it. Crying would mean you've let yourself feel the fear fully, and once that dam breaks you know you won't be able to pull yourself back together again. You've seen what it looks like when people reach that point—how their shoulders sag, how their steps slow, how they stop fighting even before the Hollows actually reach them. You're not like that. You're not ready to give up. You're not. Paige might still be out there, and so you have to live—if not for yourself, for her.

The street blurs at the edges of your vision, rain streaking everything into grey and brown and rusted red. When you round the corner too fast, your foot comes down wrong. It catches on a rock, a sickening jolt as your balance goes, the world pitching forward. You try to catch yourself, hands flying out, but momentum carries you down hard. The impact knocks the air clean out of your lungs, a harsh and helpless sound escaping your mouth as you hit the pavement.

Pain blooms immediately, white-hot, screaming up where your forearm scrapes against the ground. You hiss through clenched teeth, curling instinctively around the injury. When you look down, you see skin torn open, raw and angry, blood already welling and spilling freely, mixing with the rain.

The Hollows shriek.

It's different now—higher, sharper, more frenzied. The instant your blood hits the ground, it's like something flips inside them, like a switch has been turned. They surge forward, movements jerky and desperate now, drawn in by the smell like sharks to chum. Like vampires, Paige once joked grimly. Blood does something to them—motivates them, makes them faster. Terror slams into you so hard it steals your breath all over again.

"Oh, fuck," you can't help but curse, voice barely there.

You scramble backward on your elbows, heart pounding so violently your chest aches with the effort. You fumble for your gun, fingers slick with rain and blood, dragging it up from where it fell when you went down. You know, even as you do it, that it's probably useless—that with how close they are, how fast they're moving, you won't have time to do more than piss them off before they're on you. Still, you raise it. Still, you line up a shaking shot. Still, you refuse to lie down and wait for it.

And then the air explodes.

The sound is so loud it feels physical, slamming into your chest and rattling your very bones. It's certainly not the sound of your pistol—it's far deeper, heavier, a sustained roar that tears through the street in a brutal, unstoppable line.

A machine gun, you realize.

The recoil of it echoes through the buildings, thunderous and relentless, and the Hollows don't stand a chance. You watch, stunned, as they're ripped apart mid-charge, bodies jolting violently as bullets tear through them. Their skulls shatter, limbs snapping back at impossible angles before they collapse in wet, broken heaps on the pavement.

You can't move. You don't even think you can breathe, all air suspended.

Your mouth hangs open, eyes impossibly wide, brain lagging behind what you clearly saw. You hadn't expected this. You hadn't expected anyone. Rescue is a concept you stopped believing in a long, long time ago, filed away with things like safety and certainty and a future that looked nothing like this.

The gunfire cuts off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Your ears buzz, the rain suddenly loud again as it patters against the ground and the ruined buildings and bodies around you.

And then you hear it—your name, shouted, raw and urgent, coated around a voice you could recognize anywhere.

The sound that rips out of you is embarrassing and uncontrolled, something between a sob and a disbelieved laugh, your vision blurring again as you look up. She's there. She's really there, sprinting toward you through the rain, rifle gripped confidently in her hands the way it always is, wet ponytail swinging, chest heaving as she runs. Paige looks feral in the way only the survivors nowadays do, but when she sees you, something in her hardened expression breaks open, relief flooding her features openly.

"Paige," you breathe, her name breaking through your throat.

She reaches you in seconds. You scramble up clumsily, ignoring the sting in your arm as you grab your bag, and then she's colliding with you, her momentum knocking the air out of you once more. Her arm wraps around your waist strongly, unyielding, pulling you flush against her. Her lips brush your temple as she moves, barely a touch but steadying in the way absolutely nothing else could be, and she doesn't stop walking, doesn't stop pulling you forward even as she holds you close.

"Holy shit," she breathes, voice rough and shaking, right against your ear. "Holy shit, you're alive."

Your hands fist her jacket, forehead pressing briefly into her shoulder as you suck in a ragged breath. "I thought you were a goner," you mumble, words tumbling out broken and raw.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still firm on you, eyes bright blue and glassy and locked onto your face like she's memorizing it. "Can't get rid of me that easy," she replies, trying for a crooked grin that wobbles at the edges. "Come on, we gotta go. More'll come."

You nod because she's right. Standing still is never safe, the world not bothering to pause just because you've found each other again. You speed up, Paige keeping you both at that half-controlled sprint that's been perfected over the last few years, the one that saves energy without sacrificing speed, even despite the fact that there's no fresh shrieks or wet footsteps slapping after you. Her arm stays locked around your waist like a brace, her grip tightening whenever you stumble. The rain hasn't let up; if anything, it's coming down harder now, cold needles soaking through your clothes until everything feels heavy and slick against your skin. Your breathing starts to even out eventually, but your heart keeps racing, adrenaline refusing to let go.

Like always, the shrieks don't stay silent for long.

At first, they're distant, carried on the wind, warped and echoing between buildings. Paige slows immediately, shoulders growing tenser beneath your hand. She tilts her head slightly, listening, counting, cataloging the sound like the two of you have learned to do. You do the same, holding your breath, every sense straining.

"Too loud," she murmurs, barely moving her lips. "They're fanning out."

You nod, throat tightening again. Running longer will only draw more attention. That's something you both are smart enough by now to know. It's a lesson burned into you after four years of surviving this way—sometimes the safest thing to do is hide close rather than attempt to bolt and add distance.

You watch as Paige's eyes flick across the street, scanning storefronts with broken windows and boarded-up doors, searching for something intact enough to hide. The old liquor store is a sight that catches both of your attention's almost immediately. The sign is half gone, the neon long dead, windows shattered and boarded from the inside, but the structure itself is solid—brick walls, narrow entry, no obvious holes in the roof. Good bones, as Paige likes to say.

"There," she mutters, squeezing your side and angling you toward it.

You duck inside through a jagged opening where the front door used to be, glass crunching softly under your shoes. The air inside smells stale and sour, old alcohol and mildew and something faintly chemical. Light filters in through the boarded windows in thin, dusty slats. Shelves lie overturned, bottles shattered and sticky on the floor, labels peeling and unrecognizable.

Paige is already moving, efficient and quiet, dragging a toppled shelving unit toward the door. You help where you can, shoving a metal rack into place, stacking crates in front of it, wedging a broken freezer against the wall. The shrieks outside grow louder, closer, and your hands shake as you work, muscles burning as you push far past what's comfortable.

Finally—finally—there's nothing else to add. The door is blocked, the windows reinforced as best as you can manage, every possible entry point obscured or barricaded. You both stand there for a moment, chests heaving, listening.

The Hollows pass by.

You hear them outside, moving past the storefront, their cries rising and falling as they lose the trail. The sound fades slowly, agonizingly, until all that's left is rain and the low hum of your own breathing.

Only then do you let yourself really look at Paige.

She's soaked through, rainwater dripping from the hem of her jacket, pooling at her feet. Her blonde hair has gone several shades darker, strands plastered to her forehead and neck, her ponytail clinging to her skin. There are scrapes along her knuckles, a thin line of blood trailing down her temple where she must've clipped something running.

"You're bleeding," you say quietly, the words slipping out slightly stupidly.

Paige furrows her eyebrows like it's the first time she's noticed, eyes flicking up as if she can see the scrape on her head, then down to the shallow cuts visible along her hands and wrists. "It's nothing," she says immediately, dismissive, already stepping closer to you. "You sit."

"Paige—" you start, frustrated.

"Sit," she repeats, firmer this time, gaze dropping to your arm.

You look down and wince. The gash along your forearm still gnaws angrily, blood seeping sluggishly through where your sleeve has stuck to the wound. You'd hardly felt it through the adrenaline; now it throbs insistently, an aching burn that makes your stomach twist.

Paige doesn't wait for you to argue. She shrugs her bag off her shoulder and drops it to the floor, already kneeling in front of you. She digs through it easily, pulling out gauze, antiseptic, a half-used roll of medical tape—all stolen products, obviously. Her hands are steady despite the cold and the stress, movements familiar in a way they wouldn't be if life was fair—but it very much isn't.

"Hold still," she murmurs, concentration etched into her features.

You sit on the edge of a toppled crate, watching her work. Up close, the signs of how hard the last hour or so has been on her are impossible to miss—the faint sheen of sweat that still lingers, the smell tremor in her hands, the dark circles under her eyes. She's soaked and scraped and bleeding herself, but she hasn't even acknowledged it beyond one glance.

"You should let me—" you try again, nodding toward the cut on her temple.

"'m fine," she mumbles automatically, not even looking up. "This is worse, trust."

"It's really not," you argue weakly.

She finally meets your eyes then, gaze sharp but soft around the edges, how it always is for you. "Let me do this," she says quietly. "Please."

So, you do. You let her clean the wound, the sting making you hiss under your breath. She murmurs a quick apology, presses the gauze a little gentler, tapes it down with care that's nearly reverent. When she's done, she sits back on her heels, exhaling slowly, like she's been holding her breath the entire time.

"There," she says. "That should hold."

You study her face, the way she still looks keyed up, alert, even now. Always watching, always putting herself second. it's been like this forever—Paige throwing herself between you and the world without hesitation, like the idea of losing you is somehow worse than anything that could happen to her.

"Thank you," you say softly.

She shrugs it off, shifting forward, reaching for her bag again, surely already mentally moving on, already trying to put the moment behind her the way she always does. The way she reacts to things is quite familiar to you by now—deal with the immediate problem, keep going, don't linger long enough for fear to catch up. You see it now in the way her shoulders roll, as if she's shrugging something invisible off. Before she can stand, before she can turn away and make this another thing she refuses to acknowledge, you reach out and grab her.

"Hey," you say, fingers curling into damp fabric, stopping her cold.

Paige stills beneath your touch. Slowly, she looks up at you, confusion knitting her brows together, eyes searching your face, trying to figure out what she missed. "What? she asks, curious and a little concerned.

For a second, you don't answer. You just lift one hand and gesture to her temple once more, where dried blood has darkened her skin and threaded itself into her hairline.

"You're bleeding," you say again, firmer this time. "It's my turn to fix you."

Paige lets out a breath through her nose, something between a sigh and a scoff, the sound soft and automatic. "It's barely anything," she says, ready to dismiss it again. She's stupid like that. "I don't even—"

You don't raise your voice. "Paige."

Her name lands heavy, curled around your voice. She looks at you then, truly looks, and whatever she sees there makes her pause. The stubbornness in her posture softens just a fraction. Her shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of them in a slow, reluctant release, and, after a beat, she nods.

"Okay," she relents quietly. "Okay."

She settles back onto her heels again, tilting her head slightly to give you better access, hands resting loosely on her thighs. The trust in the gesture makes your heart squeeze, just a little. Paige doesn't sit still for anyone. Paige doesn't put herself in a position where she can't react instantly unless she absolutely has to.

Your fingers shake just slightly as you reach for the supplies.

Up close like this, with the danger temporarily held at bay, it's easy for you to notice everything. Rainwater still beads along her annoyingly long lashes. There are faint scrape marks on her jaw, and just by her eye. Her chest is still rising and falling just a little too fast, her body probably not having caught up with the fact that she's not running anymore. She smells like rain and metal and gunpowder, and something so very Paige that you wouldn't mind inhaling it forever.

"Be good and stay still like I did," you tell her, teasing but soft.

She huffs out a breath, half a laugh. "I am."

"You say that," you reply, carefully cleaning the cut, "but historically, you're terrible at it."

"Untrue," she says mildly, but there's a ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. "I'm a model patient, thanks."

You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound surprising you a bit in the quietness of the store. You work slowly, wiping away the blood, pressing gauze gently against her temple. She barely flinches, her eyes stuck on your face like glue as you continue on, watching your features. When you hit a tender spot, she sucks in a sharp breath, jaw tightening for just a second before she forces it to relax again.

"Sorry," you whisper automatically.

"S'okay," she replies, just as automatic. "You know I've had worse."

That doesn't make you feel better, not in the slightest. It never does.

When you finish taping the gauze down, you pull back, exhaustion suddenly hitting you like a wall. Paige reaches up, fingertips brushing the bandage, testing it lightly before dropping her hand again.

"There," you say. "Now you're patched up, too."

She hums, thoughtful. "Guess I am."

For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain drums harder against the boarded windows, wind howling faintly through cracks in the brick, and the silence inside the liquor store feels precarious, like it could shatter if either of you breathes too loudly. She leans in just a little, as do you. Her breath fans against your cheek, lips ghosting just along your jaw. Her hand finds your knee, and you lay your fingers on top of hers. The two of you let yourselves have just a moment to take each other in, to listen to each other's breaths, before, eventually, survival kicks back in, nudging you both into motion once more.

"'kay," Paige mumbles, pulling back and reaching for her pack. "Let's see what we've got."

You go through it together, efficiently, the way you have to. Ammo first. Paige counts quickly, lips moving under her breath, then grimaces.

"Not great," she sighs. "Machine gun's down to maybe a quarter. Pistols..." She trails off, shaking her head slightly. "We've gotta be careful."

Food next. You already know the answer to this one before she says it.

"Enough for tonight," she lays out, matter-of-fact. "We can probably stretch it to tomorrow, too."

That's code for she'll have a bite or two and make you eat the rest. You hate it when she gets like that. You give her your usual, Paige-be-fucking-serious look and she doesn't meet your eyes. The wind gusts again, rattling the boards over the windows hard enough to make you flinch slightly. The rain sounds heavier now, more violent, sheets slamming against the building.

"Storm's getting worse," you mumble.

Paige nods. "Yeah."

She glances around the gutted store, cerulean eyes sharp, cataloguing exits, weak points, places a Hollow could force its way through if it really tried. You do the same, and you come back disappointed. You watch as Paige's jaw tightens, and when she speaks again, it's certain.

"We should head back once it lets up a bit," she says. "The school's safer than this."

The abandoned high school basement has become a safe (ish) spot over the last couple months or so. Concrete walls thick enough to muffle sound, windows too narrow for anything to squeeze through, enough room to breathe without feeling exposed. Of course, it has its risk, just like everywhere. Hollows occasionally roam around upstairs. But they haven't been smart enough to go down yet. It's not home, not really, but it's close enough that your body recognizes it as somewhere you can rest.

You hum, agreeing. Paige nods back, but when she shifts her weight, you notice it—a tiny flinch, gone almost as soon as it appears. She drags a hand through her damp ponytail, breathing a little harder than before, sweat still glistening along her skin despite the chill. She looks... off. Not badly, never badly. Not even with the grime or the blood or the exhaustion does Paige manage to look bad. But it is enough to catch your attention.

"You okay?" you ask, keeping your tone light, casual, like you're asking if she wants water.

She glances at you, then away, like she's considering how much she wants to say. "Yeah," she responds. "Just... adrenaline, I think. I... I didn't like being separated."

You understand that, you do. Going through all of that shit together is terrible on its own—but being by yourself, having no one to cling to in those terrifying moments, is by far worse. You nod, letting yourself accept it.

"Okay," you say. "We'll wait it out a bit, then move."

Paige gives you a small, reassuring smile, one of her fingers ghosting along the inside of your wrist. "I'm good. Promise."

And you believe her. Because if something were really wrong—if there was anything she actually couldn't handle—she would tell you. She's done so before, and you've trusted it. You trust her.

You have no idea yet how wrong that trust is about to be.

THE WALK BACK to the school is hell. It almost feels personal, like the universe has decided to punish you for surviving the last couple of hours. The rain let up just a bit when you and Paige let the liquor store, but that didn't last. Now, just a few minutes into the walk, the rain is coming down in violent sheets, a relentless barrage that stings wherever it hits bare skin, soaking you through so completely that it stops feeling cold and just becomes heavy. Your clothes cling to you, shoes squelching with every step, water sloshing around your ankles as you push forward through streets that have long since given up pretending how to drain properly. The wind howls between buildings, ripping at loose signs and broken shutters, carrying distant, warped sounds that might be Hollows or might just be the city tearing itself apart piece by piece. You keep your head down, shoulders hunched, gun held close to your body to keep it dry. Most importantly, you don't stop moving.

Like usual, Paige stays close the entire time, never more than a step away, sometimes ahead of you to clear the path, sometimes behind you to watch your back. She doesn't say much, and neither do you. Both of you know that talking right now would just waste breath that you can't spare. Still, you're acutely aware of her presence—the occasional brush of her arm against yours, the way she subtly angles her body to shield you from the worst of the wind. Once, when you nearly slip on a slick patch of concrete, her hand shoots out instantly, fingers digging into your sleeve to steady you.

By the time the school finally looms into view, a dark, hulking shape against the storm-grey sky, your legs are trembling with fatigue. The building looks even more abandoned than usual in this weather.

You slip inside through the familiar side entrance, both of you moving on instinct, checking corners, listening for any sign that something has followed you in. The air inside is cold and damp, carrying the smell of mildew and old dust, but at least it's quieter, the storm muted by thick walls. Without speaking, you head straight for the basement.

The familiar math classroom comes into view, and for a brief, fragile moment, relief washes over you. The makeshift bed in the corner, layered with blankets and pillows you've slowly accumulated. The stacks of supplies tucked neatly along the walls. The small, dim lantern hanging from a hook. it's not much, but, at this point, it's more than enough.

Then, your foot hits water.

You stop short, heart stuttering as you look down. A thin layer of murky water creeps across the floor, rippling around your shoes. Somewhere above or behind the walls, you hear it—the ominous groan of stressed pipes, the hiss and rush of water where it absolutely should not be.

"Shit," Paige mutters behind you.

There's no time to stand there and process it. You both move at once, adrenaline kicking back in, exhaustion shoved aside by necessity. You wade into the room, grabbing at what you can reach first—blankets, pillows, anything that can be lifted out of the rising water. The cold seeps through your jeans as the water climbs higher, numbing your legs, making everything feel sluggish and wrong.

"It's coming in fast," you say, voice tight as you wrestle a bag of supplies up onto a desk.

Paige nods, gathering things. "Pipe must've burst," she says. "Or the drains finally gave up."

Either way, it doesn't matter. The basement is a lost cause.

You look around desperately, mind racing, trying to think past the clawing panic. The flooding rules out the basement. Upstairs, being trapped in a classroom if a Hollow got in would essentially be a death sentence. You find the answer, so obvious it's almost stupid you didn't think of it sooner.

"The gym," you say, breathless but sure. "We should go to the gym."

Paige pauses, glancing at you, water dripping from her sleeves. "Yeah?" she asks.

"It's bigger," you continue quickly, words tumbling over each other as you think it through. "More exists. If something gets in, we at least have the space and time to run. Here—" you gesture vaguely at the water, the low ceiling, the narrow doorways "—we'd be fucked instantly."

She nods slowly, eyes sharpening, must be running through a mental checklist. "First floor's riskier," she says, thoughtful. "But you're right. Open space is good. We got options with that."

Another pipe groans ominously, water sloshing higher around your calves, like it's urging you to hurry the hell up.

"Okay," Paige says decisively. "Gym it is. Grab what you can carry."

You don’t need to be told twice. You sling your bag over your shoulder, shove the last dry blanket into it, and follow Paige back up the stairs, shoes slapping wetly against concrete.

The gym isn't far, and the large doors loom ahead of you, heavy and scarred, paint peeling where hands once shoved them open a thousand times a day. Paige pushes one open just enough for you both to slip inside, then pulls it shut behind you.

The space opens up around you, vast and dim, bleachers rising into shadow, the polished wood floor dulled by years of neglect. It’s exposed, yes, but it breathes. There’s room here, room to see danger coming, room to run.

You pick a corner instinctively, far from the doors, far from the bleachers, backs to a brick wall that still has faded blue paint flaking off it in long curls. Your hands shake as you spread the blankets, not from the cold exactly, but from the way everything finally catches up once you stop moving. Paige helps build the little nest out of what you've both salvaged, pillows shoved under blankets to make something almost like a barrier, something that feels intentional instead of desperate.

Next, you strip out of your soaked clothes. There’s no room for shyness left in the world; that burned away years ago with everything else. Besides, it's not as if Paige isn't familiar with your body. Your fingers fumble with cold fabric, skin prickling as the wet peels away, rainwater dripping down your spine and onto the gym floor in dark, spreading spots. You catch the way Paige turns her back as she pulls her shirt off, spine a straight line under her skin. It's odd; usually, she doesn't care. You catch the way she winces as she twists, just for a split second, so quick you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

Dry clothes feel like a miracle. They’re worn thin and don’t quite fit right anymore, but they’re warm, and that’s everything. You both crawl back into the blankets, knees bumping, sharing heat like it’s another resource to ration. The food comes next—what little there is. A protein bar snapped clean in half, a bruised apple, a handful of crackers gone soft at the edges. You watch Paige pick at her portion, breaking off tiny pieces and chewing like it’s a chore. When she pushes the rest toward you, you feel that familiar flare of irritation in your chest.

“Paige,” you mutter, low, so it doesn’t feel like a fight. “Eat.”

She shrugs without looking at you, eyes fixed on nothing, somewhere past the opposite wall. “I’m good. Just… not hungry. You need it more.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

A corner of her mouth twitches, the closest she gets to a smile. “We’ve been over this.”

“Yeah,” you say, softer now, tired. “For, like, four years.”

She doesn’t argue after that. She just lets you split it more evenly, even if she still eats slower than you do, still seems to be doing it for you more than herself. You file it away with everything else you’re trying not to think about.

When she finally lies back, it’s like she’s surrendering to gravity, shoulders sagging, breath coming hard and shallow at first. She stares up at the ceiling, at the dark web of rafters and the banners that still hang there, faded reminders of teams and years that don’t mean anything anymore. She lifts an arm, then the other, letting them fall open, palms up.

“C’mere,” she mumbles, voice rough, already half-gone with exhaustion.

You don’t hesitate. You curl into her like you’ve done a thousand times before, fitting against her side, your head finding its place on her chest like it was made for it. Her heart is still racing under your ear, a frantic, uneven thud that slowly starts to calm as her arms come around you, solid and sure. One hand presses between your shoulder blades, the other cradles the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your damp hair. Her skin is too warm, you think absently, but you chalk it up to the run, to the adrenaline, to the blankets trapping heat. It's just easier that way.

Sleep drags at you like undertow. Your body loosens all at once because you're here, because it's Paige, because this is as close to safe as the world still allows. Her hand keeps moving through your hair in slow, absent strokes, fingers catching gently at the ends, smoothing them down again. It's mindless, tender, something she does without thinking, and it works better than anything else ever has. Your eyes flutter, heavy, lashes sticking together. You let out a quiet breath and sink further into her, ear pressed to the steady thump of her heart.

Then, she says your name. It's quiet, barely audible over the rain. You hum in response, soft and sleepy, nose nudging instinctively into the worn fabric of her shirt. You're already half-gone when her fingers move, when you feel the gentle pressure at your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheek as she tries to tilt your face up. It takes a second for your eyes to open, the world swimming back into focus in muted colors and shadowed shapes. Paige is right there, looking down at you.

There's a look she gets sometimes—rare, unguarded, like the walls are still there but the door's cracked open just enough for you to see inside. You see it now in the set of her mouth, the way her brows pinch together, the softness in her eyes that she usually buries under jokes or grit or stubborn silence.

"Hey," she murmurs.

You hum again, and then she's leaning down. The kiss is slow at first, careful. Her lips are warm and familiar, moving against yours in a way that's almost muscle memory at this point. You kiss her back lazily, sleep still clinging to you, hand resting on her chest. It's easy, soft.

And then it changes.

She deepens it without warning, urgency bleeding into the kiss, her mouth more insistent, her breath quickening against your lips. Before you can really process it, she's shifting, rolling you onto your back with ease, her weight settling over you, braced on her forearms. The blankets bunch around your hips. Her hand slides up to the side of your neck, thumb resting just under your jaw, grounding and possessive at the same time. Her kiss turns hungry, almost frantic, tongue sweeping into your mouth like she's afraid you might disappear if she doesn't hold on hard enough.

It startles you. Of course, you want her—God, you always want her—but there's something different in it, something sharp-edged and desperate that concerns you. You pull back just enough to breathe, your hand coming up to her shoulder.

"Paige," you say, quiet but firm, heart thudding.

She stills instantly, like she's been burned. Her forehead drops to your neck, her breath abnormally hot against your skin. "'m sorry," she mumbles, the words tumbling out rough and caked with emotion. "I'm sorry—I just... I need you. I need you close. I need—" She cuts herself off, swallowing hard, voice breaking in a way you almost never hear. "I need this."

The vulnerability in it hurts worse than any wound. She doesn't bare it to you like this often. Even with how long you've been partners in this hell on Earth, you still have to forcibly drag it out of her most of the time. Not right now, though.

You slide your hand up to her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye, and gently guide her face back up so you can see her. The tears there catch the dim light, unshed but real, and your throat tightens around your breath.

"Hey," you whisper. "You don't have to be sorry for that."

She searches your face like she's waiting for you to take it back. When you don't, when you smile softly and mean it, her shoulders sag a fraction.

"It's okay, baby," you murmur.

She nods, quick and shaky, and leans back down. This time the kiss is different—not slower, not exactly—but intentional. Still intense, still full of want, but now, she’s holding herself together with you instead of falling apart on top of you. You kiss her back fully, hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer.

Paige's tongue traces the seam of your lips, and, this time, you part them willingly, letting her in, tasting the faint salt on her skin. A soft hum escapes her, vibrating against you, and it sends a shiver down your spine. Her weight then settles more fully against you, solid and warm, her knee nudging between your legs, her breath uneven where it ghosts across your cheek.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, forehead resting against yours. Her eyes search your face, still glassy and raw, while her thumb continues its brushes along your jaw. "Can I touch you?" she asks quietly.

Your heart pounds, now less from fear, but from this, from her. "Please," you say, nodding. You guide her hand lower, your fingers intertwining with hers.

She exhales shakily, her lips brushing yours in a feather-light kiss before she moves. Her hand cups your face fully, deepening the kiss once more, tongue sweeping like she's savoring. You feel her fingers at the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath to trace the skin of your stomach, warm and calloused from days of gripping weapons and climbing ruins. Goosebumps rise in their wake, and you arch slightly into her touch, needing more. Paige's mouth trails from your lips to your jaw, then down the column of your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses that make your pulse race.

Her hand ventures lower, deftly unbuttoning the top of your pants slowly. You help her, shimmying your hips to ease the fabric down just enough, your breath hitching as the cool, damp air hits your warming, damp skin. Paige's eyes meet yours again, and you nod, pulling her closer. Her fingers dip beneath the waistband of your underwear, tentative at first, the tips of them brushing just along your clit. The contact is a spark in the dimness, and you gasp softly against her broad shoulder.

She pauses, her forehead resting against yours, breathing you in. "You're so perfect," she mumbles, almost under her breath, and it's still full with enough emotion to surprise you. You lean into her more, and then her fingers slide lower, parting your folds with care, finding the warmth and wetness there. You're slick already, enough to make things easy.

Paige's touch is careful, her pointer finger circling your clit with feather-light pressure, drawing a whimper from your lips. She kisses you to muffle it, her tongue matching the slow rhythm of her hand. The sensation builds gradually, a warm coil tightening in your core. Her middle finger joins the first, pressing just a little firmer now, rubbing in small, tight circles that make your thighs tremble. You clutch at her shoulders, nails digging in through her shirt, holding on as waves of pleasure ripple through you.

"I've got you, I've got you," she murmurs against your mouth, sounding almost like she's trying to reassure herself more than you. But she does—her body a solid line against yours, shielding you from the outside world.

She moves her hand, one finger slipping lower, tracing your entrance before easing inside with a slow, careful push. The stretch is good, a sensation you don't often get to feel due to, well, everything else, her digit curling just right to brush that gummy spot inside you. You moan into her kiss, hips rocking instinctively to meet her movements. Paige responds in kind, adding a second finger, scissoring them gently to open you up, her thumb now taking over on your clit with steady circles.

The sound of the rain and anything else in the gym is drowned out by the wet sounds of her fingers moving inside you, the shared breaths and soft gasps. Her free hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking your pulse point as if to soothe the frantic beat.

You nod at how good the pace she's set is, burying your face into her own neck, inhaling her scent. She quickens just a little, fingers curling deeper with each stroke, pressing against your walls in a way that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You clench around her, pulling her in, and she groans low in her throat, the sound sending fresh heat pooling between your legs.

"You're so good. So, so good," she breathes, lips grazing your ear.

The knot in you tightens steadily, sensations warping and heightening as her thumb circles faster, her fingers still thrusting, your hips reaching up to meet them. Your breaths come in short pants, body coiling tighter, chasing that edge. Paige senses it, her mouth finding yours again in a deep, languid kiss, swallowing your moans as you teeter on the brink. "Please cum," she pleas against your lips, sounding like she's the one that needs it rather than you. "Wanna feel it, baby, please."

It hits you like a wave, crashing over you in shuddering pulses. Your orgasm ripples through your core, walls fluttering around her fingers as pleasure blooms hot and bright. You cry out softly, the sound muffled against her shoulder, body arching into her touch. Paige holds you through it, her movements slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor until you're boneless in her arms. She eases her fingers free gently, bringing them to her lips for a quick, reverent taste before kissing you once more.

Almost instantly, it turns hungry, mouths opening, tongues tangling. You match her, pouring everything into it, the constant fear and the exhaustion and the adoration for her twisting together until it's this desperate thing between you. Her breath comes hot against you, ragged and uneven.

Paige breaks the kiss with a gasp, her forehead dropping to yours. "I need you," she repeats, same tone as before, the words sounding like they're being dragged from somewhere deep. Her voice cracks on the last syllable, and you see the way her eyes squeeze shut for a second, like she's in pain. Sweat slicks her skin, blonde baby hairs that have escaped her ponytail sticking to her flushed cheeks. When she opens her eyes again, they're dark, pupils blown wide. "Please. I need this so bad right now."

She doesn't beg like this, it's incredibly unlike her. It means she truly does need it. "Hey, I've got you," you say softly, echoing her own words from earlier, your hands smoothing down her strong back. She's trembling under your touch, skin scorching through her clothes. You pull her closer, kissing her jaw, then her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat as it beads and rolls down. "Whatever you need. I'm right here."

She nods jerkily, her breath hitching as she straightens up a bit, still hovering over you. Her hands fumble at her belt, fingers clumsy with urgency. She shoves her pants down her thighs, the dark fabric pooling at her knees, exposing the pale skin of her legs and the simple black boxers clinging to her hips. There's a sheen of sweat there too, making her thighs glisten faintly in the low light, and she kicks at the pants impatiently, not bothering to get them all the way off.

You reach up, helping her, your fingers hooking into the waistband of her boxers and tugging them down just enough. She lifts her hips to make it easier, a soft whine escaping her when the fabric drags over her skin.

Paige doesn't waste time. She shifts forward, her knees bracketing your hips as she works your pants and underwear the rest of the way down, bunching them at your ankles. She's sweating more now, if that's even possible, droplets tracing paths down her collarbone, soaking into the collar of her shirt. Her face is flushed red, and when she leans down to kiss you again, her lips feel fever-hot, almost burning against yours.

The kiss is frantic this time, all teeth and tongue, her body pressing down until you're both grinding together in a messy rhythm. You feel her wetness against your thigh, hot and slippery, and she moans into your mouth, the sound muffled but desperate. "Fuck," she breathes, pulling back just enough to speak, her voice husky and strained. Her hands brace on either side of your head, arms trembling as she positions herself, one leg hooking over yours.

She adjusts, sliding her thigh between your legs, and you mirror her, parting yours to let her settle. Your pussies press together, slick folds meeting, making you both gasp. Her clit rubs against yours as she rocks forward, slow at first, testing. But, then, there's no holding back; the need in her eyes is palpable, and she starts moving with purpose, hips rolling in a steady grind that has both of your breaths coming in sharp pants.

You clutch at her hips, fingers sinking into the damp fabric of her shirt where it bunches at her waist, guiding her movements. The friction builds fast, her wetness mixing with yours, creating this obscene, wet slide every time she thrusts forward. Her clit is hard against you, swollen and sensitive, and you angle your hips to match her, pressing your own clit right against it. The pressure is intense, a building ache that makes your toes curl against the blankets.

Paige's head falls forward, her hair curtaining slightly around your faces as she picks up the pace. Sweat drips from her brow onto your cheek, warm and salty, and she doesn't wipe it away—just keeps moving, her body slick and feverish against yours. "God, yes," she groans, the words slurring a bit, like she's losing herself in it. Her thighs tremble with the effort, muscles flexing as she grinds harder, chasing that edge with a single-minded desperation. You can feel the heat radiating off her, her skin like a furnace, and it's intoxicating, drawing you in deeper.

You wrap your legs around her as best you can, locking your ankles behind her back to pull her closer. The new angle lets your clits kiss directly now with every roll of her hips. Sparks shoot through you, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, and you whimper, arching up to meet her.

"P, yes, right there," you gasp, your voice breaking. Her eyes lock on yours, wild and pleading, and she nods, like she's reading your mind.

"Touch me," she says suddenly, grabbing your hand and guiding it between your bodies. Her voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper, but the command in it sends a thrill through you. You slide your fingers down, finding where you're joined, and press your thumb against her clit, rubbing in tight circles to match her rhythm. She bucks at the added pressure, a choked moan tearing from her throat, and her own hand mirrors yours, fingers finding your clit and stroking with firm, insistent swipes.

The dual sensation is overwhelming—her fingers on you, slick with both your arousals, circling just right while her hips keep grinding, pussies sliding together in a messy, desperate friction. You can hear it now, the wet sounds of skin on skin, echoing softly in the warehouse, mingling with your shared breaths and the occasional creak of the crates behind you. Paige's free hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back, and she attacks your neck with open-mouthed kisses, sucking marks into your skin like she's branding you.

She's panting hard, each exhale hot against your throat, and you feel her body shuddering, on the verge of something big. "I can't," she mutters, but she doesn't stop; if anything, she grinds harder, her clit throbbing under your thumb.

You kiss her again, swallowing her moans, your tongues sliding together in time with your hips. The coil in your core tightens unbearably, pleasure spiking with every pass of her fingers, every slick press of her pussy against yours.

"Paige, cum with me," you whisper against her lips, your voice urgent, needy. "Baby, please—let it go." It's like permission, and she shatters first, her body seizing as her orgasm hits.

Her release triggers yours, waves crashing through you as you grind up hard, clit pulsing under her touch. You finish with a muffled sob into her mouth, body arching off the floor, every muscle taut and trembling. She doesn't stop moving, drawing it out, her hips jerking erratically as aftershocks ripple through her. Your fingers stay pressed together, rubbing through the sensitivity until it's almost too much, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

Paige’s weight settles onto you like gravity finally giving in. For a moment, neither of you moves. You just lie there under the blankets, listening to the rain batter the roof, to the faint creaks of the building, to the sound of each other still being alive. It feels fragile, like if you move too fast the moment might shatter.

Eventually, reality nudges its way back in. You reach down, hands a little shaky now that the adrenaline has nowhere to go, and tug your clothes back into place. Paige helps clumsily, then you do the same for her. When she settles again, she does it instinctively, head dropping to your chest like it belongs there, like it always has. Her breath is still quick, shallow, but it’s evening out slowly, her body unwinding against yours.

You rub her back, long strokes, the same way you always do when the world gets too loud. Your hand slips beneath the hem of her shirt without thinking, palm flattening against the warmth of her skin. She hums softly at the contact, barely conscious, and you smile faintly to yourself—until your fingers move.

Until they brush along her side.

Your brain registers it before your heart does. A split second of wrongness, a texture that doesn’t belong. You freeze, breath catching painfully in your throat, fingers pressing just enough to confirm what you already know. There’s no mistaking it. You’ve felt it before—on other people, on bodies you couldn’t save. Your stomach drops so fast it feels like falling.

Paige stiffens immediately.

She pulls away from you like she’s been burned, scrambling up onto her feet in one sharp, panicked motion. "I’m gonna go now," she says too fast, already turning away, voice cracking hard on the last word. She doesn’t look at you, can’t.

You stare up at her, heart slamming against your ribs, mouth open and useless. The pieces click together in a horrible, blinding rush—the heat you couldn't explain, the way she kept brushing off her own injuries, the desperation in her touch, the way she'd been just slightly off all day. You feel sick, dizzy, the floor is tilting under you.

"Paige," you manage, but she's already crying.

It's not the quiet tears that you're somewhat used to, the ones she lets slip when she thinks you're not paying attention. This is different; this is wrecked. Her shoulders cave in on themselves as sobs tear out of her chest, raw and ugly and completely unguarded. You've only seen her like this a handful of times in all the years you’ve known her, and it breaks something in you every time.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand like that might fix it. "I just—I needed to be close to you one last time. I was being selfish. I know I was. I'm so sorry, baby."

Selfish. The word feels wrong coming out of her mouth. Paige, who has spent years giving pieces of herself away to keep other people alive. Paige, who always gives away her rations, who always takes the worse watch, who always puts herself between you and the danger without hesitation. The first time she ever chooses herself, and it's this.

She sniffs hard, breath hitching as she forces herself to keep talking. "But I'm gonna go now," she says, voice shaking but determined in that familiar, awful way. "I'll take the little pistol. You keep everything else. The ammo, the food. You're gonna be okay, I swear. You are."

You understand immediately what she's saying, what she's planning. The words crash into you like a physical blow. It makes sense; it's exactly the kind of person she is. She doesn't want to hurt anyone when she inevitably becomes a Hollow—so she's going to end it before she can.

"No," you deny, finally finding your voice, the word coming out sharp and broken all at once. "No, no, no."

Your hands are shaking as you push yourself up, every instinct in your body screaming at you to close the distance, to stop her, to do something. "You don't get to decide that," you say, tears blurring your vision now too. "You don't get to just—just leave."

Paige looks at you then, eyes red and splotchy and full of so much love it hurts to breathe. She doesn't give you that often, though you know it's there. To see it so clearly hurts. "I can’t stay," she whispers. "You know that. I won't do that to you."

"I don't care," you choke, reaching out. "I don't care. We'll figure it out. We always do."

She shakes her head slowly, stepping back like putting space between you might make this easier. "Not this," she says softly. "Not this time."

It keeps going like that, Paige saying the same thing in different words—that there isn't time, that she can already feel it, that it's better this way. She says it like she's convincing herself more than you. You keep saying no like it might become a shield if you repeat it enough.

"I'm not doing this without you," you say, hands fisted at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your heart is pounding so hard it makes you lightheaded. "I won’t."

Paige drags a hand down her face, pacing a few steps away and then back again, like a trapped animal. "You can," she says, voice breaking. "You're stronger than you think. You always have been. You were before you met me."

You laugh, sharp and ugly, because that's the cruelest thing she could say. "Don't do that," you snap. "Don't try to gaslight be and say I was fine before you."

She freezes.

"You know what it was like," you continue, words spilling out now, unstoppable. "Those months before I found you. After my family. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat unless I absolutely had to. I talked to myself just to hear another voice. Every day I woke up disappointed that I had." Your chest tightens painfully. "That was the worst fucking time of my life, Paige. And you’re asking me to go back to that?"

She turns away, shoulders shaking.

"I can't do it again," you whisper, shaking your head profusely. "I won’t."

She spins back to you then, eyes blazing with fear and love and grief all tangled together. "And what—so you’re just gonna throw your life away because of me?" she demands. "Because I won't be here? That’s not fair. I don't want that for you. I want you to live, I want you to keep going."

"Going where? Doing what?" you ask incredulously, shouting now. "This isn't a life worth living, Paige. It's not something we were even supposed to survive in the first place. If you die, there's no reason for me to keep doing this."

The words land heavy between you. Paige stares at you like you've just confessed something awful and sacred at the same time. She opens her mouth, closes it, runs a trembling hand through her ponytail, blue eyes wild. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The rain roars overhead. Somewhere far off, a hollow shrieks, distorted and distant.

"You're serious," she says finally.

"Yes."

She shakes her head, tears still spilling down her cheeks, leaving streaks. "I don’t want this for you," she repeats, voice breaking.

"I know," you say softly. "But this is what I want. With you. Or not at all."

You mean it. Even if she runs now and kills herself far away from here in hopes of keeping you safe and whole, you'll still do it. You'll do it yourself, too.

And she knows you, so she must see that, because you watch as the fight drains out of her slowly, like blood from a wound. Her shoulders sag. She looks so tired all of a sudden, like the weight of the entire ruined world has finally settled on her spine. She takes a step closer, then another. Until she’s standing right in front of you again.

"Okay," she whispers.

The word feels like the end of everything.

You sit together on the gym floor, knees touching, the world unbearably quiet now. The pistol is cold and heavy when you lift it, solid and real in a way nothing else feels anymore. Paige takes it from you for a second, adjusts something with practiced hands, then presses it gently back into your palm. Her fingers linger, squeezing yours once like a promise.

She lifts her own hand, mirroring you.

You lean forward at the same time, foreheads coming together, breath mingling. Her eyes close, lids covering that pretty blue you've become so fond of. Yours do too, for just a second, because you want to remember this exact feeling—the warmth of her skin, the way her breath hitches when she exhales, the faint smell of rain and gun oil and Paige.

“I love you,” she says, voice wrecked but sure. She doesn't say it much, neither do you. It always means something deep, hits something deep.

“I love you,” you reply immediately. There’s no hesitation; there never has been.

Hot Lap Chapter 9: Monza

Storrs, CT

Paige has an eighth grade English essay she’s supposed to be working on. Some nonsense about analyzing the destructive nature of Catherine and Heathcliff’s obsessive love in Wuthering Heights. She’s of the opinion that Heathcliff and Catherine are both wholly terrible and absolutely deserve to make each other miserable, but she’s going to have to find a longer way to say that. 

Preferably in three to five pages, double spaced. 

All to say, Paige is supposed to be working on her English essay, but in reality she’s watching YouTube coverage of the latest karting race on the F4 circuit from Shanghai. The commentary is in Mandarin, obviously, but Paige doesn’t need commentary to understand the difficult chicanes and daring overtake moves. 

The feed has been following the track leader. He made some good moves initially, but has since been coasting pretty easy. 

Paige is just considering whether she ought to actually get started on her essay when an email alert pops up. She almost swipes it away but then her eyes catch on the subject line. 

She switches to her email, interested to see what the google alert on Azzi Fudd has picked up. 

Mercedes Announces 2016 Lauda Fellowship Award

—--Brackley, UK: Mercedes AMG Petronas F1 Team announced that the 2016 Lauda Fellowship has been awarded to third year Imperial College London student Azzi Fudd. Ms. Fudd received her undergraduate MEng degree with Honours in Aeronautical Engineering from Imperial College London and is currently pursuing a PhD in Advanced Aeronautical Engineering and Computational Methods at the same institution. The Lauda Fellowship is a highly-competitive two-year occupational integrated engineering program. Ms. Fudd is a native of Fairfax, VA (United States), and a graduate of Boston’s The Gallagher School. 

Azzi Fudd is going to Mercedes. 

That’s so cool. 

Paige follows her on Twitter. Not that the account has Azzi Fudd’s name attached, but Paige knows it's her. Her observations on races are sharp, and she’s funny. 

Mercedes, though. That’s super fucking cool. Must be her dream come true, to work for an F1 team. That’s the ultimate dream; working in Formula 1. It’s what Paige thinks about when she’s trying to go to sleep. It’s why she lives so far away from her dad. 

Everything to chase the dream. 

She reads the announcement again, saving it. She does a quick google search of The Gallagher School and learns it’s a fancy academic academy in Boston. The kind that looks like it costs more than Paige could ever dream of. 

Paige switches back to the YouTube channel and the karting race. 

Maybe someday she’ll be good enough to drive for Formula 1 and she’ll meet Azzi Fudd. 

—--

Monaco

The jet lands at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport just before nine. The Urus is waiting for her on the edge of the airstrip, delivered by whatever service her manager pays to make things happen. Maybe there are some parts of the good life that she’s started to lean into; the best part of being an F1 driver is never having to justify that she wants to fucking drive. 

So many of the other drivers also live in Monaco and most of them prefer to take a helicopter from the airport in France over the border to Monaco; Paige always enjoys time in the car. She puts some moody SZA on and settles into the leather seat. It’s a fine drive; not majestic or all that pretty at night, but she’s alone and in a sick fucking car, and that’s enough. 

Driving also gives her time to think, though that’s a complicated pastime these days. There are so many questions that have no answers, and all of them take up space in her head. Definitely not rent free, because she feels like she’s paying for it. The fight between Diana and Sue is still a mystery, and Azzi’s involvement makes it relevant. The purple dress also plagues Paige’s thoughts, imagining it draped on Azzi’s body. But fantasies turn into dread thoughts, because the issue of the connection between Azzi and Sabrina also circles. 

At least Paige can be proud of herself for holding to her resolve. Things were good with Azzi, in Zandvoort. No crashouts, no heated exchanges. Just collaboration and trust and a little bit of connection. 

Even while losing a fucking bet. God, Paige had no business making it in the first place.

Her apartment in Monaco is in Fontvieille, the waterfront district. It’s fancy and modern and Phee’s fiance owns the building, hence the steep discount. Paige appreciates the connect but she hates everything about Monaco; it’s small and insular and the wealth is grotesque. She only decided to move there in a fit of rage after the Abu Dhabi blow up, because clearly living in Azzi’s apartment in Brackley was no longer an option for her home base. She needed to make decisions to give herself a sense of control — no matter how rash or stupid the decisions were. 

By the time she parks and takes the resident elevator to her floor, Paige’s body has started to feel like lead. The effects of the race linger, of course, but it’s compounded by everything else. One weekend back and it’s already started to build, all the things that are eating her from the inside out. She tries to breathe it out as she stares at herself in the reflection of the elevator, but it only partly works.  

The flat came furnished, and Paige has brought almost nothing new into the mix. The walls are bare other than the tasteful pieces of art that the designer put up; an abstract oil painting in the living room, a watercolor of the harbor in the hallway. Paige stuck the photostrip of her and Nika from the Mercedes Christmas party a few years ago onto the fridge and called it a day. 

There’s a luggage stand at the foot of her bed. It’s always there, her carry-on always laid out and open whenever she’s in Monaco. Paige puts it there now, unzips it to lay flat and grabs her clothes to toss them in the laundry. 

She orders dinner and showers while she waits; not the quick scrub from the motor home, but a long and steaming session, sitting on the built-in stone bench and letting the water cascade over her head. She’ll have another massage tomorrow, be stretched out and have her muscles attended to. That was the biggest shock about jumping from F4 to F3; learning that her body’s a tool. 

There’s a Vietnamese place she likes to order from. The pho sits warm in her belly, the spicy broth everything that feels good after a long weekend; especially in Monaco where the air conditioning is turned up high. Higher, even, than Paige feels, locked in an ivory tower. 

Her hair hangs half wet about her, the ends dripping into sodden patches that stretch across her shoulders. She puts the TV on while she eats; she’s watching Severence, and also Traitors. Neither of them align in any way with her mood or her interests, but too many other shows remind her of Azzi, of their life in Brackley. They’d binged so many shows together, curled up on Azzi’s shitty couch. Most of the time, Azzi had also been working on something — numbers or models or assessments — while Paige yapped her own commentary as well.  

Sometimes when Paige wants it to hurt extra badly, she’ll re-watch the episode of Schitt’s Creek where David sings to Patrick. 

There are about three hundred text notifications on her phone; fully half of them are from the only group chat that Paige doesn’t have muted — the vacation group. She scans the messages lazily, reaction responds to Veronica’s picture of her foundation leaking all over her suitcase and laughing at the photo Kate sent earlier, of Nika availing herself to a drumstick from the Haas hospitality suite. 

Then she wades through the rest of the notifications, pasting the same response to most of the congratulations for being on the podium. 

Thanks! Car felt good, looking forward to Monza!

It’s eleven p.m. in Monaco, which means it’s four in Minnesota. Drivers like their routines, prefer to keep to the same pre and post race habits; Paige opens her contacts and calls her dad. 

“Hey, honey. Great race.”

It’s verbatim what he texted her earlier, but the warmth in his voice makes Paige smile. She longs for it to feel like ease but it doesn’t have the comfort of a soft landing place.  

“Hi, Dad. Thanks. You at home?”

“Just about to cook up some burgers.”

She can hear him close the grill lid, the ting of the spatula as he sets it down. He lives in a decent suburb outside Minneapolis, in a nice enough neighborhood. After Paige started covering expenses with prize money, he went to school and got an Associates Degree, and now he works as an insurance claims adjustor. It seems like soul-killing, mindless work to Paige, but he likes it. It’s certainly better than the multiple jobs he worked at a time to keep them afloat in those early years. 

They talk about the race, because that’s an easy subject for them. 

“Looked like the traction was shot pretty early. ‘Specially on your front right.”

“Gone,” Paige confirms. “Worse than the data predictions indicated. Keeping in the racing line was hard.”

When they’ve dissected the seventy-two laps to his satisfaction, Paige clears her throat. 

“How’s Angela doing?” Her dad has a girlfriend. In fairness he always has a girlfriend, but Angela’s been around for a solid two years now. She’s nice in the way that most folks in the Midwest are, but best of all she’s a good cook and she seems to adore Paige’s dad. And Paige likes that there’s someone who dotes on him, who takes care of him. It can’t be her —- it can’t be her —- so at least there’s someone. 

“Oh, she’s fine. Busy week for her at work so she and her girlfriends are having a girls night.”

Girls night aka white wine spritzers. White Girl Magic, Azzi used to say with a laugh. Paige feels the ghost of a smile. 

“You, um. You wanna come for Monza? I’ll send you a ticket. Angela too.”

“I’m sorry, honey, I can’t,” he says, as Paige expects he will. “I wish I could, really. But I have a big team seminar that Monday morning. Big boss’ll be there and everything.”

It was worth it to ask; she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he says yes, someday. 

“But hey,” he says, animated, “Just a few weeks to Austin. We’ll be there that Thursday night. Can’t wait to see you, Bug.”

“I’m excited to see you too,” Paige tells him. They haven’t seen each other since Miami, early in the season. And he came to the opener in Melbourne, too. She wonders, briefly, what it would be like to hug him and not let go.

“And Vegas? I know you can’t do Interlagos, but you said you’d check about Vegas. I have a suite reserved just in case.”

It’s a lie, she doesn’t have anything reserved but she’ll be able to get something with one text to her people.  

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she hurries to say, before he can make a regretful sound and give her an excuse. She doesn’t know if he has some official algorithm for how he decides what to attend, but going to Vegas three weeks after seeing her in Austin is surely pushing the boundaries of it. 

“I don’t want to hassle you, Bug—”

“--- You’re my dad, it’s not a hassle,” she cuts him off, a little sharper than she’d prefer to be. 

“Not a hassle, then,” he allows, a little slower. “But you’re busy, Paigey. I know that.”

“Drivers always have family at races,” she reminds him. “Half the grid has their parents at every race.”

Caitlin Clark’s parents are always there. Every single weekend. Their anxiety gives Paige anxiety. And Veronica likes having her mom around as much as she can be. Aliyah Boston’s sisters have been there a dozen times this season alone.

“Well, speaking of parents—” 

“Dad,” Paige groans, because she also knows where this is going. “Why are you and Mom still talking, even?” 

They’ve been divorced since she was two; she doesn’t have any memories of them together. 

“Come on, Bug, don’t be annoyed. Your Mom just misses you. She wants to see you more. She was wondering, since you’ll be in North America for a while—”

“I’m not going to Montana,” Paige says flatly, cutting him off. 

“Come on, cut her some slack, Paige. She cares about you.”

She exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. It’s absurd that even after all these years, this is still a topic of contention. 

“She has the same offer to visit in Vegas. And Austin. And Interlagos. And any race in Europe if she wants a nice vacation. Hell, I’d fly her to fucking Asia if she wanted to come.” 

Her mom hates races and race weekends. She doesn’t say it but she doesn’t want the little kids around that kind of environment; as though a racetrack isn’t where Paige grew up. She’s got a new family, a picture perfect image that Paige doesn’t fit into and doesn’t understand. 

“Think about calling her.”

“So she can lay a guilt trip about me not making it to Billings this year? Pass.”

“Paige—”

“I can barely get you to come to a race, you think I want to hash it out with her as well?” She snaps it at him and immediately regrets it as she hears the sharp intake on the other end of the line. “Sorry,” she says, before he can say anything. “I’m tired. Been a long day. I’m exhausted. I should probably get to bed. I have an early recovery session tomorrow.”

She doesn’t have to be anywhere until ten. DiJonai was adamant about wanting her to sleep in, to actually get some recovery. 

“Okay, honey. I’ll let you go,” her dad says, happy to take the easy out. “Congrats again, on the podium. You and Sonia looked great up there.”

Paige’s throat is dry and swollen. Swallowing feels like sandpaper. 

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, Bug.”

Paige hangs up and tosses the phone onto the couch in frustration. She doesn’t know why things feel so complicated. 

For a moment the guilt sits heavy and she considers texting her mom, but then her mom would just call, because she knows that Paige and her dad talk after each race and she thinks she deserves that right as well. But Paige does not have the energy to deal with her mom right now. Not with the weird mood she’s in. So, instead, she takes the blanket from the back of the couch. 

It’s a heavy, aesthetically pleasing throw. Not soft or cuddly. Like everything else —- including the throw pillows — it came with the flat. But it works just fine to keep her warm as she watches TV. 

Paige has made it exactly thirty minutes into the episode of Severence — fucking mind trip  — when her phone lights up. She and Alessandra have been going back and forth about whether or not Alessa wants to build a deluxe chicken coop at the farm in upstate NY; Paige doesn’t understand anyone’s desire to have chickens, so she doesn’t look over immediately, assuming it to be another TikTok of fancy poultry houses.

But it’s not. It’s another voice memo from Azzi. 

She sees the delivery and the summary: I was thinking today… (3:42)

Paige turns her attention back to the TV. She wants to be able to watch this stupid show, to be able to wait to listen to the audio message, to be able to do anything without feeling the cavern in her chest. 

Because what Paige actually wants, what she really yearns for, is to watch Schitt’s Creek with Azzi tangled up with her. Not just their feet tangled under a blanket in the middle, but Azzi curled up alongside her, on top of her. 

She wants to feel the weight of Azzi on her chest, to idly twirl her little curls around a finger as they relax together. She wants the smell of Azzi’s shampoo in her nose, the sound of her breathing as a baseline to the audio from the show. Paige wants Azzi’s forehead in absent kissing distance, her nose in booping range.  

Paige wants the domesticity of a life with Azzi like a physical craving. 

It doesn’t feel like a three minute and forty-two second voice memo is going to give her that. 

And yet.

And yet. 

She mutes the TV. 

The first notes of Azzi’s voice inspire such a slew of emotions that she has to pause the recording. The swell is too much. That’s Azzi’s real voice. Not the one she uses in engineering meetings, or to talk track position during strategy sessions. Azzi’s honest voice, her vulnerable voice; husky and sweet and often sarcastic. The voice that Azzi used when they were alone together. And sure, Paige has heard it occasionally, over the past nine months; but most of those times — Silverstone and Budapest rush to mind — were also moments of deep emotion. 

It’s not even the voice that she used two hours earlier, sitting on the bench outside Zandvoort.

Azzi: 3:42: I was thinking today about the first time I ever went to Amsterdam. I was eighteen and my computational logic professor invited me to attend a conference. I spent the entire time inside attending sessions. They were interesting, the presenter on nonmonotonic reasoning was really good we actually ended up corresponding for a while, but it felt so fucked to go somewhere and not get to experience anything. I think that’s when I realized that I had to work to see the world, that going to other places wouldn’t just mean I got to explore. Foundationally, children should…

—

The recovery sessions that DiJonai subjects Paige to take all day. Paige gets her muscles loose in the gym, which makes everything hurt more, and then stretching and an ice bath, a message and more stretching. She sucks down a smoothie that’s a shade of green not found in nature, and the day gets capped by a pedicure. 

“Bro, what part of this is recovery?”

“It’s for me, recovering from dealing with you,” Nai tells her, eyes closed as the nail technician uses some kind of scrub on her calves and shins. 

They ask Paige what color she’d like, and because Paige speaks zero French and Nai is fluent, she ends up leaving the salon with bright pink toes. A stupid shade of bubblegum pink because it’s what DiJonai picked out and Paige couldn’t get her phone to load Google translate fast enough. Pointing and gesturing just felt rude. 

“I look like an idiot,” Paige grumbles, wiggling her toes inside her socks and slides. 

“It’ll be our little secret,” Nai dismisses, like she didn’t take a selfie at the salon and post it publicly on her Instagram account. 

“I know you’re being petty about the jet.” 

They can walk from the salon to Paige’s condo building. When they raced Monaco in May, Nika kept asking where shit was, like Paige had any fucking idea. She feels like a tourist not a resident, except this is a vacation that doesn’t end. Every time she breezes through she thinks about re-locating after the season concludes. She could easily base herself in Paris, or Rome, or literally any other major European city. 

Except London. 

Too many memories in London. 

“I just think it was rude of you to decline an offer to fly by private jet without consulting everyone in your party.”

Phee invited Paige and DiJonai to join her for the flight to Monza, which was nice of her. Paige sometimes thinks about when they both lived with Geno; young and lame and awkward. She’d followed Phee around like a little duckling. 

“The only other person in my party is you,” Paige deadpans. 

DiJonai arches her eyebrows. “And?”

“You can just say it was rude to say no without checking with you. You don’t have to make it all third person,” she laughs. 

“Fine,” DiJonai acquiesces. “It was rude of you to say no without checking with me.”

“Too bad, I’m the driver, I make the decisions,” Paige dismisses, smug. “Besides, I’m reducing my carbon footprint.”

“By driving to the factory and then Monza?”

Diana asked Paige and Soni to stop by the Lamborghini factory before they head on to Monza for the next race. Paige jumped at the opportunity to take the Urus for a longer drive than from the airport to her flat. 

“Chill, it’s a three hour drive.” 

It’s actually closer to five hours. 

“And I do great on AUX,” she continues. “Started putting together a playlist for us and everything.”

Nai rolls her eyes like that’s not impressive to her, but Paige sees the ghost of a smile there as well. They match well, she and DiJonai. Especially now that everything seems to be in the open between them. They know who they’re dealing with, who they are. It’s no longer superficial or surface-level. It’s more. And it’s more than just DiJonai investing in a client; Paige is determined to pour into DiJonai as well. 

“You better get us there safely,” Nai continues to lecture. “None of this F1 driver on a street course nonsense.”

“I mean, we’re gonna drive fast,” Paige warns her. “What’s the point of driving if you don’t go fast?”

DiJonai starts muttering about idiotic drivers and adrenaline junkies and something about youngins. Paige just smiles and falls into step alongside her. 

—--

Sant'Agata Bolognese, Italy

The Lamborghini headquarters — the factory — is a reflective landmark in Sant’Agata. The front of the building is just a giant wall of windows; iconic Lamborghinis visible on several floors of display and a few of the famous models parked outside the front doors. 

Paige walked inside for the first time on January 10th, completely in awe that this was now her driving home. They’d lined everyone up then, gathered the leadership near the entrance so everyone could shake her hand. She’d not even been able to look Azzi in the eye at that point and she’d never met Soni before. 

It feels different today, as she walks in the front door. She’s still new, still a rookie, but now she walks with success in her stride. She’s won for Team Lamborghini; not the ultimate prize of the Constructors’ Championship — not yet — but she’s delivered them wins, at least. 

“Paige. Good to see you.”

Diana’s waiting by the front doors, and it’s truly a mark of her belief in Paige that she’s there to do the greeting herself. They dap each other up, a show for all the folks subtly watching. 

“I heard you drove in.”

She hasn’t been to Sant’Agata in well over a month and that’s longer than she’d prefer to go between outings at the factory. Nika’s the one who told her how much the engineers love it when the drivers come by, and Paige deeply appreciates their work; it’s important that she show it. 

“Just parked out front,” Paige says with a smile. There’s a parking spot for her in the very front, in the private lot. It’s a stupid waste of space because she’s barely ever in Sant’Agata, but it’s the principal of the matter, she supposes. 

“You like the Urus?”

Paige smiles. She doesn’t have to pretend to be cool about this. “I fucking love it.”

She dropped DiJonai at the hotel on her way in. Three hours from Monaco to Monza turned into five hours to arrive in Sant’Agata, but DiJonai had been a trooper. Despite the earlier complaining, they had a good drive up from Monaco; easy conversation the entire ride. Nai talked about growing up in San Diego, about the adventures she’s gone on, the goals that she has for the future. Owning her own gym, maybe. Paige listened more than she talked, but it wasn’t elusion; now that DiJonai has let her in, she wants to invest. 

Chatting on a roadtrip while driving a Lamborghini Urus through the Italian countryside ranks as a pretty good way to get to know someone on a deeper level. 

“Come on,” Diana nods toward the staff doors. “Let’s dig in. Soni’s already here.”

But Diana seems to understand that half of why Paige is in Sant’Agata is to see and be seen, because they don’t walk directly to a meeting room. Instead, they take a long and circuitous route, walking the factory floor and popping into the engineering rooms. Paige shakes hands and gives hugs and says hello over and over. She thanks people for the work, tells them how much she loves the car, accepts their praise with a humble shrug. 

She feels it all, but performance is part of the persona. 

The meeting room is already full of familiar faces; Dorka, KK, Jana. The younger ones are even there too — Kelis and Blanca and Allie. Soni sits with an iced coffee, her casual look even more pronounced than it usually is at the paddock. Azzi’s wearing an old pair of dress pants and a soft green sweater Her eyes flick up when Paige enters the room, but she doesn’t stop talking in a low voice with Azurȧ. Paige slips into the seat next to Soni — the seat she assumes to be left for her. The two of them fist bump without even making eye contact.

“Alright everyone, let’s use this time wisely.” 

Diana stands at the head of the room, waiting for the chatter to stop. 

“It’s good to have the entire team together here at home. Paige, Soni, thanks for coming in before Monza.”

“Thrilled to see everyone,” Soni says with a sweet smile. She looks like a professional skateboarder and she sounds like a sorority girl. Paige finds the dichotomy strangely alluring. She makes a mental note to appeal to Soni again about considering becoming a lesbian. 

“Glad to be here,” Paige adds, shooting a few smiles at the engineers she remembers. 

“Okay,” Diana turns to business, “this is our last European race. We’ll hear from Dorka in a minute about what our strat ops projections indicate for Monza, but first I want to talk a little bit about the rest of the season.”

Diana launches into a review of the upcoming races, which are clustered nicely into groups; The Americas — Austin, São Paulo, Vegas — and Asia, with Singapore and Suzuka. And then the desert; Jeddah, Sakhir, Abu Dhabi. 

Paige feels a clench of anticipation zing through her at just the thought of the desert. The end of season races in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and the UAE — that’s where championships are won. It can happen at any time in the latter half of the season, of course, but it’s most common to win in the desert. 

She’s not trying to count laps before they’re driven, but Lamborghini is in the lead for the Constructors’ Championship. They’re leading McLaren by sixty-one points; that means it’s theirs to lose. It means Paige has to be on her absolute fucking A game. 

Because one bad race for the team and the generous lead they’ve built is gone.

“We’re entering the difficult time,” Diana says, her tone low. “Everyone’s tired. There’s a lot of travel, we’ll be far from home. I know that’s hard. I do. But we need to lock in. Success is going to take everyone. Everyone.”

As far as pep talks go, it’s mid, but Diana does more with her presence than her words could ever do. And Paige isn’t alone in wanting to win; people joke about the drivers and their ego, but nobody talks enough about what the Dianas and the Sues of the world want. What the engineers at the factory, and the technicians on the floor, and the girls in marketing want with every ounce of their being. Everyone wants to win. 

And they’re all depending on Paige and Soni to do it. 

—--

Azzi: 5:26: … and I’ll fucking tell you it’s dangerous. If I have to read one more think piece from genuine computational economists about how AI is going to revolutionize the world I’m going to scream because the confidence rate is fucking deplorable. Math isn’t vibes, it’s not a fucking app that people can use and discard, and we as global citizens are just supposed to run entire systems based on what I truly believe is faulty logic? And the rate that they’re seeing medical students unable to process basic diagnoses without …

—--

There’s certainly enough at the factory to keep Paige and Soni busy for the day. The performance engineering team is clearly salivating over the opportunity to get them back in the simulator for real time instruction and feedback, and who are they to deny the team their presence? 

But beyond being in the simulator, Paige likes talking to the engineers. They’re already so far into the designs and production for next year’s car, and she eagerly tracks down the schematics team to talk through some of the details. They won’t tell her everything — hardly anything, actually — but they let her see some of the differences in the car components, and even if they don’t actually care about her opinion they ask for it. 

She could stay at the factory all day, tooling around with the engineering teams, but there are plans for dinner with the girls; Paige wanders around until she finds the heart of the strategy team huddled up Dorka’s office. Nika’s on the ground furiously taking notes in a little notebook while Azzi stands at the whiteboard; half a dozen other people — including Georgia and Caroline — are scattered around the room. 

“...coming off the long straight into Variante della Roggia? If we don’t have a slip stream?”

Georgia looks down at the tablet in her hand, squinting. “Differential says point two.”

Dorka sighs, pulling her glasses off her face and rubbing at her eyes. “Okay. So we’re not solving this today.”

One of the junior engineers in the room furrows her brow.  “The calculations—”

“Azzi,” Dorka interrupts, “given the numbers?”

Paige watches Azzi frown and shake her head. 

“No. Not if we’re losing half on the straight. But we should re-run the numbers.” 

It’s obvious that they’re all tired and frustrated. Dorka shakes her head, finally spying Paige hovering in the doorway. 

“Here, Paige, come on in. Have you come to save us bearing pastries? This would be an appropriate place for them.”

Paige laughs, her hands up. “Sorry, empty handed today.”

“Well, you have perfect timing,” Dorka smiles. “We’re done for the day. We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Strat-ops debrief at ten.”

The room starts to scatter, the junior engineers filing out quickly and Caroline and Azzi gathering around the desk to engage in last minute conversation. Nika and Georgia also hang about, though Nika nods Paige over to show her the acceleration arcs the team has just been discussing.

Paige doesn’t read in too deeply. She’s more absorbed in listening to what Dorka, Azzi, and Caroline are talking about. Straight line speed, and the wind projections for Sunday. 

Azzi looks different, since she’s at the factory. It’s been so long of seeing Azzi at the circuits, in the garages, and seeing her today Paige realizes she’d forgotten how good Azzi can look in business casual. It’s nothing, of course, compared to Azzi in actual casual; she’s devastating in an old pair of joggers and a threadbare longsleeve covered in holes.  

She’s lovely in the green sweater. It looks soft, strokable. Paige can just imagine how it would feel under her fingers. HQ always runs cold; it was that way at Mercedes and it’s clearly the same at Lamborghini, and the soft green cashmere offsets the beautiful black of Azzi’s ringlets, the deep hue of her skin. 

“Okay, I’m going to head out,” Nika says to Dorka, seemingly done with letting Paige observe Azzi from up close.  

“Have fun,” Dorka waves Nika off, already burying her nose into the data reports with Caroline and Azzi. 

Right as Paige and Nika start to leave, she sees Azzi flick her eyes up. They don’t say anything, but it’s a warm moment. Azzi doesn’t grin, or even smile, really, but there’s something sweet in her gaze. Something knowing. 

Paige gives her a little head nod before she follows Nika out of the office. 

—--

Sant’Agata is an old town, despite the modern furnishings that adorn it in the countryside. There’s not even a proper hotel, just a smattering of bed and breakfast spots. Nika and Georgia both live in flats in Modena, which is the larger town. It’s a twenty minute drive, but Georgia claims there are more food options and Nika says she doesn’t want to be under anyone’s thumb. 

Georgia and Soni are meeting them at dinner, but Nika wants to change first, so Paige drives her to the flat. 

“Diana was in and out of the engineering floor all day yesterday and today,” Nika says, like Paige asked. 

She didn’t, but she does want to know. 

“And?” 

Nika shrugs, her gaze on the Italian countryside. She grew up in Zagreb and living in these little towns — Brackley and now Modena and Sant’Agata — feels like a weird step back. That’s what she said when they lived together in Brackley, anyway, and Paige knows Nika doesn’t enjoy small town life, Italian countryside or not. Mercedes or Lamborghini or any other car maker. Nika’s meant for city life, for the fast pace. 

Paige spent so long putting her body where the fastest lap would take her that she never really noticed or cared that she didn’t fit her surroundings. 

“Nothing weird,” Nika confirms. “Nothing weird at all.”

“I bet Azzi doesn’t even know about the fight,” Paige murmurs. 

“Azzi doesn’t notice anything that isn’t the data.” 

“Where does she live?” 

When Paige made her first trip to the Lamborghini factory, in January, she’d been too emotionally fucked up to ask any questions about Azzi. To wonder where she lived or ask where she ate, and figure out if she was drinking enough water. She wasn’t, she never does, but Paige can think about it. 

With the nature of their roles, Azzi’s spent so much more time in Sant’Agata than Paige has; she’s been letting herself wonder more and more about what Azzi’s life is like in Italy. She plays out romantic little fantasies in her head about how Azzi might spend her time and the routines she’s established.  

“I don’t know,” Nika says, honestly. “I think she rides a bike to work, though. I’ve seen her pedal up a few times.”

Paige sighs, because that tracks. 

She taught Azzi how to drive, showed her how to work a pedal and a gearstick. And teaching this infernal woman to drive - Azzi, who knows more about how a car works than any other human that Paige has ever encountered - is the hardest thing Paige has ever done in her life. She won’t lie, when they went to the DVLA and Azzi had to take the driving test Paige was not confident that a license was going to be the end result that day. She’d been so surprised when Azzi returned with the evaluation instructor and said “I passed” that Azzi had glared and made Paige pay for dinner without even pretending to offer to pick up the tab.

“She hates driving,” Paige reminds Nika. The second part stays unspoken but present: and she’s bad at it.

“Yeah. She always takes team transport, if she can,” Nika confirms. 

So some things have stayed the same. 

“It’s pretty here,” she says, glancing out the window. Everything looks better when she’s behind the wheel of the Urus, but Italy is picturesque pretty much everywhere. Paige wishes she could appreciate it more. She wonders if Azzi appreciates it at all. 

“It’s Italy,” Nika contradicts, her voice unimpressed. “It looks the same everywhere. Croatia’s got more variety.”

Some things have definitely stayed the same. 

—-

Monza, Italy

Monza. The Temple of Speed. 

Paige raced most European circuits in Formula 3 and 2, so it's not like she's brand new. And yet, there's something exhilarating, something different, about racing as a Formula 1 driver.  But it's not the adulation, even though yes, of course, it's a giant ego boost to be the subject of such fervor. No, it's the feeling of power. Of knowing that she gave so much to get here, to be one of the twenty. To give everything still, to stay at the top. 

"I think I fucking hate all this red and yellow," Soni says, looking over the side of the wall, at the Ferrari flags that litter the pathway to the estate.  

They got forced into some kind of Ferrari x Formula 1 partnership event. A black tie gala at a freaking castle, like this is some kind of Bond movie. 

“I hate racing in Italy for someone else’s home race,” Paige admits. 

“They say there’s two religions in Italy,” Soni muses. “There’s the catholic church, and there’s Ferrari.”

“Time for another great schism, then. Long live Lamborghini,” she drawls.   

They arrived separately, each of them driving a vintage Ferrari convertible. Soni looks like an old Hollywood movie star in a black halter dress, her hair blown into glamour curls. Thanks to Lili, Paige herself looks like a fucking boss, the black Louis Vuitton suit fitted like a glove and the black cape with gold trim hanging from her shoulders like she's ruling a kingdom. Lamborghini may be a guest but their factory’s only forty kilometers down the road. They’re equal owners of this part of Italy and they travel like royalty. 

“Diana looked like she was swallowing glass,” Soni says with a snicker. “Her smile was so fake.”

"So was yours. So was mine,” Paige laughs. 

The two of them are taking refuge on one of the turret terraces, outfitted for the evening as a bar. They did the stuff they're obliged to do: a rope line, group shots, interacting with all the right people. Luckily, they don't have to play host for the evening: Kah and Julie are the unfortunate winners of that lottery, though Kah has stunned everyone by being genuinely agreeable and bubbly. 

Paige thinks she’s high as a kite.

"Oh there you two are." Veronica emerges onto the terrace, a glass of red wine in her hand. "How are you two always able to disappear so well?"

"We're aggressive about the worst part," Paige says. "And then once you make the rounds nobody cares. Did you at least bring the bottle?" 

Kate wiggles her eyebrows as she steps to join them, holding up the bottle of Casamigos Reposado and a handful of shot glasses; Cam appears at her side with four more. 

"Angels," Soni groans in relief. 

“We’re going to fucking pay for this tomorrow,” Paige mutters.

“Fun while it lasted,” Kate says as she disperses the shot glasses. Cam takes the bottle from her but pauses to open her purse. It’s about the size of a pocket square; Paige can’t imagine anything useful could actually fit in it. 

“Limes,” she says brightly. 

Paige stands corrected. 

“What are we drinking to,” Veronica asks. She’s put her wine on the ledge to help pour the tequila for everyone. There are little jewels threaded through her hair, the curls pulled into an elegant updo. It means every time she moves, she sparkles a little. Paige watches the way Kate’s eyes follow the glow. 

“To driving fast,” Cam suggests, and they all laugh.

“To driving fast,” Paige echos. 

The tequila burns. 

But what’s a little pleasure without a little pain? 

—--

Paige is early to the garage on Thursday morning. She's read the memo that outlined all the upgrades Lamborghini is bringing; Computational Fluid Dynamics — which everyone just calls CFD — has determined some aerodynamic adjustments. The front wing has changed, and the angles for the sides. She’s driven the changes in the simulator but it’s always different in the car after upgrades, and Paige wants to see for herself --- feel for herself --- how that'll translate. 

She won't be able to drive the car until Free Practice 1 in the morning, but new upgrades mean more to digest with the strategy plans. It means additional data to be conscious of, a deep sense of knowing that her car will drive differently. 

"You're in early," Georgia comments, walking by Paige. She’s wearing baggy cargo pants and her hair in a low bun, some stupid shell necklace hangs about her neck in a choker style. Idiotic kangaroo. 

"Fuck off, I'm not," Paige says, her eyes on the car. 

"Just admit her makeover makes you wet," Georgia teases, and Paige gives her a dirty look. 

The indignity. 

"Forcast still looking good?" 

"Should be clear," Georgia confirms. She barks some directions at a trio of junior engineers and walks over with Paige to look at the car. 

The car is assembled, thank god. Paige bends over the side, dips her head down and runs her fingers over one of the dials near the steering wheel. They've opened the flap a few millimeters, after Paige and Soni spent five straight races begging for more lift. Paige has no illusions that Azzi had anything to do with it, because it’s all the aero team and their CFD renderings, but it feels like a request has been granted, nonetheless.

"So," Georgia says. "Do you know Azzi's friend?"

Paige stands up. "Her friend?" 

"Kinda tall. Tattoos. Kinda French. You know, that one. Over there."

She waves her hand and Paige follows the direction across the garage; sure enough, in a little trio in the far corner, Azzi stands in conversation with Caroline and another woman. Azzi's the only one facing Paige but Paige doesn't need to see the face of the woman whose muscular frame is beautifully on display in the simple white shirt and cargo pants. Her hair is short, in rows that lead to a low bun, the kind of hair that’s easy to keep tidy and clean.  

Azzi sees Paige's stare, and her eyes leave the conversation to meet Paige's gaze. But that pulls the attention of the other woman, and she turns around. 

"Oh hey, Paige."

Low voice. Melodic. A hint of attitude because that’s just how she rolls. 

So. Gabby Williams is in Monza. 

Okay. 

There isn't time to interact, really. Paige barely has time to wave a half-distracted hello before Nika appears, dragging her through the garage to look at the newest telemetry reports from the recent simulation sessions. 

“CFD says that this will give a tenth on the curves, which you could really do with if you’re in dirty air,” Nika’s saying, running through computational charts and chicane speed calculations.

To be honest, Paige isn’t really paying attention, because for one, she did read her briefings and for two. Well. 

"Did you meet Gabby?"

Distracted, Nika shrugs. “Azzi's friend? Yeah. She made some intros earlier. You know her well?”

Paige knows Gabby. Paige also knows everything about Azzi. Knew everything about Azzi. 

"She's Azzi's roommate from boarding school," Paige supplies, like that means anything to Nika. It’s strange to think of the ways in which her life was separate, back in Brackley. Paige and Azzi was separate from Paige and Nika, even if both halves of her make up the whole. "Her oldest friend."

Nika pauses. "I guess it was weird that she had a friend."

Paige shoves her. "Don't be a dick."

Nika grunts. "Azzi put me on write up duty," she complains. "Just because she doesn't like the factory assessment."

"Then do it and be grateful for the opportunity,” Paige admonishes. "If she's asking you to do that it's obviously because she trusts your assessment.”

"You just think that because Azzi's a super genius we're all blessed to be in her presence," Nika mocks, going for the jugular since she’s in a mood. 

"She is a genius and we are blessed to be in her presence," Paige shrugs. 

"She said she wants to run you on light fuel in FP1 and 2," Nika shares, a little too smug and delighted for her words to be anything but true. 

"For fuck’s sake," Paige complains, groaning. "Why is she like this? Don’t write that assessment,” she directs. “She can live without."

“Unlike you,” Nika grumbles, “the rest of us don’t have options about deciding when we do and don’t want to listen to Azzi.” 

Well, that may be factual but Paige doesn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, she pulls the telemetry reports from Nika’s hands and skips ahead five pages until she finds the graph that she wants. 

“This is going to be a problem,” she says, pointing her finger at the arc in the middle of the page. It’s been printed in color, which shows the velocity in red. It’s not a pretty curve the way it should be – more of a squiggle, really. 

Nika rolls her eyes. “Why didn’t you say you already read it, could have saved so much time.”

“Bro, I did say it,” Paige reminds her. “You didn’t believe me.”

“Because you hate telemetry readouts, idiot. So you know her,” Nika loops back, non-linear as always. 

“Yeah.”

“Really well?”

Paige shrugs. “Well enough.” At Nika’s probing look she shrugs. “She’s Azzi’s ride or die.”

Nika opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but cuts off abruptly. Paige arches an eyebrow, daring Nika to say it, but her Croatian twin has always had a great sense of self preservation. 

Yeah. Good decision.

“Anything else you wanna share with the class? Not everyday Azzi brings a mysteriously beautiful woman into the paddock and you’re cool as a cucumber about it.”

“Gabby’s…cool,’ Paige says, choosing her words carefully. She’s never had to talk about Gabby before, never had to wade into describing the dynamic. So many times over the last ten months, she’s thought about Gabby and wondered what her perspective would be, what she’s said to Azzi, what she knows about Azzi’s intentions. What she knows about what happened between Paige and Azzi. And what she thinks of Paige as a result. 

“Resounding stamp of approval.”

But Paige doesn’t have anything else to add. Not until she and Gabby get a moment together, and Paige is honestly in no hurry for that. 

“Paige! You’re due at media.”

It’s CD, with her eyes on Paige, and she sighs in defeat. CD’s love language — and dedication to work — includes imposing herself as Paige’s handler, which always means less fun. Honestly, the woman seems to level up by sucking the joy out of Paige’s life. 

“Gotta go,” Paige breathes, half a second before she about faces and beelines it out of the garage, flat out pretending that she doesn’t see or hear CD.

“Best of luck,” Nika calls. “Go left. I’ll tell CD you went right.”

—--

Unfortunately, Paige is so distracted at Gabby’s presence and what it could mean, what it can yield, that she entirely forgets about her two other preoccupations; the fight between Diana and Sue, and having to be face to face with Sabrina. 

Which is, of course, why she arrives at the media waiting room and finds Sabrina already there. 

Sabrina’s sitting on one of the armchairs — it’s the padded kind, because Sophie’s always yapping about how uncomfortable the plastic chairs are and some F1 minion had to switch them out— scrolling on her phone, and she glances up briefly when Paige walks in. 

Fuck. Paige immediately wonders who their third is supposed to be. 

“Becca’s in our segment,” Sabrina says, lazily evaluating Paige’s entire countenance. 

Paige really wants to roll her eyes but one thing she’s always been cognizant of  — especially this year — is not wanting to look like a child when Sabrina’s around. It didn’t seem as important before, when she was still in F3 and even F2, but something about making the switch to F1 and having to contend with Sabrina in an entirely different context than she’d assumed they would have to interact has made Paige more conscious of how she presents. 

God, she wants to know. There’s so much she wants to ask, she feels like she’s at such a disadvantage. And the only thing that Paige hates nearly as much as losing is being at a disadvantage. Especially when it comes to information. 

Because Paige can put her elbows out and make space for herself on track; she’s an equal in ability to any of the other drivers, to anyone in a car. But off track. That’s a different story. 

Sabrina smiles, that stupid knowing smile.  

Paige leans against the wall and crosses her arms. Stares back. 

“Didn’t see you much at Zandvoort,” Sabrina says. “You have a good break?”

She’s enjoying this. She’s absolutely having the time of her life and Paige is doing her absolute damndest to keep herself in check. 

Do not. Crash out. 

Do NOT. Crash out. 

The words loop in Paige’s brain, trying to blanket every instinct she has. Because every instinct she has is screaming for violence. Physical. Verbal. Spiritual. She’ll take any and all, an act of God or a punch. 

Was it meant to be a secret, that Azzi saw Sabrina over break? None of the other girls noticed Azzi in the back of Sabrina’s picture, and Paige had to make a separate instagram account just to stalk every single member of Sabrina’s family and her friends. And Sabrina can’t know for sure that Paige saw the photo, that Paige knows Azzi was in California, in Walnut Creek. 

So really, Sabrina’s just enjoying Paige’s always-present misery of being out of the loop. 

“I did,” Paige says. She forces the casual tone into her voice, loosens her stance so everything about her screams chill. “You?”

“Yeah. Great break.”

Sabrina tips her head to the side, her smile widening just a little bit. The jut of her jaw is daring Paige. She’s trailing the gunpowder to dynamite and handing over a match. 

Where the fuck is Becca. 

“Nice run, in Zandvoort,” Sabrina says. It wasn’t a great race for her, but nothing embarrassing. Mercedes didn’t have pace, and Paige and Soni somehow managed to stick in there with Caitlin. Everyone gets lucky once in a while. “You’re settling in well,” she adds. 

Patronizing bitch. 

There are so many things Paige could say to that, depending on which way she wants to take it. But she doesn’t want to escalate this and she doesn’t want to walk away with her head down. She wants answers on Azzi but she sure as fuck isn’t going to Sabrina for them. 

“Lamborghini’s a good home,” is what she says instead, and she’s saved from having to engage further when Becca arrives, flustered because she had a run in with some kind of wildlife exiting the Williams garage. 

But even as Becca explains the story — something involving a bird — Sabrina and Paige continue to be aware of each other, not quite looking away but never escalating into another stare down. 

By the time the first batch of drivers exits the media room, they've cooled into something that can be viewed publicly. Paige keeps her head high, her wits around her, and holds the microphone tightly in her hand. She feels exposed in a way she didn’t earlier.

It’s a good reminder to always keep her fucking guard up. 

—-------

Azzi: 2:18: …and you know everyone goes on about the environmental footprint but the emissions of the cars are negligible compared to the operational side. Long-term ecological sustainability is imperative but don’t do a disservice to the sport by pretending that the hybridization of the cars is having any impact on reducing the impact Formula 1 has on the world. If you want to address the actual issues then focus on the infrastructure that the entire…

—-------

The hospitality suite is fairly empty when Paige sneaks in before the afternoon strategy ops meeting to see if there are any raspberry tartlets. A wonder --- there are three left --- and she scoops them all up. 

It's a short lived victory, because right as she's about to turn and leave, she makes eye contact with Gabby. 

She's seated at one of the four seater tables, her laptop near her at an angle. But she's also looking up, and their eyes meet, rendering egress not an option. 

"Gabby, hey."

"Paige."

Her tone is oddly formal. Strange. It's not cold — not with the way she's inviting Paige closer — but it's not warm. 

Paige leans down and daps her up, grateful that things with Gabby always had a vibe that was bro-adjacent enough that this is an acceptable way to physically greet her. 

"Wow, I can't believe I'm finally meeting the great Paige Bueckers."

Gabby's definitely mocking her, and there's certainly a thread in her voice that's sharp, but the rest of it just sounds like good natured ribbing. 

"Please stop."

"I can't," Gabby holds her hands up. "There are about five commercials that they play on one of the few tv stations we can access. Your Coca-Cola ad is one of them. I kid you not.”

"Where you from?"

She hates having to ask, to acknowledge that she doesn’t know. But Paige hasn’t spoken Gabby’s name out loud in over ten months, hasn’t talked to Azzi about where she’s been dispatched and what she’s been doing. 

"Burkina-Faso," Gabby says, her husky voice tinged with a childhood of living across the world. "Outside the city though. For the most part. Been there since early in the year."

She’s been with Doctors Without Borders since she finished her residency at Cedars-Sinai, back in Paige's first year in F3. Her specialty is pediatric care for children dealing with malnutrition and maternal-fetal obstetrics. But Paige knows that Gabby’s cleaned enough bullet holes and treated enough wounds caused by violence to give her a specialty in trauma that would admit her to the staff of any hospital in the world. 

"You good?"

"Yeah," Gabby shrugs, "I'm good." She adjusts her glasses, pressing the thin metal up the bridge of her nose. "What about you? You good?"

Her voice is suede. Soft if you stroke it right, rough if you go against the grain. She’s effortlessly cool, her aura bolstered by a deep I don’t give a fuck attitude that’s true down to the marrow of her bones. Paige remembers getting absolutely trashed with her in Brackley, walking home from a club in Paris in the freezing cold, spending one night in Prague consuming their weight in dumplings.

"Mmm. I'm good."

Before Burkina-Faso, Gabby spent two years in the Central African Republic, and before that she did a six month stint in Mali. Her assignments have always been in Africa; a lot of places there suffered under colonization and Gabby speaks French fluently.  

"You always were a shit liar, Paige."

She grins. "Most would argue differently." 

Gabby always saw more than she let on; Paige used to think it whenever she visited. She'd study Paige subtly, her eyes always assessing. There's no question that Gabby clocked Paige's feelings for Azzi long before Azzi herself did.

Paige always wondered if she told Azzi about it. She wonders now what Azzi told Gabby about Abu Dhabi. 

"When's your next posting?"

Gabby shrugs. "Heading back to the Ouagadougou area for a bit while I wait for a new posting, actually. Just came through to see Azzi."

"You stayin' for the race?"

"Yeah. Wouldn't miss the opportunity to see her in her element."

There's fire in Gabby's eyes. Paige doesn't know where it's directed and very honestly, she doesn't want to stick around to find out. 

"I gotta run. I'm due for a touchpoint with Diana."

Gabby looks like she knows a lot more than Paige does and Paige hates that. She despises not being in on the know, on the joke, on the take. Especially with Gabby, who probably has the best assessment of what happened. If there were anyone in the world who would have better access to Azzi's truth than Paige, it's Gabby. 

They were roommates at that boarding school; three years together that bonded them for life. Azzi was always skimpy on the details about school, but she said the best part of Gallagher was meeting Gabby. 

It was always such a lovely thing, to see the two of them together. Azzi would relax around Paige but only if they were alone; but when Gabby was around — that’s when Paige got to see Azzi happy and at ease and she got to do it from the rare vantage point of being the third wheel. It felt special. 

"I'll see you, then," Gabby says. She holds Paige’s gaze, unflinching; it’s disconcerting. 

Paige salutes — like a fucking idiot — and leaves the hospitality suite. As she walks toward the engineering debrief, she reflects on all the other times Gabby visited Azzi in Brackley. And the one time that Gabby happened to be around for the French Grand Prix and hung out in the garage and at the track with Paige for most of the weekend. The two of them drank Heinekins and tossed peanuts in a cup for hours. 

It’s strange to see Gabby again from such a faraway vantage point; to feel the resulting closeness from memories shared just deleted without intention. Paige doesn’t know how to be around her. 

Paige doesn’t know how to be. 

—--

It’s been some time since Lamborghini had a long media segment, so Paige and Soni get sent to do a twenty minute sit down with the comms team. 

“I just think, objectively—”

“I don’t know how your point of view could be objective—”

“That with my coloring and bone structure—”

“I have excellent bone structure—”

“That the polo looks better on me.”

“Unthinkable.”

Everyone thinks Soni’s such an angel but nobody has to see this side of her. Rude, assertive. Delusional. 

The producer attaching the microphones to them doesn’t look endeared by their shit. Seated across the half circle, Nastya surveys them with amusement. She’s already mic’d up, was just waiting for them to arrive. 

The costuming department is really leaning into the Italian sundress vibe. 

“Okay guys,” she says, when Paige and Soni are all settled, and they’ve already elbowed each other so many times that the producer made them separate the chairs by another half foot. “Two questions each, easy peasy. The weekend, the fans, the atmosphere.”

“Like any of this is going to air,” Paige says, with what she hopes is a charming sneer. 

“Don’t pout,” Nastya says, pointing one finger at Paige. “You had your home race; it’s Kah and Julie’s turn.” 

“She struggles to give up the spotlight,” Soni adds, helpfully. 

“Don’t we know it,” Nastya smiles. 

“She’s just as bad as me,” Paige asserts, glaring at both of them, unenthused. She’s saved only by the producer calling a start to the segment. 

“Well, it might be Ferrari’s home race this weekend in Monza, but there is another Italian team. I’m here with our favorite all-rookie team, our bulls in gold, Soni Citron and Paige Bueckers of Lamborghini. Welcome, ladies.”

There’s literally nothing that Paige hates more than being greeted with ladies, and judging by the look on Nastya’s face — glee, masquerading as warmth — she knows it. 

“Sup,” she grins, pasting the smile on. None of it’s real. Not at all. 

“Paige, tell me what it’s like to be racing here, in the heart of the Tifosi.”

Beside her, Soni straight up snorts, and then bursts into laughter. She can’t get it together, and then Nastya can’t keep it together and then Paige is the only one who’s got any decorum at all and the producer has to call cut so they can re-record the segment. 

—--

Dijonai summons Paige at the crack of dawn, because she’s a witch and that’s when she’s most powerful. 

They go for a run in the early morning, slightly cooler air, long before the track has opened to fans or even most employees. Paige has been running more, since DiJonai came into her life. She hates it less than usual, though she attributes that to just enjoying being in step next to Nai. It’s steadying to go out when it’s barely light and to watch the sunrise together. 

And getting up earlier means she’s actually sleeping earlier, sleeping better. Being less of a night owl and keeping to a schedule is actually doing wonders for cutting down her spiral time. If her body is too tired to stay awake then her brain has no choice but to succumb as well. 

Most trainers would have Paige on a treadmill during race weekend, but DiJonai seems to know what Paige needs, and being confined to the gym to sweat it out definitely isn’t it. 

“Loser buys breakfast,” Paige shouts, trying to edge out DiJonai as they round the corner to the back entrance and enter the home stretch. 

DiJonai smokes Paige, which isn’t surprising. Paige is still laughing as they come to a stop outside the motorhome area. 

“You’re an idiot,” DiJonai pants, doubled over. “I could run circles round you six ways to Sunday.”

Paige squirts at DiJonai with the waterbottle in her hand, and DiJonai slaps at Paige in retaliation; sadly for Nai, Paige is a sweaty mess, and her hand just slides off. 

“Fucking child,” DiJonai hisses, wrestling the water bottle from Paige’s hand and squirting her square in the face. 

Naturally, they’re so engrossed in getting one up on each other that they completely miss the two figures approaching from the Lamborghini Team Motorhome until they absolutely have an audience. And all of Paige’s luck has been given to her performance on the track, so obviously the two people are Azzi and Gabby. 

“Morning.”

It’s DiJonai who notices them first, and Paige turns, unexpectedly hit with the view of Azzi lit in the easy morning light. Ethereal. 

“Hey.”

She feels unexpectedly exposed, the black sports bra and light blue shorts leaving her open to Gabby’s direct gaze, to Azzi’s assessing eye. They can see the way her heart thumps, the way her lungs expand. 

“Y’all are up early,” Paige observes, stupidly. 

“Just getting some time in,” Gabby says. 

DiJonai blinks at Paige, then clearly loses patience. “Hi. I’m DiJonai, Paige’s performance coach.”

She and Gabby exchange greetings and a handshake, and Paige has to force herself to move her gaze to and from Azzi at a normal rate. 

God, she’s beautiful. Among her regrets — and there are many — Paige mourns that she never got to see Azzi wake up after their night together. Azzi bathed in morning light is as radiant as Azzi in starlight, as Azzi in dripping in victory, as resplendent as Azzi unshowered and wrinkled and buried in calculations. All the drip in the world and Paige never felt like she was anywhere near Azzi’s level. 

At a loss for what to do with her limbs and her face, Paige begins to stretch. They’ve been talking to each other through the voice memos, though neither of them acknowledge anything that they’ve sent in recordings over the previous days and weeks. 

It’s a strange way to communicate; everything’s a statement. No questions are asked. And in some ways, that makes it easier. Less pressure. In unspoken rules, they don’t talk about anything too deep, or about how things are between them. Paige doesn’t edit herself, doesn’t listen or re-record. She says whatever she says and she sends it. 

But it means she doesn’t ever record a message when she’s in a mood. 

“You ever been to this part of Italy before?” DiJonai and Gabby are making small talk, the easy kind of conversation that people can make upon acquaintance. And Paige is grateful, she really, really is. 

“Can we talk about aero load,” she asks Azzi. “I woke up this morning thinking about the simulations from the factory. Can you ask them to separate the arcs for the new wing package on the downforce-to-drag efficiency?”

The worst part is it isn’t even a lie. Not even a fib. Maybe Azzi wasn’t interested in being with someone who only cares about racing and doesn’t have any other interests. 

“You want them for the chicanes or the whole track?”

Paige grimaces. 

Azzi sighs. 

“I do think it’s worth it to look at,” Azzi agrees. “I’ll ask them this morning. Hopefully the team can send them over by this afternoon.”

Paige wipes some of the sweat from her brow and notices Azzi’s eyes flick down to her abs, where she’s unintentionally flexing. But Azzi looks away so quickly Paige almost wonders if she imagined it. But she didn’t. Definitely not when Azzi does it again, like she can’t even help herself. 

“Okay, we should probably head out,” Azzi says, and the way she’s absolutely not looking at Paige — at the smile Paige can’t quite suppress — is giving Paige life. 

“I have to be in the engineering room in an hour,” she adds, like it’s not meaningful that she’s running away. 

Azzi and Gabby walk away, and Paige turns to watch them go, her smile so wide it threatens to eclipse her face. DiJonai shoves her, muttering profanities. 

—--

She’s barely gotten her tyres to temp when there’s a traffic mix up during FP1.  Paige’s front wing gets clipped by Aliyah Boston in the Williams, and she has to be pulled in immediately. 

“We’re fine,” Nika says in her ear, as Paige pulls into the Lamborghini pit. It’s not a quick stop; the crew has to replace the front wing and Azzi’s ordered some tightening on the back flap as well. “We’ll send you back out in clean air,” Nika promises. 

The grandstands are filled with Ferrari red, though there’s a good amount of the Lamborghini black mixed in as well. Italians and their motorsport. Italians and their cars. 

“We’ve got forty-five minutes and a whole list of things to do,” Nika continues. She’s turned around on the pit wall so she can look at Paige, but the helmet visor’s down so Paige knows they aren’t really making eye contact. “Lock in, we’re fine.”

Paige appreciates the talk down. She hates starting a race weekend with an incident, no matter how small it is. Makes it feel like everything gets thrown off. She exhales, closing her eyes, putting the frustration out of her mind. 

The session isn’t a wash. They get some good data on the aero upgrades that have been made, and Paige gets a decent understanding of how the car feels different.  

“Balance is off,” Paige says in the debrief afterward, almost the moment she sits down. 

“Agreed,” Soni chimes in. “Really off — especially through the turns.”

Dorka nods. “We heard that on the radio from both of you. Let’s dive into that.”

“Variante del Rettifilo,” Paige says immediately. It’s a heavy-breaking chicane, a good spot to overtake. She wasn’t at speed but it’s a curve where she should need to go from about 300kph to just under 90kph. 

“You thought it was worse than Ascari,” Azzi asks, standing up to lean over the table and make a red little X on the track layout. 

Paige shrugs. “I think the balance is worse at speed with the intense braking. Way worse than at the left-right-left.”

Ascari is technical sequence. It’s fast, and it comes left-right-left, but it’s not the massive swing in speed that Rettifilo is. 

“Fighting for my life at Rettifilo,” Soni says. “Car was all over the place.”

“I couldn’t trust it through the corners,” Paige adds. “At speed it would have been way worse.”

“Is it pulling equally?” Jana asks, piping up from her spot next to Azzi. 

Paige furrows her brow. “Honestly it was all over the place. It didn’t feel consistent.”

“Maybe more on the left,” Soni suggests. “But, like, only slightly.”

It goes like that for over an hour. Paige and Soni break down all the parts of the car that felt off, share what went well, talk about how to approach FP2. The engineers around them are scrambling to take notes and align what they say with the data readouts, and in the center of the table, Dorka and Azurȧ have additional conversation about changes that can be made before the next session. 

Upgrades are great and they make the car better — there’s no question about that — but CFD can only tell so much. With upgrades come massive adjustments, and three practice sessions aren’t really enough to be able to prepare for qualifying, for the actual race. Paige and Soni spend time together away from the engineers, talking through the circuit and what felt especially difficult. Paige jots down their notes and then gives them to Nika, who shares whatever she deems relevant with the engineering team. 

There’s a tense atmosphere in the garage that feels different to the other race weekends; a collective feeling that everyone needs to figure things out so it can come together. Paige likes it, enjoys the camaraderie; it really feels like team effort, not just each person or crew doing their parts. 

—-------

Azzi: 1:39: …did that I think meaningful change could be made; it’s statistically impossible to posit that the drivers in F1 are the best in the world when the barrier to entry of the sport is beyond the means of the world’s population —even if you omit communities historically excluded from economic opportunity and households in the middle income distribution. I anticipate that if…

—-------

The team doesn’t break for lunch — not with so many changes that need to be made before the afternoon practice session, but people have to find time to eat. Paige wanders through the hospitality suite and sits for a few minutes with Nai, and they’re joined soon enough by Soni and Kiki.

It’s hot but not stupidly so, not egregiously unpleasant; she has enough of an appetite to be able to eat some of the pasta that’s on offer. She picks at an assortment of cut fruit, the watermelon not sweet enough for her American tastes and the pineapple too citrus for her tongue. In the end, she snags an apple and disappears back into the garages, strolling about with her racing overalls unzipped and sticking her nose into places it doesn’t belong. 

She finds Azzi in one of the huddle offices, curled up on the desk chair and crunching numbers, her mouth moving as she talks to herself, muttering about derivatives and velocity projections. 

“Ayo,” Paige grins, resting a shoulder on the doorframe. 

Azzi’s eyes flick up and she raises her eyebrows; not the best greeting Paige has ever had, but she’ll take it. Especially when she remembers Azzi being an embarrassed freak that morning. 

She reminds herself not to be smug. 

“You eat yet?”

It’s a rhetorical question, and she doesn’t wait for the answer. Just lobs the apple across the small office and watches as it hits Azzi on the shoulder.

“Ow!” Azzi winces as the apple bounces onto the table, scrambling to snatch it before it knocks over an uncapped bottle of water that Paige is sure pre-dates Azzi settling into the space. 

“Sorry,” she says, and it sounds like a lie even to her own ears. 

“I didn’t eat,” Azzi admits, biting into the apple. She’ll eat around the roundest part and then get her teeth into the ends, her lips pulling back as she takes delicate little nibbles. Paige wonders if she’s being an extra freak or just a normal freak for knowing how it’ll go. 

“You could say thank you,” she chastizes, inviting herself inside the small space and settling into the chair opposite the desk.

Even at Mercedes, where Azzi had an office, she never did much to make it personal. No real decorations or easy touches that let her inhabit the space. Because Azzi carries her work with her everywhere. In her head. In that beautiful brain. An office is just a place her body is. 

“Azurȧ’s implementing changes,” Azzi says, instead of communicating her gratitude for Paige saving her from imminent starvation. “We’ll do five laps and then recalibrate, in FP2.”

“Sounds good. Where’s Gabby? You send her off on her own?”

“She drove into town. Had to do some work. She stayed in the team home last night because there was an empty bed, but the junior engineers arrived this morning. I’ll meet her for a late dinner.”

It’s absolutely not Azzi’s preference to have anyone visit during a race weekend; she never has the time to hang out, and her focus is always on what needs to be done. She’s complained to Paige on any number of times about it; people want to see what F1 team staff do, want to see the action, but they don’t like being ignored for three days straight. 

But the nature of Gabby’s job means that often times her weekend visits can be spur of the moment. Her pre-approved long leave would be planned months in advance, but Paige remembers times when Gabby would send Azzi a What’s App message with hours to spare – hey, I’m heading to Europe. Where are you? — all because someone could randomly cover for her for a weekend. 

“Nice to have Gabby around,” Paige offers, inviting conversation. But Azzi only sighs and nods, the half lilt to her mouth not the big smile Paige expects. 

“Yeah…Yeah,” she tacks on, like she’s telling herself it’s true. “It’s good to see her.”

Gabby steadies Azzi. Paige saw her do it, early on, and tried to replicate it in a way that would feel authentic. She always thought she largely succeeded. Though events of the past year might indicate otherwise. 

All to say, it’s not the expression of glee that Paige expected. 

“Everything okay? With her? And… you?”

Azzi swallows, the delicate muscles in her throat moving in slow cohesion. She doesn’t look at Paige as she continues to write out formulas in her notebook, the pencil flying across the page even as she talks. “Yeah. Of course. Everything’s fine. Just, you know. Gabby being Gabby.” She waves her hand about, like that’ll clue Paige into what she means. 

“She loves you,” Paige says, because it seems like the right thing to say. 

“I know,” Azzi agrees. 

To Paige’s surprise, she’s a little choked up, like the reminder is necessary. “I miss her, when she’s gone,” she says, hurried. Like she hates to admit it. “I wish she’d just take a job in Paris, work out of a hospital.”

Azzi once told Paige that she always felt guilty that Gabby was off saving the world and she chose a career ensconced in the most gratuitous display of wealth, calculating numbers to line the pockets of the richest of the rich. 

But what could be done, really, when it was clear how deeply everything about racing made Azzi’s blood sing. 

“But that wouldn’t be Gabby,” Paige says, gently.

“No,” Azzi agrees. But it clearly doesn’t do anything to soothe her discontent.

There’s a frown on Azzi’s face, and Paige wants to kiss it away. She wants to run her thumb down the middle of Azzi’s forehead, to smooth out the furrow. Her fingers twitch with the urge. 

Paige clears her throat. “You, um. You heard from the factory yet, about the aero load?”

Azzi smiles, something like gratitude in her gaze for a moment. “No, not yet. But we’ve got a conference call in an hour. I’ll bring it up again.”

“I better go prep for FP2,” Paige says, standing. 

“Thanks,” Azzi says, when Paige is halfway out the door. She waves the apple a little. “For this.”

Maybe she means more than the apple. Maybe she means the forbidden fruit. 

“Anytime.”

Doesn’t really matter what she means, in the end. 

—--

The engineers are amazing, because the car feels like a different beast when Paige gets her on the track during FP2. The balance isn’t perfect but it’s markedly better. Certainly it’s drivable, controllable. 

“Already improved,” Paige says into the radio as she makes it past Rettifilo. 

“Tyre readings look good,” Nika confirms. “Williams, coming up on your left.”

She guides Paige through traffic and three more laps, brings her back into the garage and has her sit for ten minutes while engineers slide under the car to make adjustments. The whole time, Paige reads the telemetry screens that they slide over for her, the visor flicked up so only her eyes are visible. 

“Can I see the acceleration on the exit at Turn 9?”

Azzi wanders over, Nika on her heels. She puts a hand on the front of the car and the other on the seat, caging Paige in. 

“Okay, we’re changing the differential settings,” she says, gesturing to where KK’s plugged in to run a software update to the car. Paige can see her mouth moving, but her voice is only audible through the earbuds connected to the helmet. It’s too loud in the garage for any kind of chatter. “Talk to me.”

“A little understeer when I’m mid-corner,” Paige reports.

“How much?”

She tries to shrug but she can barely move with the safety harness. “Nothing dramatic.”

Azzi nods. “Okay. Let’s soften the rear bar. That might help you free the rear on entry.”

She taps the halo, the three-pronged titanium bars that surround the cockpit, and turns away, flipping the mobile amplifier attached to her waist to switch into another communications channel. Paige can’t hear her, but in her mirror, she sees Kelis straighten and then nod. She scurries away to communicate instructions, and Azzi turns back to Paige. 

“Okay. Give us four and we’ll have you back out there. Software update’s almost done.”

This is the part that Paige loves about the free practice sessions. It’s the only time she really gets to see Azzi in her element in the garage. Before, at Mercedes, when Paige was racing in F3 and more often when she was in F2, she’d been able to sit at Sue’s side during the races, listening to the comms and watching Azzi work. She’d always had a hundred questions for Azzi after, while they were commuting to the next race site or back to the factory in Brackley. 

Azzi in race mode is formidable. Paige misses being able to see it up close. 

—--

Paige and Soni meet in the garage to walk over to the driver’s debrief, giving Paige the opportunity to finally ask the question that’s been burning inside her all day. 

“You hear anything out of the Team Principals briefing?” 

“Nah, nothing on the paddock.”

“Visit that coffee cart tomorrow,” Paige suggests, not totally in jest. 

“Get your ass up and go with me,” Soni chirps back.

They’re strolling together, about to exit the garage, when Kelis comes running up. She skids to stop in front of them, smoke almost cartooning out of her ears. 

“Oh good, I caught you.” She looks a little out of breath. “Can you pop into the strat room before you head out? Azzi and Caroline are huddled. I think they’re heading out earlier than usual tonight.”

If Paige didn’t already know about Gabby’s presence, she’d be shocked to hear Azzi’s leaving the track early. She’s had to physically pull Azzi away from the circuit — too many times to count, really. 

And, indeed, Azzi and Caroline are huddled in the strategy room, an extremely large and detailed diagram of the car between them. It takes up nearly the entire length of the large conference table. It’s probably to some type of scale; 1:3 or something close. 

“Aero wants to run the cars with different wing angles,” Caroline says when they walk in. “Do either of you have a preference on who goes down?”

Soni shrugs. “I’m fine with it — unless you want it?”

“Nah,” Paige shakes her head. “I’d do it but I’m not desperate for it. Front wing was good.”

“I agree,” Azzi says, and she sounds annoyed. 

“Order?” Paige asks. 

“Strong suggestion,” Azzi answers. 

Soni bends over the table to look at the schematic with Caroline, so she can visualize where the changes will be on the front wing. Paige eases her hip onto the conference table, the giant Stanley waterbottle dangling from one of her fingers. 

“You and Gabby going for pizza?”

“Some pasta place that Georgia recommended,” Azzi says, her voice a little distant. She’s got a calculator in her hand - one of the graphic calculators that are always nearby. She punches in a series of combinations and then four more buttons, and nods to herself. “Here,” she calls, holding the calculator out. 

Jana comes by almost immediately, taking it and glancing at the screen. “I’ll give this to Gandy,” she says, walking away before Azzi says anything else. 

Paige raises her eyebrows and Azzi shrugs. “They find it helpful to see the math sometimes,” she admits. 

There’s a grin tugging at Paige’s lips, too strong an urge for her to suppress. 

“Your brain too fast?”

“Not exactly.”

“But something like that?” 

“Something like that.”

Now, she’s giving Paige her full attention, not bothering to pretend to be working on something else or actually working on something else. And she’s in jeans, today, which are almost worse than the leggings because her curves are on full display.  

So Paige is really suffering. 

“You reading anything good these days?” 

Azzi’s always got a book — correction, multiple books — on her nightstand. She prefers physical copies to digital, so she’s always lugging around a couple hundred pages. And the poetry, of course. Always the poetry.

“Nothing too exciting. You?”

Paige is so surprised, she’s sure she resembles a fish. It takes her a moment to recover.

She’s always been a big reader, because she had to spend a lot of time by herself; at the track, in Storrs, on the karting circuit. But she mostly read novels; mystery, some sci-fi, a lot of thrillers. 

When she met Azzi, she realized how much there was that she didn’t know; her reading material transformed. It wasn’t as prescribed as wanting to read things that Azzi was interested in, because Azzi was interested in everything. Paige started reading the newspaper and glancing through magazines about things other than car racing. She started consuming classic novels she hadn’t read in high school, and diving deeper into nonfiction. And, of course, poetry.

“Um, the new Karin Slaughter, but it gives me nightmares so I’ve been winding down by watching Bob’s Burgers.”

Azzi’s blank stare is almost comical. 

“Ask Gabby about it. I’ve got driver briefing now,” Paige says, making a face. “Pray for me.”

“Try not to piss off Cathy today,” Azzi advises.

“No promises,” Paige says, and she’s feeling really fucking bold, so she pairs the words with a little wink. 

She turns to walk away before she can see how it lands. It’s not cowardice, she tells herself; it’s giving Azzi the privacy to receive it. 

—--

Nika’s back in the morning, with her espresso bullshit. 

“I mean, it’s everywhere. Every-fucking-where.”

“It’ll never happen,” Paige disagrees. “We could never fucking get that lucky.”

But Nika shrugs, like she knows more than she does. She doesn’t, she just likes acting like she picks up better gossip because she thinks people like her more. They don’t. They like Paige more.

“Sophie’s in a worse mood than usual, that’s a fucking fact.”

“She almost started a fight at the briefing last night,” Paige dishes, like they didn’t discuss this very thing twelve hours earlier. Over dinner. And dessert. And a sparkling water. 

Paige isn’t even into gossip, really.

“I’m telling you, I think Red Bull is done with her bullshit.”

No. Paige doesn’t believe it. Sophie’s like a cockroach; she always finds a way. “Maybe Diana has heard something,” she offers, since Nika seems invested. 

“Think you could ask her?”

Paige can’t fucking ask Diana Taurasi if she has inside gossip on Sophie keeping her seat. 

“Did you put money on this?”

“That would be illegal,” Nika says, which doesn’t mean no. 

Paige finishes rubbing lotion into her hands and reaches for the gold ring that Nika gave her when they won for the first time in F3. It settles into her knuckle, a comforting presence. She glances in the mirror again, checking the fit. She’s due for breakfast with Diana and Soni. They’re going to sit at the hospitality suite — the outside portion, probably. 

“Diana really thinks she can eclipse Ferrari this weekend,” Nika snorts. 

“She’s sick of giving free press,” Paige theorizes. “We all had to go to that insipid gala.”

“Good word.”

“Yesterday’s crossword,” Paige admits; another habit she developed after meeting Azzi. 

They walk to the paddock together but Nika hurries ahead as they approach the turnstiles; Paige throws a peace sign at the photographer stationed by the entrance, not quite smiling but definitely not frowning. Head up, she can hear Lili saying in the back of her brain. 

“Good luck with breakfast,” Nika says, as she peels off toward the garage. 

Paige heads toward the paddock mall, to the Lamborghini hospitality suite. She finds Soni already seated, looking alert and fresh in the morning sunshine. 

“How many coffee’s you had already?”

“One,” Soni answers. Paige fixes her with an appraising stare. “Two,” she amends. “God, what are we going to talk about? Think of a plan.”

“Why do I have to think of the plan?”

Soni sighs, eyes roving over the paddock. There’s a good amount of foot traffic, but none of it’s really all that interesting. The celebrities won’t show up until later, closer to qualifying time. They’ve got to get through this breakfast, and FP3 before that. 

“Good morning,” Diana booms, her deep inflection tinged with a hint of amusement, just as it always is. She looks like the coolest version of Death, all in black. Paige doesn’t know 

They both rise to dap her up, and Diana says something that makes the three of them laugh. It’s half performance for the public, half for Diana’s benefit. She and Soni have to sing for their supper, after all. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill myself if I have to see those Ferraris on the podium,” Diana says through smiling teeth as she sits. 

“Same,” Soni says, her eyebrow moving infinitesimally. 

“We’ve got pace,” Paige asserts. She leans back, one elbow draped over the chair, the picture of nonchalance. 

“I would hope so.”

They order drinks and some breakfast. Paige picks at the eggs, at the toast, at the avocado slices. Soni seems happy to peel back a croissant one layer at a time. What a freak. 

Throughout, Diana pelts them with questions, asks for their opinions; on the aero package upgrades, on the drivers briefing, on what they think of the conversation that McLaren also brought good updates. She’s a master puppeteer, Diana, and Paige and Soni have to make enough eye contact to always be on the same page. 

“You think Sophie’s gonna keep her seat?” Paige asks it because why not, and across the table Soni smirks. 

“Feels like we’re not lucky enough to be rid of Sophie yet,” Diana sighs. Her water has two lemon slices in it, and a lime wedge. She doesn’t even have to ask for it that way anymore; everyone knows how she takes it. There are advantages to being known. Disadvantages, too. 

“And Mercedes,” Soni asks, her voice careful. “Sue looks like she’s been making moves. She just signed those F4 prospects.”

A silent assassin. Paige’s heart leaps into her throat. God, Soni can be bold. 

Diana chuckles; it could mean anything. 

“You know Sue,” she says, a wry smile on her face. “Always making moves. She can focus on the pipeline. I want us focused on the Constructor’s Championship.”

“Locked in,” Paige murmurs in agreement. 

“To the last lap,” Soni adds. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Diana approves. 

And she does. With lemon wedges and a lime. 

—--

Qualifying goes very well. Pole position again. 

Paige takes an extraordinary amount of pleasure in qualifying ahead of the Ferrari’s and she outright winks at Kah as she waits her turn to talk with Nastya. Even better for Paige, Caitlin takes an engine penalty and so she’s starting at the back of the grid.  

But it’s a good qualifying session for Team Lamborghini, since Soni starts third on the grid, after Phee. They shove at each other, before Soni steps up to talk to Nastya; and again after Paige finishes her own interview. 

By the time they make it out of press responsibilities and into the strategy debrief, Paige is itching to be done with the paddock. She hasn’t had a chance to change, so she’s still in her racing overalls, undone to the waist as always. She can’t wait to take a shower. 

“Since Paige is in pole, I think we should plan for the podium,” Dorka says. “Azzi—”

“No,” Azzi says, not even looking up from her notes. 

Paige watches in amusement as Dorka rolls her eyes and smooths a hand over her hair. Some things never fucking change, and Azzi’s eschewing of all things media is one of them. 

“I was going to say, that you should pick someone from your team, Azzi.”

“Jana and KK can battle it out,” Azzi says, and Paige watches as Jana and KK try to restrain themselves from squealing with delight. 

“I’ll try to win it for you,” Paige assures them. “Just make sure one of you can still stand and get on the podium with me.”

Halfway through the session, they take a break as the data load comes in. Paige takes the opportunity to duck back into the hallway, determined to track down some kind of snack in the kitchen. 

“Yo,” she says, as she enters. 

Gabby’s set up at the small table, a smoothie in her hand as she reads from a thick book. 

“Congrats on pole position,” she says. “Beautiful drive.”

The first time they met, Gabby took great glee in sharing stories of Azzi as a teen. Apparently she’d forced Gabby into watching Formula 1 enough that Gabby developed her own appreciation for the sport. 

“Thanks,” Page accepts the praise as gracefully as she can. “It’s a pretty good car. You having a fun weekend? Been a while since you’ve been to a race.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Gabby says. She fixes Paige with what could only be called an assessing gaze. 

Paige walks to the fridge, opening it to evaluate her options. Mostly waters. She turns to the cabinets to scrounge for some kind of baked good. 

“You being good to her?”

The words ring out in the silence. 

Paige pauses. Her back is to Gabby, which doesn’t feel good from a confrontation perspective, but at least it gives her the opportunity to gather herself. She takes a deep breath and turns around.

“No. You don’t get to ask me that.”

Gabby arches an eyebrow. She’s always been so sure of herself, and it’s not confidence so much as it is an innate assurance that she has the right to meddle. Or to speak on any topic that she likes; Paige never minded it before because Gabby always picked topics in which she was an expert so it didn’t feel intrusive. 

“Don’t I?”

But this feels intrusive. It feels like an accusation. Like Gabby’s needling where Paige is just now scabbed over. 

“Don’t fuck with me about this, Gabby. It’s honestly none of your business.”

She’s never been so blunt with Gabby. Certainly, she’s never been so aggressive. Because Gabby was always fun, always enjoyable to be around, but she was also Azzi’s best friend. Always someone Paige knew she needed to be on good terms with. To curry favor with.

And it had been fine, because Gabby liked her. Paige knew it. That’s why it was easy. 

“She’s my best friend,” Gabby says, unrepentant. “It is my business if she’s getting punched over and over.”

Paige prays for patience. She grips the countertop behind her, squeezing until she can feel the strain in her fingers. 

“Things are better between us. But that’s taking a lot of work on my part. Azzi made decisions. And I’m just living with the consequences. You don’t get to tell me how I’m doing that wrong.”

There’s a glint in Gabby’s eyes. Hard, like diamonds.

“She told me about Abu Dhabi.”

Paige freezes. For a body so in motion, she sure can slam on the breaks. 

“So she told you how she fucked me and then blindsided me,” Paige snaps, irritated that she doesn’t have the upper hand. Hell, she doesn’t even have equal footing.  

“Told me all of it,” Gabby continues, so cool and even. “What you said.”

“What Azzi did in Abu Dhabi fucked me up,” Paige says, her voice carefully calm. “As I’m sure you can imagine.”

Gabby shrugs, like she’s not moved by the argument. And fine, she’s probably right not to be swayed. Because if Azzi did tell her everything then Paige certainly came out looking like mud on the bottom of her boot. What she said to Azzi was inexcusable. You don’t say the kind of things that Paige said to the woman you love, no matter the circumstances. 

“Fucked her up too,” Gabby shares, and Paige can’t help but wince. Hurting Azzi will always be the worst thing she’s done. 

“I apologized.”

“And she accepted.” 

“We’re moving on.”

“Sure.”

Just statements. Little facts that don’t give any kind of accurate representation about the state of the relationship between Paige and Azzi in the time between Abu Dhabi and today; days upon days when she couldn’t do anything but revisit memory row, second and third and fourth guessing every important interaction she and Azzi ever had. 

“I’m trying,” she admits, opening herself for scrutiny. Inviting Gabby’s judgement. “I’m trying so hard to be good to her. To be good for her. And it’s so fucking hard when I’m in the goddman dark.”

If Gabby’s got anything to say in response, she doesn’t get the chance. 

“PAIGE.” 

It’s Jana, calling down the hallway. She appears a moment later, poking her head into the kitchen. She seems to read the tension in the room and then shrug like she doesn’t care. “Azzi wants you.”

Paige nods, and follows after her. She tells herself it’s not running away. 

—-------

Azzi: 3:01:...the idea of gen-eds, in quotation marks. They’re general education for a reason and the more universities specialize, the more it becomes apparent that we’re absolutely failing as a society. To flourish is to evolve and through evolution a key component is adaptability. We’re just ridding ourselves as a human race of that ability. I swear the…

—-------

Gabby’s words linger with Paige. They play in her brain over and over again, a strain of music that she just can't excise. 

You being good to her?

It’s part guilt and part longing. Paige wants so badly to be good to Azzi, to be the kind person she always imagined herself to be. But all her actions during the first part of the season — since she found out about Azzi leaving Mercedes, really— point to someone different. Someone young. Inexperience masquerading as confidence with a touch of arrogance. 

More than a touch, really. 

She sweats in the gym, a post-day workout that’s probably inadvisable. But she can’t quiet her mind and the need to move is humming in her veins. Driving a car’s not an option, not really. Not as fast as she wants to go. 

Seeing Gabby again is fucking her up. Because Gabby’s a reminder of everything that’s different. She’s a walking, talking, yapping reminder of all the ways that Paige and Azzi aren’t what they used to be. 

She puts the set of dumbbells she’s been curling back on the rack and sits on the bench to take a breather. Really, she should quit. She should go and take a shower, get herself ready for bed. Do some meditation and some stretching and prepare for her race. 

Instead, she pulls her phone out. Opens up her photos app, scrolls up and up and up, until she gets to the pictures from December. From the end of last season. There’s a picture of Nika, drinking a cup of Qahwah when they had breakfast on the Friday morning before the Bahrain race. And before that, in Suzuka; a photo of Azzi in front of Nagoya Castle. She’s looking up at the structure, a curious look on her face. Paige probably took the photo while Azzi was yapping about the history of the castle, spitting facts from the travel brochure. She’d noticed Paige taking  a photo, because the next picture is her hand, reaching out to turn Paige away. 

She swipes back, letting the photo of Azzi staring up at the castle settle in the center of the screen. 

Paige stares until it goes dark. 

—--

There’s final work being done to the car. 

Adjustments, double checks, triple checks. Paige sits on a tool cabinet, rolling a washer along her knuckles. She’s looking at the car but she’s not seeing it. Not really. Her mind is on the track, on the curves, the turns, the acceleration and the straight line speed. 

“You look like a serial killer,” Jana comments. She’s entering data at a computer, standing just a few feet away. 

“I’m concentrating.”

“On how you’re gonna kill someone?”

“Would you talk to Alyssa Thomas like this?”

Jana only laughs. “Please. She’s more of a serial killer than you are.”

That’s fair. 

Paige sighs, thumping her head against the wall and trying to find a way to sit with the electricity that’s started humming through her body. Race day, race day, race day. 

Starting on pole is great, is ideal, is everything that a driver wants. She’s starting first at Monza. It still doesn’t feel real, sometimes. It won’t, probably, until she does it all again next year. Repetition ruins enjoyment, or whatever the phrase is. 

The Mclarens are coming for them. Paige can tell. It’s in Phee’s steely gaze on the paddock, in the lock of her jaw as she walks.  Nothing bad, nothing that would sour the air between them. But Phee’s a competitor. A world champion. 

She doesn’t like being showed up by a rookie. 

Paige is going to need to have her elbows out. It’s fine. She’s bony.

—-

They all suffer through the driver’s parade. The Tifosi are out in force, massive swaths of red sections and a roar that accompanies the swell of color. They cheer for their gods; for Kah and Julie, for the prancing horse, for the cars that have won them championships. 

There are big pockets of black, of the gold bull; Paige and Soni sit on the back of the convertible and wave, feeding on the energy. 

There’s something different about racing in Italy; it feels like more. Paige won in Imola and she wants to win in Monza, and everything that happens off the track matters less and less as the minutes tick away. 

She sits through strategy briefings, through the last minute data readouts. Diana gives a pep talk, Dorka gives instructions. The pit crew boss gives advice. 

All of it washes over Paige. Part of her brain takes it in, incorporates it into what she needs in her foot and between her hands, but she doesn’t break concentration. 

In her driver’s room, she kneels, just in a sports bra and her boxers. Her weight rests on her heels, her hands resting lightly on her thighs, palms facing up. It’s not prayer, what she does. Sometimes. But not always. Not today. 

Because she’s feeling a lot. Too much. They aren’t early in the season anymore; things feel different now. It’s less about having something to prove and more about showing what she can do. 

The door opens and Nika slips inside, though Paige doesn’t open her eyes. A hundred things are probably calling for Nika’s attention, for her focus. But she’s here, with Paige. 

“We gonna talk about it?”

Surprised, she looks over. “About what?”

“About how you’re fourteen points back from championship leader and Caitlin Clark is starting at the back of the grid today.”

It’s in her mind. How could it not be? She has the opportunity to take the lead in the championship today. A clean race would do it. 

“Let’s focus on finishing today in one piece,” she says, deflecting. Winning a world championship isn’t something she can focus on today. It’s all about Monza. 

“We got this, Twin.”

We got this. 

—-------

Azzi: 41 seconds: Did I ever tell you about my first F1 race? I swear to god, Paige, it felt like the world had changed.

—-------

A different driver emerges from the ready room. 

Still Paige, still her. But another version of herself. Someone who only cares about being in the car.

There’s the pageantry of the anthem and the nonsense statement about diversity — nonsense because all this sport cares about is money, about winning. And then Paige is standing in the garage with DiJonai getting ready to walk out. 

Gabby’s in the garage, nestled amongst the celebrities and the other onlookers; Paige sees her but doesn’t dive any deeper. She can’t. 

She’s got a race to win. 

As she climbs into the car and the formation lap begins — with her right in front — she doesn’t look at the crowd. Only the pavement. Only the circuit. 

They’re in the Ferrari temple and what Paige wants to do feels like desecration. Her foot is itching, her hands are twitching. As she waits on the starting line she shakes her hands, wiggles her feet. She let’s the ants out and pulls herself together. 

4. 3. 2. 1. 

It’s not a great start. It’s good, but not great. With Soni behind her she’d be able to fly into first but it’s Phee who’s in second, so Paige has to cut the racing line off and dart to take the front. She manages the swing and then she’s roaring out ahead, the orange of Phee’s McLaren a blur in her mirrors. 

“Hold steady, Paige.”

Nika’s a cucumber, keeping Paige steady. She talks her through the chicanes, through defense, through the tyre degradation. She keeps first place and pits first to stop Phee from an undertake; it’s a sub-two second stop, and Paige gets released into a beautiful spot. 

“Beautiful stop everyone, thank you,” she says into the radio. 

The rest is on her. 

It’s hard, because it’s always hard. Nothing comes easy in this sport. Everything is earned. 

But when Paige crosses the line first, adding twenty-five points to her name and taking first place from Caitlin Clark in the driver’s championship, the relief is quick. 

“That’s a win for Lamborghini and a lead for you, Paige Bueckers,” Nika says on the radio. 

“Well done, Paige. Great drive. Let’s celebrate,” Diana says. 

When Paige pulls to a stop and jumps out of the car, it crashes down upon her. She grits her teeth against the tears, against the onslaught of emotion. But she runs into Nika’s arms and buries her face — helmet and all — in her best friend’s neck. 

“Championship leader, twin.”

“Fuck, we’re really here, twin.”

She turns to receive Soni, who started and finished third, and then she goes to weigh and take her shit off. 

While she’s waiting, after she downs most of a bottle of water, she squats down, her head ducked and turned away from the camera. She wants to remember this moment, this feeling. Even if it all goes away after next race. Even if it never comes back. She’s leading the championship. 

Paige stands up when Nastya starts to interview Soni, and finishes the bottle of water, immediately grabbing for the next one. As she looks at the team all assembled her eyes search for and find Azzi. 

She’s standing at the barrier with Gabby by her side, arms draped over and elbows perched on the edge. They’re talking to each other, some kind of conversation that doesn’t require eye contact – because they’re both looking at Paige. 

Paige doesn’t know what kind of expression Gabby has on her face, what she’s thinking; if she’s glaring daggers or looking at Paige like she’s not worthy, if Gabby hates her for the terrible things Paige said or if she thinks that Paige didn’t fight hard enough for Azzi. Paige can’t see any of that because all she sees is Azzi. 

Their eyes lock and the rest of the world falls away. 

She’s here because of Azzi. In first place, at Lamborghini, in Formula 1. And while Paige is the one who gets all the credit, she would never have made it without her. Azzi helped her in a million different ways. Taught her, supported her, led her. 

Planned her races. 

Her strategy. 

At the end of the day, Paige is just the tool. 

—----

Media after the race is a blur. People keep asking Paige what it feels like to be leading the championship, to be the first rookie to lead the championship. She says the same soundbites over and over, because staying on message with the media is easy. 

A state of gratitude. Focusing on where her feet are. On repeat. 

There’s more sponsor appearances — pictures are taken, autographs signed — but then she’s released to the strategy meeting, and the room gives her a standing round of applause as she enters. 

“Please stop,” she begs. “We’re still in first as a team, that’s all that matters.”

Her eyes rove over the occupants, and immediately find what’s missing. 

“Where’s Azzi,” she asks Nika, her brows pulled together. 

“Gabby’s leaving,” Nika says, gesturing in the direction of the paddock exit. “Azzi went to walk her. Just now.”

Paige doesn’t give it much thought. “I’ll be right back,” she says, leaving Nika and the rest of the room behind as she beelines out of the maze of the garage tunnels and makes her way to the paddock. 

She jogs though, ducking people wishing her well and calling congratulations, until she reaches the designated lot that the staff can use to catch the team rideshare or pick up private rides. 

“Hey,” she calls, as she approaches. 

Azzi and Gabby are standing next to one of the private car charters, likely booked to take Gabby to the Milan airport. Gabby has one hand on the open rear passenger door, but they both turn as Paige reaches them. 

“I um…” 

She pauses, not sure of what she should say. She just ran all the way out here like an idiot; she’s still in her racing overalls, for fuck’s sake. Unzipped and looking cool, obviously, but still kind of an idiot. 

And she doesn’t even know what to say. 

But then Gabby steps away from the car, moves away from Azzi. She clasps Paige’s hand between their chests and reaches out with her other arm to hug Paige.  

“Don’t let me be wrong about you, Bueckers,” she says in Paige’s ear, her voice low and melodic. 

Gratitude floods Paige’s system, the relief coursing through her at an astonishing rate. She needed this, needed it from Gabby. And she might be wrong — she might be so wrong — but Paige chooses to believe that Gabby’s rooting for her, and for a reason. And that gives her hope. 

“Be safe,” she says, knocking their temples together. 

Then Gabby pulls away. She tugs Azzi into one more hug and kisses her forehead, before setting her backpack in the car and sliding in. Paige watches Azzi shut the door and step back, their shoulders brushing as they watch the car pull away and start the drive to the circuit entrance.  

“She’ll be okay,” Paige says, turning to look at Azzi in profile. Azzi’s not crying because she’s not like that, but her eyes are dark as they follow the car. 

“I know.”

She turns toward Paige, the late afternoon sun reflecting off her hair. Paige would swear she can see rainbows in the way the strands gleam. 

“First place in the Driver’s Championship,” Azzi says. “I hope you feel proud.”

They aren’t eye to eye, exactly. Azzi’s an inch or two shorter, so Paige just has to tip her face down the barest bit for eye contact. She bites her lip, emotion threatening to make another appearance. 

She’s moving before she can think it through, before she can second guess or ask permission. Paige hugs Azzi, wrapping her arms around the woman she loves, the woman she’s loved for so long. 

Azzi freezes, her limbs seemingly locked up for a moment, but then she melts into the embrace. Her hands come up Paige’s back and press to her tightly, right under the bra line; Paige is wearing the turtleneck of the fireproofs so she can’t feel the touch of Azzi’s skin to hers but the heat soaks in. More than the engine, more than the weather, more than the fire that always seems to be blazing inside. 

I did it for you, she wants to say. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into Azzi’s temple. 

It’s an acceptable hug to have in public, an understandable exchange for the two of them to have in full view of everyone who could possibly be watching. 

“Thank you,” she whispers again, the smell of Azzi’s curly shampoo filling her nostrils. The faint scent of motor oil’s there too. Paige is so at peace she feels lightheaded for a moment. 

Azzi doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move to put distance between them. “You don’t need to thank me for anything,” she says. “You did it.”

But Paige knows the truth. 

They hold each other for another five, seven, ten seconds. 

“We should get back to the debrief,” Azzi says, taking a step back. Her hands slide away slowly. 

“Yeah,” Paige agrees. She also takes a step back, deliberately putting space between them. Not too much. 

But just enough. 

She pauses, the very small sound of the door opening catching her attention. She watches as a girl snakes her way through the other students who were late and chose to sit in her row. The girl reaches the seat that was one space from her and settles down the way she did. She looks a bit sheepish– her expressions are truly transparent because Paige could tell that she felt bad for making it to class with barely 15 minutes left until it ended. What an innocent soul, Paige thinks then goes back to minding her business.

She’s so absorbed in the ongoing conversation in their team’s groupchat that when the professor calls out for the class to bring out a pen and paper for a short assessment, she doesn’t react to the newly-arrived classmate nudging her arm.

“Pst…” 

Paige finally tears her eyes off the screen and looks at you, eyes wide like she had just been caught bringing illegal items into the dorms. She blinks a few times then asks, “Wha- huh?” 

You raise an eyebrow and the side of your mouth quirks up in amusement. “We’re going to have a short quiz.”

She doesn’t know how it was possible, but it seems her eyes widened even more once she heard that. What the hell was she going to answer when she had barely paid attention to any of the lectures in this class? And in her defense, Statistics and the way it was being taught are personally boring.

Nonetheless, she nods in acknowledgment and rummages through her gym bag for any pen and paper. 

The thing was… she never bothers to put pen and paper in her gym bag…

Paige is frozen, already panicking on the inside because the professor had just finished flashing the first question. She looks around, quite frankly does not know what the fuck she’s going to do.

Then, a paper shoots into her line of sight. She looks up and realizes you were giving her a piece of paper from your notebook. Paige hurriedly takes it and murmurs a “thank you” before stopping again. Well shit, she doesn’t have a pen either.

“You’re supposed to be a student too if you’re a student-athlete, y’know.”

She whips her head to the side and sees your playful smile again. You’re holding out a pen towards her. With a sheepish look of her own, Paige takes your pen and nods in your direction in gratitude. She’s way too embarrassed to meet your eyes now. How could she, when, one, you’re drop dead gorgeous (how come she’s never seen you before?), and two, she basically made you her personal school supplies store? 

Paige shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She has to find a way to put up answers on her pathetic blank sheet before she could start figuring out how to get your number after this.

Whew. You really don’t know how you do it. For some reason, even if you were awfully late to class, and the professor dropped a surprise quiz, you managed to ace the said quiz. 

Well, you’re studious. You know that. Sometimes, it’s just hard to believe that efforts pay off.

“y/n!”

Your internal celebration is cut off when you hear your bestfriend’s familiar voice cut through the crowds of that particular Statistics building floor. You turn around and smile because their presence always had that relieving effect on you. You may not have as many friends as you hoped you would make in college, but you had your constants like bff/n. So far, college has been one of the best experiences of your life because of them.

“Right on time,” you tell them as you approach. Bff/n has never failed in fetching you from Stat so that the two of you could go to your shared class in your degree program’s building. “But I’m a bit late, sorry. The prof had a surprise quiz for us at the end of the lecture. I swear I should’ve just skipped this class since I was running too late anyway.”

They roll their eyes then pinch your cheek lightly. “Knowing you, sweet, goody two-shoes? I doubt it.”

You feign an offended gasp, about to quip back, but a tap on your shoulder makes you– and bff/n– pause and look at whoever wants your attention. You’re surprised to see it’s Paige Bueckers, star athlete and your clumsy seatmate in the last lecture. You immediately give her a knowing smile, and she scoffs lightly, but the subtle way her lips curled up assured you that she took no offense. 

“Hey, stellar student,” you greet her.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep teasin’ me, won’t you?” she playfully complains, bringing a hand behind her neck. 

You chuckle, not used to the sight. Paige Bueckers is basically a celebrity, known for her confidence on and off the court. Seeing this 6-footer act the way she’s acting right now is a rare occurrence. On one hand, you aren’t sure why she’s shy around someone like you, but on the other, it’s endearing, like seeing a child get timid around an adult they admire– or something like that.

“Can I help you, superstar?” you ask, shifting your weight and clasping your hands behind you. You figure your body language could make her a bit more comfortable around you.

She clears her throat, suddenly clutching the strap of her gym bag. “Uh, yeah… was just thinking if i can get your name and your number? You seem nice and I’d need a contact in that big class,” she explains, eyes darting everywhere except on your face.

You decide to stop with the teasing remarks and simply smile at her. “Sure, Paige,” you say, getting your phone out and navigating to your Instagram. You then show your account page to her and watch as she brings her own phone out and jot down your handle. “Name’s y/n. Nice to meet you.”

Your small interaction is interrupted when bff/n clears their throat, glancing down at their wristwatch. 

Oh, right. You’re about to run late for your next class too.

You quickly turn back to Paige, who’s tinkering with her phone, probably about to send a follow request. “Hey, we gotta go. If you got any concerns about Stat, just hit me up, yeah?” you say, giving her another reassuring smile. It’s then that she finally looks more relaxed and returns a smile.

“Will definitely hit you up,” she replies. “See you around?”

You nod, slightly amused by how her mood completely changed, though you didn’t understand why. It always just makes you happy when you’re of help to others.

You then walk out of the building and hasten your pace towards your department. It’s 5 minutes until grace period ends, and you did not want to be as late as you were a while ago.

“Yo, what's up with that?” bff/n asked, and you look to see her really curious expression. 

“With what?”

Bff/n lets out a ‘psh’ at that. “With you and Paige Bueckers? She doesn’t just get someone’s number in public like that, y’know? And people are looking and following. They’re not really that discreet with their paparazzi behavior.”

It wasn’t even that noticeable to you until they pointed it out. You scan your surroundings to see people around you looking at you and whispering most likely about your encounter with UConn’s star.

You sigh, certain that some people would be blowing up your inbox within the day. You didn’t understand why it has to be a big deal– you’re classmates with Paige Bueckers. There’s bound to be some interaction between the two of you, right?

“Nothing’s up with that. I helped her out in class, and she probably thinks I’m nice and needs someone to stick to to survive Statistics. Isn’t that the average general education subject experience in college?” you reason out, grumbling at the vibration of your phone. You just know the “news” reached the nosy people already.

bff/n raises their hands in surrender. “Sorry, bae. Won’t make it a big deal anymore.”

You give her a relieved smile. 

“Even though it totally is…”

“Bff/n!”

Homer Babbidge Library.

You’ve made the 24/7 library your second home now because it had everything you needed– from the open sections for the peer pressure you need for studying, to the secluded areas you went to once in a while if you didn’t want anyone to mind what you were doing. You could live there, and none of the staff would bat an eyelash, partly because you had already established a good rapport with everyone working there.

You’re kinda feeling like you want to be left alone for tonight, so you head straight to the topmost floor and in the cozy corner that no one frequents. Most of them stuck to the lower floors for the sockets and stronger wifi connection. They probably didn’t bother scouting this floor, or else they would’ve seen the lone socket by a comfortable lounging area. Perfect for you– you have your cellular data anyway. You always slept here throughout finals weeks, and you’re glad no one has intruded on it yet.

Until tonight.

You’re in your familiar corner, slaving away at a plate that a professor assigned a while ago in the afternoon, and it’s already 9 in the evening. You bite back a useless complaint directed particularly to no one but yourself because you had spent a few hours procrastinating on TikTok. 

9 pm. Just a little under 3 hours until the deadline.

You stretch your arms over your head, leaning hard against the chair and staring up at the ceiling. The usual musings on why you bothered to take up your degree program has officially started as you doubted your capabilities to stay interested in what you’re currently learning. But it isn’t like you could quit now– you had already shifted out and you couldn’t afford to lose any more time. 

A sigh escapes your lips, and you sit up straight again, blinking hard at the laptop screen. The words and figures are starting to blur together, and the steady hum of the overhead lights is almost hypnotic. You’re about to give up and rest your eyes for a minute, when you hear footsteps coming from where the staircase is.

The side of your lips turn downward at the sound. No one ever comes up here. The few times people did stumble across your unofficial personal corner, they took a look at the lack of outlets and turned on their heels to head back downstairs.

This time though, whoever it is isn’t leaving.

A shuffle. Then a low exhale. Then a rustle of some fabric as they set something down.

You look away and– Paige Bueckers.

She’s standing a few feet away, hoodie pulled up, her familiar gym bag slung over her shoulder. She looks just as startled as you do.

“Um…”

You blink at each other.

Then, you let out an airy laugh, not believing the circumstances you keep finding yourself in with the girl. But it wasn’t anything bad. It’s just becoming more and more amusing as you keep crossing paths with her in the most unlikely situations.

“I didn’t think anyone else knew about this place,” you say with a smile, eyeing the things she had placed on the floor. She looks just about ready to lounge around and make her gym bag a makeshift pillow.

She laughs a little, and she rubs the back of her neck, a recognizable gesture of hers from your interaction yesterday. “Yeah, me neither.” She glances towards the couch tucked against the wall— your couch, where the rest of your things sat— and you see her shuffle her weight from one foot to another uncomfortably.

You raise an eyebrow, mouth parting slightly. “…Don’t tell me you live here too,” you joke half-heartedly.

Paige hesitates, looking everywhere else but at you.

You bite your lip, stopping yourself from laughing. “Wait. You do too.”

She exhales. “Not live. I just stay here from time to time,” she says defensively. “…Or a lot.” She tries to shrug it off, like that isn’t kind of hilarious. She sticks her tongue out at you when you laugh a little, “It’s quiet, okay? No one bothers me. I figured you would’ve gotten that.”

You stop laughing, suddenly feeling bad, and offer her a sympathetic smile. “You’re right. Sorry, Paige,” you say. “But… isn’t it cool how we’ve never run into each other before?”

Paige shrugs again, moving the chair across you so she could sit. You don’t say anything. In fact, it feels like you actually welcome her presence. You didn’t mind her being around your safeplace. 

“It was bound to happen eventually,” she tells you, smirking a little. She folds her arms and places them on the table, before resting her chin on them to look up at you. “I’m not complaining though. I’m glad it’s you who’s here.”

You smile, somehow agreeing with her. 

A short moment passes, and you both have a silent agreement that Paige is going to stay quiet and watch you while you cram the shit out of your plate. You’re surprised because it isn’t awkward or unsettling— which is unusual because you and Paige aren’t really friends. You’re just acquaintances, and she hasn’t even messaged you about anything on Instagram (not that you’re expecting anything so soon).

Nonetheless, you continue to do your work in the comfort of her calming presence. This is different from the peer pressure you need when you study with people around you. Yet, it has the same effect of making you focus on the task at hand.

“Aren’t you going to sleep on the couch?” you ask when you decide to have a short break. You’re on the verge of finishing the damn requirement anyway, so a few minutes of striking up a conversation wouldn’t be too much of a loss. 

Paige tilts her head and stares up at you, and you smile a little at how adorable this towering lady currently looks. For someone dominant on the court, she’s quite tame-looking right now.

“I’m good, ma,” she assures. “What about you? How you doin’ there?”

“Pretty much done. Just needs some final editing.”

The girl hums in acknowledgment. “Hard worker, aren’t ya?”

You plant your eyes on the table, feeling glum about that comment. You know you’re a hard worker. You’ve always been a hard worker. But you haven’t exactly come into terms with that certain characteristic of yours because it always shoved in your face that you aren’t the gifted little girl you were back in your younger years anymore. You now have to work twice as hard if you want the same kind of results you used to get so effortlessly as a child.

Paige seems to have sensed the shift in your mood. She’s quick to straighten herself up, and you notice the concern in her face when you didn’t say anything back. You quickly nod in agreement to reassure her and avoid talking more about it. 

“You know, I watch your games here sometimes. On my phone,” you confess, hoping she rolls with the change of topic. It looks like it worked anyway because you could see how her breath catches for half a second before she lets out a surprised laugh.

“You do?” she asks, slightly in disbelief, though you don’t really know why. Many UConn students tune in to the team’s games. A smile spreads on her face. “When do you come here again?”

You sink a little in your seat, only feeling shy now. You glance at her over your laptop. “I mean… it’s open 24/7 so… whenever I have free time mostly.”

Paige hums again, studying you for a moment, before she leans back and pulls her hood lower. Despite the effort, you can see a small smile still plastered on her face. You try not to think too much about it, not wanting to keep dissecting the things happening between the two of you because no matter what, you’re enjoying Paige Bueckers’ company.

Suddenly, the thought of sharing your space doesn’t seem so bad. 

After finding each other in your common little bubble, Paige apparently has taken it upon herself to officially befriend you, starting by daring herself to go down a few and sit beside you in the middle of the lecture hall. It’s bewildering not only to you, but to the rest of the people who are always there to witness the way she finally discards her sanctuary at the back for the spot next to you.

“What happened to staying at the back?” you ask as she plops down like it isn’t a big deal. Like she had always been beside you, ever since the start of the semester. Her gym bag is forgotten as she folds her arms so that she could rest her head on them for a quick power shut-eye before the professor starts. 

Paige turns her head a little to the side to face you and gives you a smirk. “You happened. Besides, as long as it isn't in the first three rows, ‘m good.” 

“What if I go there?” you test jokingly.

She scoffs. “You’re on your own girl. I hate it there.”

You chuckle a little at her humorous tone, kind of already knowing there isn’t any ill intention behind her words. That’s just how Paige Bueckers speaks and acts. 

“Alright, sassy girl,” you quip back. “I’ll stay somewhere you’re comfy with if you’re gonna keep sitting beside me,” you offer, and you see your somehow-friend’s expression brighten at that. She whispers a quick ‘you’re the best’ before proceeding to putting her head back down for that shut-eye.

You couldn’t help but stare at her and her half-open gym bag. It only hit then how much hustle Paige puts into her daily life. Getting to her classes after their morning trainings must take a lot from her– you heard that they wake up way too early for those. 

Before you know it, your hand is moving on its own to pat Paige on the head, but thankfully, you immediately become aware that you’re in public and she’s basically a superstar. You retract your arm and clear your throat, subtly looking around to see if anyone noticed what you were about to do. Some heads are turned towards your general direction, but no one seems to be eyeing you both too deeply, so you’re probably in the clear. Phew. 

From that day on, it’s just a thing now. Paige Bueckers, former back-row resident, has decided that her new permanent seat is right next to you.

At first, people stare. Like, really stare. Some nudge their friends, whispering about why the Paige Bueckers is sitting there in the middle area voluntarily, and why she has chosen the particular seat right next to you. You pretend that you don’t notice them, and Paige does the same, just stretching out before doing whatever she had in mind.

Then, as the semester stretched on, people didn’t mind it anymore. Actually, no one minded it all how she always drops into the chair with a soft grunt, tossing her gym bag somewhere under the desk carelessly. Most of the time, she barely makes it before the class starts, hair damp from a shower she probably couldn’t properly have. Other days, she’s already there when you arrive, idly scrolling through an app on her phone.

You don’t know why, but it feels comfortable.

Maybe even too comfortable, because today, you’re both whispering to each other and snickering over something dumb you scribbled on your notebook when the professor clears his throat.

“Ladies,” he says pointedly, adjusting his glasses. “If the two of you would like to share your joke with the rest of the class– please, by all means.” His eyebrows are stitched together in annoyance as he challenges the two of you. 

You freeze, while Paige stops mid-laugh, turning her head just enough to meet your wide-eyed expression. The both of you are completely stunned. You certainly don’t know how the fuck you’re going to get out of being called out like this because this is the first time you have been caught disrupting class. 

A beat of silence passes, and then, Paige leans in and gives your professor a smile. You couldn’t tell if it’s a sarcastic one or not.

“I was just saying,” she starts, trying to look serious, but you aren’t really buying it, “that this lecture is way easier to understand now that I have a tutor.”

You hear some chuckles from your classmates, and you can only look down in embarrassment. There is no way that he is going to buy an excuse like that.

“A tutor?” Mr. Lee repeats, raising an eyebrow at the two of you.

Paige nudges you with her knee under the desk while continuing, “Yeah, y/n. She even promised to sit where I’m comfortable if I keep showing up. Ain’t that nice, sir?”

Another moment of silence passes, and you put your hands underneath the table, squeezing them together. Hopefully, he’s in a pretty good mood to just let this go because there is no way you’re going to incur some kind of disciplinary action for having a fun time with a friend. 

And it seems you’re one lucky fuck because the professor just shakes his head with an amused sigh. “Well, if it gets you to sit somewhere other than the back row and stops you from sleeping, I won’t complain.” 

This time, more laughter follows as he simply moves on and goes back to what he was discussing. You shoot Paige a look, lightly slapping her arm and whispering, “You’re so annoying.”

She just grins, slumping lower in her seat for the meantime. Probably to avoid getting more attention on the two of you. She knows how much a clean record and high grades means to you.

“But you love me, don’t ya?” she shoots one last time, and your stomach flips at that.

It’s casual… obviously? Just a throwaway comment, right?

But Paige’s grin lingers a second too long, like she’s waiting for a reaction.

You roll your eyes at her, but it’s mostly to keep yourself from smiling too hard.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble. “Shut up and listen to him now.”

She listens, and the not-so-little twerp even has the gall to salute you. And you swear, for the rest of the class, she’s still smirking.

Paige is ecstatic. 

She doesn’t remember the last time she’s felt as giddy as she does now, but damn, did having a crush feel great. It’s like everything non-basketball is finally fun. She has the inspiration to go into a class she barely has the willpower to go to, gets to sit with you for one and a half hours twice a week, then, when the timing is right– and she makes sure it’s right– you have more one-on-one time at Homer Babbidge.

She doesn’t know how else it could get any better, other than actually having her feelings returned, of course.

“Dude, you’re so lovesick,” KK’s voice interrupts her daydream, and suddenly, she’s back in reality, hearing Azzi snicker beside her.

Paige doesn’t even try to deny it and lamely pulls out a ‘No, I’m not,’ out of her ass. But these two know her so well. She gets slaps to her arms, with them telling her to stop lying and own up to it already. She doesn’t fight back because she gets it. You’re all she talks about in the dorms or whenever they have a short break in-between drills in training. 

Paige sighs, finally getting tired of the beating and walks ahead. She runs a hand down her face, slightly frustrated, but mostly embarrassed. She never thought her teammates would catch her deeply stuck in this state because she never thought she was going to fall this hard for anyone. 

“Can you guys, like, shut up about it for five minutes?” she grumbles. KK and Azzi chuckle at that. 

“Not when you’re out here being a total simp,” KK says, catching up and latching an arm around her.

“Not a good look on you, but we’re getting used to it,” Azzi adds, going back to scrolling on her phone.

Paige glares at the both of them, but the heat in her eyes disappears at once when she catches a familiar figure at the corner of her eye. She’s quick to turn her head in that direction, eyes drifting to you, where you’re staring in awe at a big ass teddy bear displayed at the front of the store ahead of them. You’re thankfully completely oblivious to the fact that she’s being roasted alive by her bestfriends.

KK follows her gaze and whistles lowly. “You’re down bad.”

Paige scoffs, ignoring them as she walks faster, approaching you without even a second thought. She’s beside you in just a few seconds, asking, “You like that?” She watches as you looks at her in genuine surprise, probably not able to process why and how the fuck she’s there. Nonetheless, she nods toward what you were just staring at a few moments ago.

Your expression morphs into delight. “Yeah! It’s so cute, right?”

Paige doesn’t even look at the thing before she agrees. “Totally.”

Azzi and KK watch from a distance, sharing a knowing look and smiles of endearment. They could agree in their minds that their friend is so obvious that it’s painful. 

The older girl suddenly smirks, an idea planting itself in her mind. Azzi grabs KK’s hand and pulls her towards the two, where Paige is so focused on listening to what you’re saying. 

“Hey! Y/n, right?” she greets, startling Paige and you. Paige has the look of murder in her eyes, already aware that she’s plotting something. Azzi ignores her and looks at you directly instead. “Wanna come with? We’re planning to go to the ice rink. Just to destress and stuff.”

Your eyes widen. “Uh, I don’t know how to skate. Might be better if you guys go on ahead without me.”

“Nonsense!” KK chirps, looping her arm with yours. 

Paige freezes, in shock that KK is able to do something like that with you even before she has. She can only stare longingly at your interlocked arms as the younger one whisks you away to the mall’s exit and to the nearby skating rink. She narrows her eyes at Azzi. “What the fuck?”

Azzi shrugs. “Better move if you don’t want KK to steal yo girl.”

Paige barely reacts when Azzi and KK pair off immediately at the skating rink. She’s too busy watching you tug on your skates with a slight frown, adjusting the laces until they’re “just right.” She can tell you’re buying as much time as you could before trying out the ice. 

KK and Azzi make their way towards the two of you when they notice you’re taking too long. The latter nudges her friend. “Dude, do something.”

Paige scowls at Azzi and harshly whispers, “Like what?”

Azzi rolls her eyes. “Like actually making a move, maybe?”

She glares even harder. “I am making moves.”

Her teammates stare at her flatly, obviously not convinced. They simply sigh and skate away, leaving her alone with you once again.

Paige does the same, directing it to herself more than towards her friends, before she looks back down at you, still tugging at the laces. She’s half-amused, half-charmed by the sight of you being pouty and mumbling things about not wanting to skate. She kneels down, making sure you see eye to eye, then pats your head lightly, hoping to reassure you.

“Relax, y/n,” she coaxes. “I got you. And no one’s gonna judge you if you fall. If they do, they’ll get their ass beat by me, ‘kay?” 

Paige swears she could melt as she sees your cute, small frown while you stare back at her. Your eyebrows are furrowed slightly, like your pretty little head is also overthinking something that could be eventually enjoyable for you. She already figured out that you had a small fear of trying new things in fear of being judged harshly by those around you. Somewhere along the way, Paige has promised herself to protect you as much as she could and make sure you could thrive and be happy, however way she could.

After a minute of mulling over her words, you finally hesitantly step forward, but the slightest waver in your balance makes you stop at once. She then watches, as if it’s in slow-motion, how you reach out– without thinking, without uncertainty– and grab her hand.

Paige feels like time stops at that exact moment. She relishes how your fingers wrap around hers so easily, so casually, like it’s second nature.

“Okay, okay, don’t let go, P,” you mumble, gripping onto her tighter as you attempt to steady yourself. “I suck at this, so don’t let go, please.”

I wouldn’t even dare. 

Paige feels the rush of blood in her ears, but quickly replies, “I got you.” She curses inwardly at how soft her voice came out, but you don’t seem to notice. She subtly exhales in relief at that.

You take another step forward, and your grip on her hands tightens. Paige swallows hard, hyperaware of every single point of contact– the warmth of your palm against hers, the way your fingers curl around just slightly. Her heart is hammering against her ribcage, and she swears it could burst open any moment from now. 

“What are the odds of me falling on my ass today?” you ask with a nervous smile, looking up at her.

Paige forces herself to breathe. She smirks, trying to play things off, and tells you, “I’d say… 100%. No cap.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She chuckles but doesn’t let go. If anything, she holds on tighter.

"Don’t worry, though," she adds, voice lower now, just between the two of you. "I’ll catch you."

It’s supposed to be a casual reassurance. Something smooth. Something easy.

But then you look at her—really look at her—and Paige feels like she might actually collapse on the ice before either of you even moves.

And that’s when she realizes—

She’s not just crushing on you.

She’s falling. Hard.

images except the dividers belong to respective creators; found in pinterest. key words used: "paige bueckers girlfriend material" [from https://ph.pinterest.com/wbbupdates/; and https://ph.pinterest.com/Straykids0325/]

You should’ve faked an illness.

The second Paige Bueckers strolled into the Wings media room with a Gatorade in one hand, that stupid smirk on her face, and her blonde hair tied in a messy bun—you knew this was a setup.

"Where do you want me, boss?" she asked, all lazy confidence as she spun a chair with her foot and flopped into it, legs spread way too casually.

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy mentally preparing yourself to survive this.

This was supposed to be simple. A quick “10 Questions with Paige Bueckers” segment. You’d already filmed one with Maddy and another with JJ. Easy. Done. Posted.

"Mic me up," she said, leaning forward, chin in hand. “Unless you’d rather just whisper the questions into my ear.”

Your hands paused mid-reach toward the mic pack.

“Paige.”

“Just trying to set the mood.”

“This is a Wings-sponsored Q&A, not a date night.”

She smirked. “Yet.”

You made a noise in the back of your throat that wasn’t human and stepped back like she was contagious.

“Alright,” you muttered, trying to sound normal, “today’s content is just a quick round of fan questions. Keep it light, short answers, and—please—don’t flirt with the camera.”

She smirked. “So it’s only okay if I flirt with you?”

You stared at her.

She stared back.

“…Cut,” you said, even though you hadn’t even started filming yet.

Paige just laughed again, like this was a game and she was winning.

And maybe she was.

You tapped record.

"Okay. ‘10 Questions with Paige Bueckers.’ Let’s go."

She gave the camera a smolder like she was filming a perfume ad. “Hit me.”

Question 1: Favorite teammate?

"Hard one. I’d say Arike, but she never passes me the aux,” Paige said, then turned to look directly at you. “So… probably our media girl. She makes me look good. And she blushes real easily.”

You choked on your spit.

“Excuse me—”

She held her hands up. “Just facts.”

“No, that is not—”

"You’re literally blushing right now."

You smacked your hand over your cheek. “That’s—because the lights are hot.”

“It’s LED lighting, babe.”

You moved to the next question, your voice higher than usual.

Question 2: Go-to hype song?

Paige tapped her chin, then pointed at you. “You remember that playlist you made for the team? You’ve got good taste, so any of those.”

You blinked. “How do you know I made it?”

“Because the title was ‘Wings But Make It Hot.’”

You physically turned away from her and muttered, “...I'm gonna quit.”

She grinned. “No you won't.”

Question 3: Pre-game ritual?

“I get taped, I pray, and I listen to music,” she said. Then added, “Sometimes I scroll through our social media. Gotta admire the work of my favorite content creator.”

“Paige.”

“What? I’m supporting the brand.”

You refused to look up. She was definitely smirking.

Question 4: Funniest teammate?

“Zaza,” she said. “But the funniest moments? When you trip over wires trying to avoid making eye contact with me.”

You clenched your clipboard.

“Next question.”

Question 5: Dream brand collab?

“Chipotle,” Paige said, finally giving you one clean answer—until she added: “Or Allure, so I can do one of those ‘Get Ready With Me’ featuring you sitting in my lap.”

You made an audible wheeze.

“Paige, what is wrong with you?!”

She just shrugged.

Question 6: Favorite W moment so far?

She actually went still for a second. “First home win. Packed crowd. Everyone standing.”

You eased a little.

Then she glanced at you.

“And you were on the baseline, smiling like it was your win. I remember that more than the final score.”

You immediately dropped your pen.

“Oh my God—”

“I’m just being honest!”

“You’re being insufferable!”

Question 7: Most embarrassing moment?

Paige laughed instantly. “I tripped going up the tunnel once and tried to play it off like I meant to. You caught it on camera, didn’t you?”

“I may have… saved the footage.”

She raised a brow. “For blackmail?”

“…For bloopers.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, not believing you for a second.

Question 8: Hidden talent?

She leaned forward again, voice low. “I’m really, really good at flustering pretty girls.”

You stared at her.

“I swear to God, Paige—”

“What? You literally just backed up like I was going to kiss you.”

“I—You—Stop TALKING.”

Question 9: Three words to describe yourself?

She thought for a second.

Then said, slowly, “Talented. Clutch. Yours.”

You didn’t move.

The room went silent.

“…Nope.” You stood. “Nope nope nope. Go send Arike in. I need someone who can give me an actual video before I throw this mic into a wall.”

Paige blinked. “What I'm doing good!”

“I’m trying to do my job,” you snapped, flustered and furious. “And I get it, you think this is fun—but I’ve got sponsors on my back and deadlines and league guidelines to follow, and I can’t spend the rest of the day editing around your flirting just because you think it’s cute!”

She didn’t move.

You sighed, running your hands down your face. “Just—please. Go get Arike.”

A pause.

Then Paige stood.

But instead of leaving, she quietly sat back down, posture perfect.

“Run it again,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll answer them straight. No games.”

You hesitated.

Then, reluctantly, hit record.

And just like that—she was perfect.

Question 1 (redo): “Arike. Her energy’s wild but she’s always got your back.”

Question 2: “Marvin Sapp, or some Drake.”

Question 3: “Pray. Visualize. Lock in.”

Question 4: “Zaza. No contest.”

Question 5: “Chipotle.”

Question 6: “First home game win. That crowd…”

Question 7: “Tripped in the tunnel. Very humbling.”

Question 8: “I can rap, do impressions, and cook a mean breakfast sandwich.”

Question 9: “Focused. Grateful. Competitive.”

You stared at her, stunned.

She just looked at you like nothing happened.

Until the last one.

Question 10: Message for the fans?

She looked into the lens.

“Thank you for showing up for us. Every game. Every post. Every jersey sale. You make this matter. We see you. We feel it. And we play for you.”

A beat.

“And I know this might get edited out,” she added suddenly, gaze flicking off-camera—to you, “but if you think I’m gonna stop flirting with the cutest girl on this team just because she asked me to be serious for five minutes… she clearly doesn’t know me that well yet.”

You slammed the stop button on the camera. “Paige.”

She stood, grinning like she just hit a game-winner.

“Love when you say my name like that.”

You pressed your hands to your face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

And the worst part?

You didn’t.

Not even a little.

it is maybe the thing you are best at, the ability to look unbothered while your pulse does whatever it wants underneath so when dallas takes azzi fudd first overall, you are unbothered genuinely azzi is one of your favorite people in this draft class, has been since the nike summit when you were seventeen, and you watch her walk across that stage in her orange dress and you are nothing but happy for her.

when minnesota takes olivia miles second, you recalibrate quietly, fine okay, olivia is a generational passer, everyone knows it, you've known it since she was dismantling notre dame's press in a big east matchup three years ago you adjust. you wait.

seattle takes awa fam third, and this is the one that makes your stomach do something, because you were not expecting that, and now you are doing math in your head and the math leads somewhere that makes your hands go a little cold under the table and then.

with the fourth overall pick in the 2026 wnba draft, the washington mystics select—

your name, your name in that sentence coming out of the commissioner's mouth in a building full of noise that becomes, for about three seconds, something you can't quite hear because your own heartbeat is too loud.

you walk to the stage you shake hands, the commissioner holds a mystics jersey as you hold the other side and it holds slightly crooked and you don't fix it because you are not fully present in your body yet someone takes photos. 

you hold the jersey you smile, and the smile is real, it just comes from a place that is very far away from where you are standing fourth you are fourth washington it takes until you are backstage, in the low-lit corridor where the earlier picks are gathered waiting for the press availability, for the recalibration to finish and when it does, what you are left with is something quieter than disappointment and more complicated than relief fourth overall. 

washington mystics georgia amoore you know her game you've watched her since she was at kentucky, have three of her highlight reels bookmarked in a folder on your phone you would never admit exists. 

point guard with a handle that makes defenders look slow and a court vision that borders on unfair. sat out last season with a knee injury back now your new teammate you are thinking about this about backcourt pairings, about pick and roll chemistry, about playing alongside someone whose game you have studied the way some people study a language when the door to the corridor opens and she walks in.

georgia amoore in person is approximately the same as georgia amoore on film except that on film there is a screen between you and whatever she is doing and in person there is not.

she scans the room the way athletes do, this quick efficient inventory, and then her eyes land on you and something happens that you don't have a word for yet. 

it's a fast flicker she looks at you for maybe two seconds before she looks away, and when she looks away she finds something very interesting to look at on the opposite wall whereas you assume she's just oriented, it's loud, there's a lot happening.

the mystics do a rookie introduction thing in june, three weeks before training camp officially opens, where they bring in the new class and run them through the facility and feed them and take photos for social media. 

lauren arrives first because she is always early angela is next, still in her travel clothes, headphones around her neck cotie is on the phone with someone who must be her mother because she's saying yes ma'am every few seconds you arrive fourth, which feels like a pattern forming.

georgia is standing by the water station when you walk in she's mid-sentence with sonia, gesturing at something, and sonia is laughing and then she sees you and the sentence just well stops, not trails off stops like someone cut the audio.

sonia looks at where georgia is looking, then she looks back at georgia then she picks up her own water bottle and takes a long sip that is mostly about giving herself time to compose her face. hey, you say, because someone has to. i'm —

i know who you are, georgia says, and it comes out a little sharp, a little fast, like she said it before she meant to she blinks something moves across her face. notre dame. shooting guard. a pause that lasts slightly too long. welcome to washington. and then she picks up her water bottle and walks away at a pace that is not quite normal.

sonia watches her go then she looks at you her expression is the careful neutral of someone who has decided, very quickly, to stay out of something. she's excited you're here, sonia says. she mentioned it.

she seems excited, sonia says firmly. very excited.

by the second week of camp you have an inventory you are good at observing it's part of what makes you a good shooting guard, the ability to read the floor before the play develops — and what you observe is that georgia amoore will flirt with anyone; this is not an exaggeration she compliments lauren's footwear and means it. 

she does this thing with cotie where she uses a voice that makes cotie dissolve into giggles every time she texted kiki rice you were robbed about a play from kiki's college season and kiki screenshot it and showed everyone. 

she charmed the facilities manager into getting the good coffee stocked in the players' lounge by bringing him a muffin one morning and looking at him like he was the most important person in the building she says eleven words to you per day you counted.

the words are always fine. practical. good screen. nice catch. your left is getting sharper. compliments about basketball, not about you professional appropriate completely unlike the version of georgia amoore that exists when she is talking to literally anyone else.

you have replayed every interaction looking for the thing you did you come up empty every time by wednesday of the second week, kiki who has been in the dc area long enough to have opinions about the mystics slides into the seat next to you at lunch.

can i ask you something, she says.

yeah.

do you think georgia doesn't like me, you say, before she can kiki pauses. that's not what i was going to ask. another pause. but since you brought it up.

she talks to everyone, you say. she brought the facilities manager a muffin.

i know.

she made cotie laugh so hard she choked on her water yesterday.

i was there.

she says eleven words to me. kiki is quiet for a moment she has the expression of someone choosing very carefully between honesty and diplomacy. have you considered, she says slowly, that eleven very deliberate words might mean something different than you think they mean?

you look at her. i have to make a phone call, kiki says, and leaves.

it is sonia who calls it an intervention this is, everyone agrees later, a strong word for what is essentially four people eating takeout on kiki's hotel room floor, but sonia has always had a gift for framing.

the attendees are sonia, kiki, angela who got pulled in because she came to borrow kiki's charger and then got curious, and cotie who technically wasn't invited but heard georgia and intervention through the door and let herself in.

the subject of the intervention is not present; she is in her own room, forty feet down the hall, probably watching film and not thinking about you at all, which is the thing that sonia is finding most frustrating.

she thinks about her constantly, sonia says, gesturing with a spring roll. constantly. i've heard her say your name in conversations you weren't part of. she watched a notre dame game from last season when she thought no one was looking.

the whole game? cotie says. the highlights, sonia says. but with a focus that i found genuinely concerning. kiki is lying on the floor with her knee up. the thing is she has no game when it comes to her specifically, she says. like she has infinite game in every other direction. she flirted with the woman at the hotel front desk for ten minutes just out of habit and then she saw her in the hallway after the lobby thing and said — what did she say?

'morning,' sonia says. with a period. not even an exclamation point. just. morning.

she needs to say something, angela says she is the most recent addition to this conversation and therefore still has perspective. or she's going to spend the whole season finding things to look at that are not her face.

we know, kiki says. someone has to tell her, cotie says.

they all look at sonia. i'm not doing it, sonia says. i love her but she's going to say something sarcastic and then i'm going to say something back and then it's going to be a whole thing.

they look at kiki. she doesn't listen to me, kiki says. i told her to just talk to her last week and she said 'i do talk to her' and i said 'eleven words is not a conversation georgia' and she said 'eleven is a lot of words' and i had to walk away.

angela raises her hand slightly. i've known her for three weeks.

that might be why she'll listen to you, cotie says.

what actually happens is that angela catches georgia in the gym the next morning, forty minutes before anyone else arrives georgia is going through her ball-handling warm-up, headphones in, and angela sits down on the baseline and waits until georgia notices her.

what, georgia says, pulling out one earbud. the girls wanted me to talk to you, angela says. about her.

georgia goes very still for a moment then she resumes dribbling. i don't know what you mean.

georgia.

i talk to her.

eleven words.

eleven is — georgia stops. bounces the ball once. did kiki tell you that.

kiki told sonia. sonia told cotie. cotie told me. it was a whole thing. angela pauses. she thinks you don't like her.

the ball bounces twice, unevenly. i— georgia starts and stops the dribbling slows. that's not— she pushes her hair back. it's not that.

i know it's not that, angela says. that's why i'm here. georgia is quiet for a long moment she's looking at the free throw line like it said something offensive. i don't know how to be normal around her, she finally says. 

it comes out quieter than everything before it. it's like — with everyone else i just talk. it comes out. but with her everything i want to say sounds wrong before it gets to my mouth and so i just don't.

so you give her eleven words.

they were good words, georgia says, defensive. they were relevant.

angela stands up brushes off her shorts. i'm telling you this from a place of love, she says, because i've known you for three weeks and i already find you exhausting. she picks up her bag. she watches you too.

georgia looks up from the free throw line. when you're talking to other people, angela says. she watches. i've seen it. she starts toward the exit. eleven words, she says, over her shoulder. genuinely. that's not normal behavior from someone who doesn't care.

the gym door swings shut behind her georgia stands at half court for a long moment and she bounces the ball once twice. okay, she says, to no one.

the thing is you are not built for ambiguity notre dame's program runs on directness — coach niele ivey does not have time for passive communication and neither do you, after four years in that system. 

you read the floor and you make decisions and you don't second-guess the read once you've made it kiki's comment sits in you for a week, alongside the image of georgia amoore going very still every time you walk into a room she's already in, and by the end of week three you have made your decision.

you find her after evening practice, in the corridor outside the locker rooms, where she is toweling off her hair and looking at her phone with a focus that you are now fairly certain is performance.

georgia.

she looks up that thing happens again the thing where she looks at you and everything in her face does a quick reorganization. hey, she says, and you can see her counting, you swear you can see her counting. good practice.

three words, you say.

she blinks. what?

that's three today. you've been running low. you lean against the wall, arms crossed, looking at her directly. you flirt with literally everyone in this building. you had a ten minute conversation with the ball boy about his college apps. you brought the facilities manager a muffin. you pause. you give me three words and a lot of eye contact with the floor.

georgia opens her mouth and closes it the towel in her hands is getting a lot of attention. so i'm asking you directly, you say, because i'm a direct person and i've been going crazy trying to figure out what i did. what's going on.

the corridor is empty, the sounds of the locker room filter through the door georgia looks at you and this time she doesn't look away, she just looks, for a long moment, with an expression that is the most unguarded thing you've seen from her. you didn't do anything, she says.

okay.

*it's — * she exhales. you know how i am with people.

yes, you say. that's what i'm asking about.

it's different with you, she says. that's the problem. the towel stills in her hands. with everyone else it just comes out. it's easy. but you— she stops. the first time i saw you was at the draft and you were sitting at that table and you weren't even nervous, everyone was nervous but you looked like you were just — waiting. like you already knew where you were going. and i thought—

she stops again she is doing the thing with her jaw that you've seen her do when she's working out a play. i thought, okay, that's someone i want to know, she says, quieter. and then you got to washington and i wanted to— she gestures, vague and helpless. and everything i thought to say sounded stupid so i just didn't.

the corridor is very quiet. eleven words instead, you say. they were considered words.

georgia.

they were. a pause then, softer. yes. eleven words. you look at her really look, the way you look at the floor when you're reading a defense, taking the full picture in georgia amoore who charms every room she walks into, standing here in this corridor with damp hair and a towel and the most undefended expression you've seen since you arrived in washington.

say something, you say. say what you actually want to say. a beat she wets her lip the corridor light is doing something warm to her face.

i think you're the best player in this draft class, she says. i've thought that since your junior season. i watched the notre dame-uconn game from february twice. 

a pause. i think you're going to be the best shooting guard in the league. i think when we figure out our timing in pick and roll it's going to be something that people talk about. she stops. and i think you're — i've been trying to find the right word for three weeks and i haven't.

try anyway, you say she looks at you. a lot, she says finally. you're a lot. in a way where everything else gets quieter.

the locker room door swings open twenty feet down the corridor — cotie, not seeing you yet, heading for the water fountain and georgia takes half a step back and you let her, the moment shifting into something that can be picked back up later, set down carefully, not dropped but later that night she texts you. sorry about the eleven words thing.

you write back. don't be. i liked knowing they were deliberate.

three dots then. they really were. i'll do better. you set the phone down and look at the ceiling of your hotel room and think about georgia amoore at the draft saying i know who you are before you could finish your own name.

you were already a lot to her then you just didn't know it yet.

weeks pass.

the pick and roll timing clicks in week six, on a tuesday, during a five-on-five drill when you curl off a screen and georgia threads a pass through a gap that shouldn't exist and it hits you in stride so perfectly that you pull up for the jumper without thinking and it goes. 

the gym makes the sound it makes when something works georgia points at you from half court, not a word you point back to that evening she knocks on your hotel room door. 

you open it and she's standing there in practice clothes, hair up, and she has the expression of someone who has made a decision and arrived on the other side of it. i had more than eleven words, she says. i've been saving them.

you step back from the door to let her in. i know, you say.

the first time you kiss her you are both still in your practice clothes, standing in the kitchen of the apartment you've just signed the lease on, takeout containers on the counter between you, her mid-sentence about something she saw in film, and you decide the way you decide on the floor, quick and committed once you've read it right and close the distance.

she stops mid-sentence there's a breath of a pause where neither of you moves then georgia kisses you back with the focus of someone who has been composing this for a long time and has finally found the right moment to say it, and her hand comes up to your jaw and everything she never said in eleven words a day is somewhere in there, unhurried, patient, finally.

i had a whole plan, she says, when you pull back her thumb is still on your jaw. i was going to say something good. i had the words ready.

how were they?

good, she says. really good. the ghost of a smile. you didn't let me use them.

say them now. she shakes her head slowly. no, she says, soft. now i want to show you instead. the takeout goes cold on the counter.

later deep into the season, after a home win, the capital one arena is still loud somewhere above you she is lying with her head on your chest in the quiet of the training room and you are thinking about draft night, about fourth overall, about the way the math in your head led to washington.

i was projected second, you say, to the ceiling she hums her hand stills on your sternum. i know, she says. i watched the coverage. a beat passed. were you upset?

i was recalibrating, you say. for about a minute. and then i thought — washington. georgia amoore. and the recalibrating stopped.

she's quiet for a moment. you thought about me, she says.

i thought about backcourt chemistry, you say. and your assist numbers.

sure, she says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking. very practical.

very.

she tilts her head up and you look down the look between you is the look from that corridor, from that hotel room, from every moment she found something to look at that wasn't your face before she learned to just look. fourth overall, she says, quiet. best thing that ever happened to this franchise.

you kiss the top of her head. tell me the words, you say. the ones you had ready.

now?

now she's quiet for a moment and then she says to them, low, just for you, all the ones she held back and prepared and counted out so carefully in the beginning and this time there are a lot more than eleven.

the mystics are in chicago for a friday night game against the sky, which means a thursday afternoon flight and a hotel that books two players per room, which means you find out at 3pm via the team groupchat that your roommate is georgia.

sonia sends a string of dots and nothing else, kiki sends a single. interesting.

cotie sends a gif you don't look at closely enough to identify but which makes angela, next to you on the plane, cover her mouth georgia, sitting one row ahead, does not look back. but the tips of her ears go pink in a way that you have learned to read.

the thing about you and georgia is that it is not yet a thing, technically what it is in the training room, late into the season, her head on your chest and words said low in the dark that you have not talked about since. 

a week of practice where something between you shifted into a new register more careful in one direction, less careful in another. her hand finding yours in the film room tuesday, just for a moment, just long enough, before she took it back. eleven words replaced by something that does not have a number yet, that you are both still figuring out how to count.

the unresolved part lives in the gap between what happened and what you have said about what happened, which is nothing which is very unlike you which is, you suspect, the georgia effect she makes you want to be patient with the timing the way she was patient with the words but you are still a direct person this has not changed.

three days before chicago, sonia texts the group chat she has named the powerpuff girls — you, her, kiki at ten in the morning. matcha noon. the place on u street. georgia's coming.

kiki: noted

you: sure

then, privately, kiki to you: she's been wanting to hang outside practice for weeks and keeps not asking. sonia is doing a thing.

you stare at your phone. what kind of thing, you write back kiki sends the dots then. a sonia thing. just come.

the place on u street is small and warm and smells like oat milk and something floral, and by the time you arrive sonia and kiki are already at the corner table and georgia is standing at the counter ordering, back to the door, and does not see you come in.

you see her first this has become a pattern you have noticed there's always a moment, before she knows you're there, where you get to see her unguarded. 

she's in a cream crewneck and her hair is down and she is having what looks like a detailed conversation with the person taking her order, hands moving, and the barista is laughing the usual then she turns and sees you and the hands still and she does the thing the reorganization, fast, like a screen refresh and says. hey.

hey, you say sonia, from the corner table, is watching this with the focused attention of a scientist observing a reaction you order. 

georgia moves to wait at the end of the counter and you move with her and stand beside her and the silence between you is the kind that has texture, that means something, that both of you are aware of. you good? you ask.

yeah, she says a beat passes between you and her. you?

yeah.

the barista calls her name and she reaches past you for her cup and her arm brushes yours and she says sorry very quietly and you say don't be and she looks at you sideways for just a second before she takes her matcha and goes to the table.

sonia, watching says nothing, kiki watching says nothing they are both doing the very specific nothing of people who have clocked everything.

the four of you at the table are easy, mostly this is the thing about sonia and kiki they are the kind of friends who arrived fast and stayed, who knew your order and your moods and your shot selection habits within the first month. 

sonia has a theory about every player in the league and shares them without being asked kiki sends you film clips at midnight with no context except look at this angle. you love them in the way you love good teammates, which is to say a lot, and practically, and with a specific kind of trust.

georgia with them is different from georgia with you she's loose, easy, she's making sonia laugh within five minutes, is doing a bit with kiki about something that happened at shootaround that you only have half the context for but which is clearly very funny. 

she is, in this context, completely herself the version that exists when she is not counting her words and then she'll glance at you and something shifts, just slightly, just a half-step, and she catches herself and looks away.

kiki sees it of course kiki sees it she says nothing, but she meets your eyes once across the table with an expression that is very precisely yeah, i know.

at some point sonia says, very casually georgia, remember what you told me about notre dame's offensive system? georgia looks at her. what?

you were saying, sonia says, about the way they run their two-guard sets. you were very detailed about it.

i don't know what you're —

you had thoughts, sonia says serenely. specific thoughts. about her specifically. she nods at you without looking at you as you said. what was it something about the way she reads the secondary option before the play develops.

the table is quiet georgia looks at sonia with an expression that is a very contained version of fury. i say that about a lot of guards, she says. you do not, kiki says, from behind her cup.

i watched film on a lot of people in this draft —

twice, sonia says. you watched notre dame-uconn twice. you mentioned it.

i–

the february game, sonia says georgia puts her cup down. i'm not doing this.

she already knows, kiki says, very gently. that's the thing, g. she already knows.

georgia still goes and she looks at kiki then slowly she looks at you and you look back you don't rescue her you let her look. you knew, she says, finally. it's not quite a question.

i read the floor, you say. it's what i do.

something moves through her face not embarrassment, exactly — something softer than that, and more complicated. 

she picks up her cup, sets it down again and her thumb moves along the edge of the cardboard sleeve. right, she says quietly sonia stands up very suddenly. i need a water, she says. kiki come help me.

the waters are self-serve, kiki says. kiki, sonia says kiki comes.

you and georgia at the corner table the ambient noise of the café, her thumb still on the sleeve of her cup. how long, she says.

the corridor, you say. when i asked you outright. i had a pretty good read before that but the corridor confirmed it.

she exhales not quite a laugh. great.

georgia.

i know, she says. i know, i just — she stops looks at the table. i had it so composed for so long. the eleven words were a system. and then you just walked up and asked and the whole system—

fell apart, you say.

completely, she says. yeah.

you look at her at her hands on the cup, at the way she's not quite meeting your eyes, at the version of georgia amoore that exists in the space before she's decided how to say a thing. the training room, you say as she looks up.

i haven't stopped thinking about it, you say. about what you said. i want to make sure we're — i want to know where we are.

she holds your gaze for a moment the café does its thing around you, indifferent.

i don't know how to do this carefully, she says. with you. everything else i can do carefully. i can manage how i come across, i can read the room, i can — she stops. with you i just say the actual thing before i mean to. it keeps happening.

that's not a problem, you say.

it feels exposed.

i know. you reach across the table and your hand covers hers, just briefly, just for a moment. say the actual thing.

she looks at your hand then at you.

i want to figure it out, she says. whatever this is. i want to figure it out with you. a beat. that's the actual thing.

okay, you say.

okay?

yeah, you say. me too.

sonia, from the water station eight feet away, makes a sound kiki puts a hand over sonia's mouth you don't look over neither does georgia but the corner of her mouth does something, quiet and private, that you are going to think about for the rest of the day.

so, chicago thursday night one room, one bed, discovered at check-in when the team liaison hands you a keycard and a room number and georgia, next to you, says sorry? in the tone of someone who has heard correctly but is hoping they haven't.

we're fully booked, the liaison says. it's a king. should be fine. should be fine, georgia looks at you, you look at georgia behind you, somewhere in the lobby, you hear kiki say something to sonia in a voice too low to catch but which is definitely about this.

the room is on the fourteenth floor you take the elevator up in a silence that is a different kind of textured than the one at the matcha place, less complicated and more aware, the kind that comes from standing close to someone in an enclosed space and being conscious of every inch.

the room is nice, the bed is, as advertised a king georgia sets her bag on the chair by the window and looks at it like it said something. i can sleep on top of the covers, she says. if you want. like a line down the middle, i —

georgia, you say.

yeah.

it's fine.

she turns around and you are sitting on the edge of the bed, shoes already off, looking at her she looks back. okay, she says.

okay.

she gets ready for bed in the bathroom while you set an alarm and check the game notes on your phone and try to be a normal person in a normal hotel room and not think too carefully about the georgia-shaped shift happening in your chest. 

she comes out in a notre dame t-shirt — i stole it, she says, preemptively, last week from the laundry pile, i was going to give it back — and you say you can keep it and something about that makes her go very still for a second before she gets into bed.

the lights go off, the dark settles, you lie there, both of you, not touching, a few inches of hotel sheets between you, and the quiet has the weight of two people who are very aware of each other. georgia, you say, to the ceiling.

yeah, she says.

you still have words saved up. a pause. a few, she admits.

say one.

the dark, the ambient hum of the hotel outside the window, chicago going about its thursday night.

i'm glad you went fourth, she says. i know that's — i know you were projected higher and i know it's not the same thing as being glad for you, because i am glad for you, i want everything for you. but selfishly. a breath. selfishly i am so glad you went fourth.

you turn your head on the pillow. she turns hers in the dark you can just make out the shape of her face, the line of her jaw, the way she is looking at you with the full version of her attention.

washington, you say.

washington, she says.

you close the last few inches between you and she meets you there, unhurried, and it is nothing like the kitchen — that was decision and momentum, quick and committed. 

this is slower her hand finds your face in the dark the way it did in the training room and you think about all the words she held, all the ones she counted out so carefully, and how none of them are necessary right now.

later, much later, she's quiet in the way that means she's still awake, her head on your shoulder, the notre dame shirt warm against your arm. the february game, you say.

don't, she says.

both halves?

i'm going to sleep.

georgia.

a long pause.

yes, she says, very quietly. both halves.

you stare at the ceiling outside, chicago tomorrow, the sky right now, her breathing slowing into something even, the weight of her against you, the particular quiet of a hotel room that has stopped being temporary and started being somewhere you want to stay.

both halves, you say, soft she doesn't answer but her hand, resting on your sternum, curls just slightly.

you fall asleep to the sound of her breathing and think, in the last moment before you go under. fourth overall. best thing.

the morning is ordinary in the way mornings before games always are — alarm at seven-thirty, georgia already half-awake when it goes off, the two of you moving around the room in the careful choreography of people who are new to sharing a space and still learning its geometry. 

she takes the bathroom first you find your shootaround clothes she comes out with her hair up and toothpaste still on her bottom lip and doesn't notice until you point at your own lip and she goes oh and disappears back into the bathroom and you stand there in the middle of the hotel room and feel something embarrassingly warm about the whole thing.

breakfast is the team floor, the long table, cotie and angela already there with plates piled high, sonia arriving two minutes after you with the specific expression she wears when she has clocked something and is choosing not to say it yet kiki sits down across from you and looks between you and georgia once, carefully, and then pours her orange juice.

good sleep? kiki says.

great sleep, you say.

mm, kiki says.

georgia is talking to cotie about something on her phone and is not looking at you but the tips of her ears are doing the thing sonia sees this sonia drinks her coffee in the particular way of someone savoring a private victory.

you eat your eggs and think about the sky's defensive scheme and try to be a professional.

shootaround is clean coach johnson runs through the chicago sets, the pick and roll coverage, who to watch — raven johnson's handle, the way the sky likes to push in transition you take notes on your phone. 

georgia is two seats down, doing the same, and at one point she leans over without looking and taps your knee once, quick, pointing at something on her own screen. watch her left hand on the drive, she murmurs. she telegraphs it every time.

you watch the clip she's right she's always right about things like this. got it, you say she leans back the knee tap lingers more than it should.

the united center is loud in the way away arenas get loud when the home crowd smells a competitive game not hostile exactly, just charged, the particular energy of a building that wants something from the night. 

you go through warmups with your headphones in, your routine locked, notre dame muscle memory carrying you through the layup lines.

the game starts well georgia finds you on the second possession, a quick pocket pass off the pick and roll that you catch in stride, one dribble, pull-up jumper over the closeout good she points. you jog back.

through the first quarter you are in it like really in it, the kind of game where the floor opens up and you can see everything, every gap, every rotation, the reads coming fast and clean. 

sixteen points by halftime georgia has nine assists coach johnson says keep doing exactly what you're doing and you believe him the third quarter is where it happens.

you are curling off a screen at the elbow, georgia feeding you the entry pass, and you catch it and take one hard dribble baseline and the sky's two-guard trying to cut off the angle, moving fast, a little desperate comes in from the side and her knee catches your ankle at a wrong angle and the world tips.

you go down hard the sound the building makes is the particular sound of something stopping. not silence exactly a held breath, collective and instant.

you are on the floor and your ankle is sending signals that are urgent and unambiguous and you know before the trainer gets to you, know the way you know reads before plays develop, that this is not something you play through you've rolled ankles before this one has a different quality to it, something deeper, and you lie there for a moment just taking inventory.

the trainer reaches you coach johnson is on the floor. someone is saying your name. you look up at the lights and breathe, steady, the way niele ivey taught you. hurt is not the same as broken, take the inventory, report accurately — and you do you report ankle right side moderate probably not structural but definitely done for the night.

okay, you say to the trainer. okay, yeah. help me up.

you don't look for georgia immediately you're focused on getting upright, on not putting weight on it wrong, on the logistics of exit. 

the trainer and one of the assistant coaches get you to your feet and you hop once and establish that the ankle will bear partial weight and the crowd does the thing crowds do a wave of acknowledgement, the sound of a building releasing its held breath you look up then.

georgia is standing at half court she has the ball in her hands from when play stopped and she is not moving her face is the composed face, the one she wears in film sessions and post-game press conferences, the one that gives nothing away. she is looking at you and her face is doing exactly nothing and you know her well enough now to know that this means the opposite of nothing.

sonia is beside her saying something georgia nods once looks back at you, you raise your chin slightly. i'm okay and she nods again, and then play is called to resume and she turns back to the court and that is the last you see of her before the tunnel.

the training room under the united center is fluorescent and cold and smells like every other training room you've been in your entire career. 

the mystics' athletic trainer, dominique, runs through the assessment with efficient hands while you sit on the table and stare at the ceiling and listen to the muffled sound of the game continuing above you. ligament? you say.

i don't think so, dominique says. feels like a high ankle sprain. significant but not structural. she wraps it with practiced efficiency. we'll get imaging tomorrow to confirm. you're done tonight.

i know, you say.

you're going to want to stay off it —

i know, you say she gives you the look trainers give athletes who say i know in that tone, which is the look of someone who knows that you know and also knows that knowing doesn't always translate.

you sit in the training room for the rest of the third quarter and most of the fourth, your phone filling up. cotie, a row of prayer hands angela, how bad. kiki, staying or going to hospital? sonia, tell me immediately if you need anything i'm watching the medical staff like a hawk.

georgia, nothing which is fine she's playing she doesn't have her phone this is normal and expected and you are not reading anything into it.

the buzzer sounds above you the mystics win you gather this from the sound, the particular quality of noise that is visiting team celebration, and dominique confirms it when she comes back through. 88-79. amoore had a triple double.

of course she did, you say.

the locker room is where you see it georgia comes in with the rest of them, sweat-damp and still running the elevated energy of a road win, and sonia is talking at her about something and cotie has her arm around angela and the room has the warmth of a good game in it. 

georgia peels off her warm-up jacket and reaches for her water bottle and then she looks up and finds you on the bench by the lockers, boot on your ankle, and the room keeps going around her but she goes very still.

three seconds five then she crosses the room and sits down beside you not too close, not away-game-we-are-professional close, somewhere in the middle. dominique's assessment? she says her voice is composed. high ankle sprain. imaging tomorrow.

timeline?

two weeks minimum. maybe three.

she nods, her hands are in her lap and she is looking at the boot and her jaw is doing the thing where she's working something out the locker room goes on around you both, loud and warm. georgia.

yeah.

look at me.

she looks at you there it is what the composed face was covering not panic, not quite, but something adjacent to it. 

something raw sitting just below the surface of the controlled expression you recognize because you know what her face does when she's actually fine versus when she is managing. i'm okay, you say. high ankle sprain. i've had worse.

i know, she says.

you don't look like you know.

she exhales, slow. when you went down— she stops and starts again. i was right there. i saw the angle and i — her hand tightens in her lap. i know you're okay. i knew on the floor when you raised your chin that you were okay. i kept playing because you were okay. a beat. it just didn't stop the — she gestures, vague, at her own chest. whatever that was.

the thing, you say. yeah, she says. the thing.

the locker room goes on around you someone's playing music from a bluetooth speaker cotie is doing a bit with her water bottle that angela finds funnier than it probably is. georgia, you say. mm.

i need you to help me to the bus.

she looks at the boot then at you the composed face shifts into something that is still composed but has a different quality to it the kind of composed that comes after, not before. yeah, she says. obviously.

and then, you say, i need you to tell me what was actually in your chest when it happened. in the room tonight. when it's just us.

she's quiet for a moment the locker room hums the bluetooth speaker. okay, she says. yeah. i can do that.

the hotel room is quieter than last night the lamp on the far side is on and everything else is off and you are on the bed with your ankle up on two pillows and georgia is sitting at the end of the bed with her knees pulled up, and the window shows chicago at night, the lake somewhere out there in the dark.

she's been quiet since the bus, not the eleven-word quiet, something more internal than that, something she's working through you wait you are learning her rhythms.

when you went down, she says finally, the first thing i thought was — not what you'd think. not ligament, not timeline, not anything practical. she looks at her hands. *the first thing was just — her. just your name. just — * she stops. and i've spent my whole career being the person who doesn't do that. who keeps the game in the game. i've had teammates get hurt and i've stayed level because that's what you do, that's what the team needs. a pause. and then it was you and i felt the floor go out from under me a little bit. on the inside. just for a second.

and you kept playing, you say. you were okay, she says. you told me you were okay.

i did.

and i kept playing. she looks up. but the whole fourth quarter i was — it was different. the way i was playing was different. i don't know if anyone clocked it.

triple double, you say. i know what i do when i'm — when i need to put something somewhere, she says. i put it in the game. i always have.

you look at her at georgia amoore at the end of the hotel bed, hair down, chicago light on her face, telling you what she does with the things she can't say out loud. you put it in the triple double, you say.

yeah, she says. and then i came in here and you're — you're fine. you're fine, you're on the pillows, you look fine, and i sat down and my hands wouldn't — she looks at them again. they were shaking a little. for about a minute. i didn't want you to see.

i saw, you say.

i know you saw.

georgia. she looks at you. come here, you say she moves up the bed, carefully, mindful of the ankle, and settles beside you and you pull her in and she goes, and this, this is different from last night, less charged and more essential, the kind of close that isn't about want so much as about need, about reassurance moving in both directions at once.

her hand finds your sternum same as the training room same as last night like she's taking inventory. i'm here, you say.

i know, she says, muffled against your shoulder. that's the thing. you're here and i can feel that you're fine and i'm still — it's still doing something.

that's allowed, you say.

is it.

yes, you say. georgia. that's allowed.

she's quiet for a moment outside chicago somewhere below, the city going about its friday night, indifferent and continuous.

i had a plan, she says, eventually. for how this would go. between us. i was going to be — measured. i was going to take my time. not come on too strong. a breath. and then you went down on that floor and my first thought was just your name and i think the plan is — i think it's probably —

gone, you say. yeah, she says. pretty thoroughly.

she presses her mouth to the top of your head you makes a sound that is very small and very real and nothing like the composed face at all. the february game, you say, quiet. both halves.

you feel her exhale against your shoulder. both halves, she says. the whole season before that. your junior highlights. i have a folder. a pause. don't say anything.

i'm not saying anything, you say.

you're smiling.

you can't see my face.

i know you, she says. you're smiling. you are smiling, you don't bother denying it. a folder, you say.

i will leave, she says.

you won't.

she won't put her hand on your sternum and doesn't move her breathing slowly, gradually, the way it did last night, from the elevated thing it's been since the game into something even and settling. the imaging tomorrow, she says. i'm coming.

georgia —

i'm coming, she says. that's not a question. you think about arguing on principle you decide against it. okay, you say.

and if it's not structural —

it's not.

if it's confirmed not structural, she says, then i'm getting you the good food after. not the hotel food. actual food from somewhere that isn't the team caterer.

what if i want hotel food?

you don't.

i might.

you don't, she says, and you can hear the smile in it, and something in your chest does the thing it has been doing since the training room months ago, since the corridor, since fourth overall and welcome to washington with the tips of her ears going pink.

georgia, you say.

mm.

say something else from the folder.

a long pause in the chicago dark outside her hand on your chest.

in the notre dame-uconn game, she says, quiet, there was a play in the second half where they ran the same set three possessions in a row and the third time you read it before it developed and you went under the screen instead of over and it shouldn't have worked because you were giving up the corner three and it worked anyway because you knew she wasn't going to shoot it. 

a breath. nobody else in that game read that. i watched it four times. another breath. i thought — i thought, whoever she ends up playing with is going to be so lucky. the way she sees things. she pauses. and then seven months later it was me. and i thought —

she stops. what, you say. i thought, she says, oh. of course it's her.

the lamp on the far side of the room, the dark chicago her breathing going slow and even against your shoulder while your ankle throbs dully against the pillows and the night settles around you both like something that was always going to happen. of course, you say.

yeah, she says.

okay, you say and she says. yeah. okay. and that is enough, that is, in fact, more than enough you lie there in the dark with georgia amoore's hand on your chest and her words still in the room, all the ones she saved, all the ones she counted out so carefully and is now spending freely and you think. fourth overall. washington mystics. georgia amoore.