#wbb fic

paige is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, the thick black strap jutting up from her harness. her hand is already tangled in your hair before you even lean in.

“come here, pretty girl” she murmurs, voice husky with want. she doesn’t wait. she tightens her grip and pulls you forward by the hair, guiding your mouth straight to the tip.

your curls immediately go wild. the moment she tugs you down, thick coils bounce and spill everywhere- falling into your face, brushing against her toned thighs, some strands already sticking to your glossy lips. you open your mouth and take her in, lips stretching around the girth. paige groans low, eyes locked on the sight.

“fuck… look at that messy hair, my messy girl” she breathes.

she pulls harder, using your curls like reins to push you further down the strap. your head bobs, and with every movement your curls fly in every direction- springing up, frizzing out, sticking to your forehead and cheeks from the effort. a few loose coils even wrap around her fingers as she fists them tighter, refusing to let go.

you moan around the strap, the vibration making paige’s hips twitch. she yanks your head back just enough for you to catch a breath, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the glistening toy. your curls are a complete wreck now- half of them plastered to your face with sweat and spit, the rest bouncing chaotically every time she pulls you back down.

“that’s it angel,” paige praises, voice rough. “choke on it for me.”

she pushes you down again, deeper this time, holding you there with a firm grip on your hair. your curls are everywhere- tangled around her wrist, brushing her stomach, one thick strand even stuck to the corner of your mouth as you work her strap with wet, messy sounds. every time she tugs up or pushes down, more of your definition disappears, turning into a wild, puffy, fucked-out mess.

paige can’t get enough of it.

“god, your curls look so pretty when they’re all ruined like this,” she groans, biting her lip as she watches you. she starts guiding you faster, fucking your throat with the strap while keeping a death grip on your hair. your eyes water, spit drips down your chin, and your curls just keep getting messier- bouncing, frizzing, sticking to every damp surface.

she pulls you off suddenly, yanking your head back by the roots so she can see your face. you’re gasping, lips shiny and swollen, curls exploding in every direction like a halo of chaos.

“so fucking pretty, baby” she whispers, almost in awe, before she shoves you right back down, burying the strap deep again with a satisfied moan.

⸻

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.

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.