#wnba basketball

although you did try to convince her to just hire professionals to move your belongs, paige insisted on doing it all herself. she didn’t see the point in paying someone else to do something she was fully capable of, she explained, despite having beyond enough to afford the help. in other words, your girlfriend is ridiculously stubborn.

“my job was to provide moral support,” you defend yourself, voice going a bit breathy as paige starts to kiss on your neck. you carried a few boxes from the foyer to the living room, handed paige things whenever she needed them, went out and grabbed chicken nuggets and milkshakes from the nearest chick–fil–a for you both— a+ girlfriend behavior, in your humble opinion.

paige hums, raising her head to look at you, a smirk already playing at her perfect pink lips. “you could provide some oral support,” she quips, and it’s extremely corny, but her voice is so low and gruff and stupidly attractive. it sends heat straight to your core, regardless. “least you could do, since i already did all the work today.” you roll your eyes and smack her on the shoulder.

“oh, really?” you say.

“mhm,” she nods, eyes fixated on your lips. “want that pretty mouth all over me.” then, she pulls you into her lap and kisses you again, hands immediately claiming their place on your ass as her tongue pushes its way into your mouth.

you can’t help but arch into her, moaning into the kiss. admittedly, you did find it sexy, watching her carry in all those heavy boxes from your seat at the kitchen island, her skin shiny with sweat. she’s so strong, so hard hardworking. thinking about it makes fire coil in your gut, heat rushing to the same place between your legs.

paige’s hands grip your body tighter, grinding your hips down against her. you break the kiss to plant your lips to her jaw, kissing down to her neck, sucking where you know she’s most sensitive. you’re satisfied with the soft noise paige makes in response, head lolling back to give you more access.

you mark her throat twice more, then lean back, hands smoothing down her shoulders, until they find the hem of her sports bra. paige helps you pull it off of her, flinging it across the room, neither of you caring where it lands. then, she pulls your shirt over your head, helping you get out of your bra. you’re both eager to get out of your bottoms, paige shimmying out of her shorts and boxers while you unbutton your cut–offs, slipping them down your legs and kicking them aside.

moments later you’re on the floor, kneeling between her legs, face–to–face with her bare cunt. paige is relaxed into the couch, one arm stretched along the back of it, while her other hands comes down to cup your face. it always gets her so turned on, seeing you on your knees for her, all obedient.

“my good girl, hm?” she hums. you shiver at the pet name and nod, leaning in to press kisses to the insides of her muscular thighs. “so pretty… prettiest in the fuckin’ world,” she praises, thumb stroking over your cheekbone gently.

you feel your own cunt pulse at the sound of her voice. eager to please, you dive in, licking a stripe up her pussy, watching for a reaction. she manages to hold the eye contact as you drag your tongue from her entrance to her clit over and over again, thighs tensing and sucking in a sharp breath. then, coming up, you close your lips around her clit, sucking on the swollen bundle of nerves, and release it with a soft pop! “shit,” she hisses, eyes fluttering shut, then gasps when you kiss her there.

“tastes so fucking good, baby,” you moan, moving your tongue in circles. your words have even more slick dripping out of her, and you slurp it up, as if you’re starving.

she groans softly, hand moving to the back of your head, tangling into your hair as she rocks her hips up against your mouth. “yeah, you like that? want my cum in your mouth?” she asks breathily, staring down at you, mesmerized by the sight of you lapping at her pussy.

you nod eagerly, spurred on by the thought of her finishing for you, wanting so badly to hear her cry out and see her face twist with pleasure. you quicken your pace, flattening your tongue against her and shaking your head, then sliding into her entrance. her cunt flutters, thighs twitching around your face, the grip on your hair getting tighter.

“k–keep doing that—” she cuts herself off with a pretty moan, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “fuck, i’ll give you whatever you want.”

you thrust your tongue in and out as fast as you can manage, despite the way your jaw starts to hurt, because every sound paige makes, every twitch in her abdomen, every roll of her hips makes it worth it. it gets you that much worked up, the fabric of your panties stuck to your skin with how wet you are, clit brushing against the thin lace and throbbing.

you can tell paige is getting close before she says so. her breathing is ragged, head thrown back, free hand now gripping onto one of the throw pillows. “gonna cum. fuck, don’t stop.” she pants, eyes rolling back. you add your fingers to the mix, rubbing fervently at her clit while you fuck her with your tongue, wanting to get her there.

and then the evidence of her orgasm is spilling into your mouth, droplets slipping past your lips and running down your chin, dripping onto the sofa. you don’t stop with your ministrations— not until you’re certain she’s finished and you’ve swallowed all that you can.

you sit back on your heels afterward, resting a hand on paige’s knee and catching your breath. paige also has to take a breather, eyes shut, body having gone slack against the couch.

when she blinks her eyes open, it’s like her strength is renewed by the near sight of you. as if you weigh nothing at all, she reaches forward, lifting you off of the ground and laying you down on the ouch, climbing over you to slam your lips together in a searing kiss. she wastes no time, tearing your panties off of you.

you feel your cheeks flame as the cool air hits your skin. you’re soaked, clit pink and puffy, aching to be touched. it’d probably be embarrassing if it was for anyone else, but paige just groans at the sight of your drenched cunt, dragging her middle and ring fingers through your slick folds, massaging your clit. then, without warning, she pushes them into you.

instantly, you’re hit with a towering wave of pleasure, washing over you so suddenly it catches you off guard. “oh, my god—” you gasp as paige starts to thrust, her fingers feeling like heaven as they drag against your slick walls. “yes, baby, that’s so good.”

your spine curves deeply, lifting above the cushion, moaning loudly each time plunges into you. her thrusts are erratic, fucking into you messily, curling and scissoring her fingers, stretching you out. you grab onto her arm, nails digging into her bicep, hips bucking in an attempt to match her unsteady pace. you need this, faster and harder and deeper. “please,” you mewl.

before you can even really get into it, that familiar tightness only just appearing in the pit of your stomach, she’s suddenly retracting her fingers from your body. you’re left layering there confused, betrayed, the ache returning to your core in seconds, clenching desperately around nothing.

your mouth opens, but she speaks before you can complain. “i’ll be right back, don’t move.” she orders, before disappearing into your new shared bedroom.

thankfully, she isn’t gone too long. you barely have enough time to catch your breath and steady yourself before she returns, moments later, with the strap secured to her hips, the only thing she has on other than socks.

she joins you on the couch again, settling between your legs, knees planting into the cushions. she grabs you by the hips and pulls you close, then takes the toy into her hand by the base, slapping it against your clit a few times. you choke on air, reaching out to grab onto her waist. “paige,” you whine.

“shh, i got you,” she tells you, sliding the tip up and down your slit teasingly. “gonna make you feel so good, babe. have you creaming all over my dick.”

you’re almost relieved to hear that. “please,” you beg, legs wrapping around her hips, trying to bring her closer. “i need you.”

the stretch is delicious, burning in the best possible way. “fuck,” you cry, feeling tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

paige holds you down with a firm hand on your hip, watching the toy disappear inside you, inch by inch. “so fucking tight,” she mutters, slowly pulling back out, the silicone dragging along your walls. “swear i can feel you squeezing me, baby.” you whimper at that, spine arching, nails digging into her sides.

she lets you adjust, starting off slow and careful, searching your face for any signs of discomfort as she gently fucks you. right now, you just look fucked out, lips parted as you breath laboriously and eyes shut, but still begging for it like whore. paige thrusts with a little more vigor this time, driving the strap into you.

you moan, loud and unbidden, head pushing back into the throw pillow. she’s so big, filling you completely, just the way you need it. she leans forward, body hovering over yours now with her forearm braced just above your head, fucking you deeper, tip brushing against that gummy spot deep inside every time she plunges back in.

if your new neighors are home, you’re pretty sure they can hear everything. hell, the whole floor probably knows what’s going on in your unit. the sounds filling your apartment are filthy— the obscenties leave your mouth, your pussy squelching, skin slapping against skin in a steady rhythm. your hands slide up to paige’s back, clinging to her, hips rolling to meet her thrusts.

paige tilts her head down, pressing her mouth to yours at the same time as she reaches down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit easily, stroking rapidly with her middle and ring fingers. you instantly know you aren’t going to last much longer, feeling the tightness reappear in the pit of your stomach, boiling hotly. your lips leave paige as a loud moan forces its way out of your throat, cunt fluttering around the strap.

“yeah, that’s it,” paige encourages you, slamming into you, fingers working you past the edge. “go ahead and cum on my cock. know you can do it, just gotta let go for me.”

with a broken, high–pitched moan, you cum hard, feeling it ebb through you. paige fucks you throat it, continuing to thrust as your body shakes, nails dragging down her skin, leaving pink welts in their wake. you can barely hear her cursing at the stinging pain, ears ringing and vision blurring.

your body goes limp against the couch, attempting to catch your breath. paige pulls out and collapses beside you, also panting. you can’t help but laugh weakly when your eyes meet, feeling completely spent.

“it’s officially our place, now,” paige comments, and you snort.

you glace around at the living room, noting the assortment of boxes and things that still need to be unpacked. “not until we get all this shit put away,” you reply.

“yeah, that can wait until tomorrow,” then, paige reaches over and her thumb is suddenly on your clit again, rubbing you in light circles. your eyes flit to hers, gaze inquiring, though you can’t help the soft moan that tumbles past your lips. “think you can give me another?” she asks, smirking— though, it’s not even really a question. you will, before the night is over.

You had stopped being surprised by Paige Bueckers a long time ago.

Not because she was predictable. Paige was one of the least predictable people you had ever met. She could wake up calm and decide by breakfast that she was going to argue with somebody about a card game from two weeks ago. She could limp into practice after a long lift, sore and quiet, then spend the next hour talking like she had personally invented basketball. She could be sweet for exactly three minutes before saying something so obnoxious that Nika threatened to throw a towel at her head. She could make a room louder by walking into it and softer by looking at you across it.

So no, Paige herself was not predictable.

But the way she loved you was.

That had become one of the steady things in your life. As regular as the squeak of sneakers on hardwood. As familiar as the cold Connecticut mornings that made you pull your sleeves over your hands on the walk to practice. As known as the little rhythm your day had fallen into after almost four years at UConn and almost three years of Paige being yours in every way that mattered.

She texted you at 8:03.

outside.

Not good morning. Not come out. Not hurry up because we’re gonna be late, even though both of you knew she was thinking it.

Just outside.

You were sitting on the edge of your bed with one shoe on and one shoe still somewhere under your desk, hair half-fixed, hoodie bunched around your waist because you had gotten distracted looking for your charger. Your practice bag sat open on the floor, one side sagging with a pair of slides, tape, an extra shirt, and the water bottle you swore you had filled last night but had probably left empty because you were you.

You glanced at the text and smiled before you could help it.

She did this every morning she could.

Sometimes it was before class. Sometimes before breakfast. Sometimes before practice. Sometimes after a lift if your schedules split weird and she had ten minutes to spare. Same building, same athlete housing, same familiar path between your doors, close enough that Paige had turned walking you places into a habit so deeply carved into her routine that neither of you really talked about it anymore.

You found your other shoe under a sweatshirt, shoved your foot into it, and opened your door.

Paige was leaning against the wall outside, hood up, one foot crossed over the other. In one hand, she held her own drink. In the other, she held yours.

Iced matcha. Oat milk. Light ice. The sweetness level you liked. The one you had mentioned, casually, once, freshman year, before either of you had gotten together, before Paige had started looking at you like you were something she was trying not to want too obviously.

She had remembered it anyway.

She looked up when your door opened, and the lazy little grin that slid onto her face was so familiar it made your chest warm in that quiet, annoying way she always managed to pull out of you.

“You look late,” she said. She lifted your drink slightly, but when you reached for it, she pulled it back just enough to make you look at her.

You paused. “Seriously?”

Paige’s grin spread slowly. “Delivery fee.”

You stared at her.

She stared back, completely unbothered.

There were people who thought Paige had no shame, and they were mostly right, but this was different. With everyone else, Paige’s confidence was loud. With you, it was softer, still cocky but warmer, like she had learned exactly how far she could push before you rolled your eyes and gave her what she wanted anyway.

“You’re charging me now?” you asked.

“Inflation.”

“For a drink you chose to buy?”

“Service industry is hard.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet.” She leaned slightly closer, her voice dropping into something sweet enough to make your stomach do that stupid little flip it still did even after all this time. “You want your matcha or not?”

You tried to hold your stare.

You lasted maybe two seconds.

Then you leaned in and kissed her.

It was meant to be quick. A small morning peck, soft and familiar, the kind you had given her a thousand times in hallways and elevators and outside locker rooms when nobody important was looking too closely. But Paige smiled against your mouth like she had won something, and that made you laugh, which made her chase the kiss for one extra second before letting you pull away.

Her eyes were still on your mouth when she handed you the cup.

“Pleasure doing business,” she murmured.

You took the matcha and gave her a look over the lid. “You’re annoying.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling, and Paige saw it. She always saw it. Her whole face shifted for half a second before she hid it by reaching for your bag.

You already had the strap over your shoulder, secure and settled, but Paige’s hand went to it without hesitation. Gentle. Automatic. Her fingers hooked under the strap near your collarbone, careful not to tug your hoodie too hard, and she lifted it slightly like she was asking without asking.

You barely paused. Just tilted your shoulder toward her so she could slide it off.

That was how normal it was.

You turned back toward your room to grab your keys, but Paige was already reaching around the doorframe, plucking them off the small hook beside your closet where you always forgot them. She held them up between two fingers, shaking them once.

“You were gonna forget.”

“I was not.”

“You literally turned around without them.”

“I was testing you.”

“I passed.”

“Barely.”

Paige made an offended sound, like the idea of barely passing anything in relation to you physically pained her. “Do not disrespect my job.”

“Your job?”

“Yeah.” She stepped back so you could lock your door, shifting your bag higher on her shoulder without thinking. “Making sure you don’t walk around this campus helpless.”

“I am not helpless.”

“You’d lose your keys in your own hand.”

“And yet I somehow survived before you.”

Paige looked at you like that was the most insulting thing you had ever said to her. “Barely.”

You laughed, and that was the thing: Paige heard it. She always heard it. Her whole face changed for half a second, pleased and soft before she covered it with attitude again, like she had not just lit up because of one small laugh in a hallway she had walked through a thousand times.

She fell into step beside you as you started down the hall.

You did not ask for your bag.

She did not offer it back.

That was just how it went.

By the time you reached the elevator, she had already pressed the button, already tugged gently at the back of your hoodie because the tag was flipped, already nudged you away from the corner where the floor was still wet from someone’s spilled water bottle.

You barely noticed any of it.

Paige noticed everything.

That was another thing people did not always understand about her. They saw the loudness first. The talking. The smirking. The ridiculous confidence that came out every time someone challenged her to anything, even if the challenge was stupid. Paige Bueckers would compete with a wall if the wall looked at her wrong. She argued calls. She argued card games. She argued rankings, music, cereal, whether or not Nika had traveled during a drill three months ago, and once, for twenty minutes, whether soup counted as a meal or a warm beverage with responsibilities.

She had opinions about everything.

Except when it came to you.

With you, she still had opinions. She just delivered them softer. Or swallowed them entirely if you gave her that look. The one she pretended did not work on her even though everybody with eyes knew it did.

The elevator doors slid open.

KK was inside, backpack hanging off one shoulder, scrolling on her phone. She looked up, eyes flicking from your drink to Paige’s hand on your bag to Paige standing half a step behind you like a bodyguard who had forgotten she was not actually employed.

KK’s mouth twitched.

“Morning,” you said.

“Morning,” KK replied, still looking at Paige. “Dang. She pick you up every day?”

Paige frowned. “Why you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you got commentary.”

KK lifted both hands. “I’m observing.”

“You’re always observing too much.”

“I’m learning the ecosystem.”

You snorted into your drink.

Paige immediately looked at you, smiling because you smiled, then caught herself and turned back to KK with a scowl that had no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

KK looked delighted. “Oh, I’m definitely learning.”

“You’re learning how to run today,” Paige said.

“You gonna make me?”

Paige opened her mouth.

You took a sip of your matcha and said casually, “Paige, don’t bully the freshman before breakfast.”

Paige stopped.

Just like that.

Her mouth closed. Her shoulders dropped. She leaned back against the elevator wall, grumbling softly, “Wasn’t bullying.”

KK stared.

You didn’t notice, or maybe you did and chose not to say anything. That was the problem with you. You had gotten so used to Paige folding around you that half the time you treated it like weather. Like of course Paige stopped arguing when you told her to. Of course Paige carried your bag. Of course Paige slowed down if you slowed down. Of course Paige’s attention snapped to you the second you said her name.

KK, however, had not been at UConn long enough to fully absorb the sight without reacting. She looked between you and Paige.

Then she pointed at Paige’s chest.

“You just sat down.”

Paige’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“She said don’t bully me and you just sat down.”

“I was already leaning.”

“No, you got domesticated in real time.”

You choked slightly on your matcha.

Paige stepped forward. “Bro,”

You put one hand lightly on Paige’s forearm. “P.”

Paige stopped again.

KK’s mouth fell open.

The elevator dinged.

You walked out like nothing had happened.

Paige followed immediately.

Behind you, KK whispered loudly, “This is crazy.”

Paige threw a look over her shoulder. “I heard that.”

“I wanted you to.”

You laughed again, and Paige’s irritation lasted exactly half a second before it softened at the edges.

It was not that Paige did not realize how she was with you. She knew she loved you. She knew she liked being near you. She knew she got this ridiculous, embarrassing pull in her chest when you looked at her like she was your favorite person in the room. She knew she felt calmer when she had your bag on her shoulder, your drink in her hand, your knee pressed against hers under a table, your voice cutting through noise and landing directly in the part of her brain that cared about nothing else once you called for her.

She just did not think of it as unusual.

To Paige, loving you had always been active. It was doing things. Watching things. Remembering things. Carrying what you forgot. Giving you the better seat. Taking the outside of the sidewalk. Handing you your water before you asked because you always forgot to drink when you were locked in. Knowing when you were tired from the set of your mouth. Knowing when you were annoyed by the way you got quiet instead of loud. Knowing when you needed space and when you only said you needed space because you did not want to be a burden.

She had spent almost three years being your girlfriend and nearly four years knowing you, and she still felt like she was learning you.

Still felt lucky every time you let her.

Breakfast was loud, the way breakfast with the team usually was. Nika was already at a table with Azzi and Ice, talking with her hands and accusing somebody of lying about something you had missed. Aaliyah was scrolling through her phone, occasionally looking up to make a comment sharp enough to make everyone laugh. Ashlynn and KK were arguing about music. Someone had stolen someone else’s seat. Someone was definitely going to claim it was their seat even though there were no assigned seats and everyone knew it.

Paige guided you toward the table without touching your back, just hovering close enough that you could feel her. you slid into the seat you usually took, and Paige put your bag down beside your chair before sitting next to you.

Nobody acted like Paige carrying your things was breaking news.

That was just Paige with you.

Still, when Paige pushed the small container of fruit toward you before you reached for it, Nika’s eyes flicked up. When Paige took the napkin dispenser from the middle of the table and set one beside your plate, Azzi’s mouth curved like she was trying not to smile. When you got distracted answering Ice’s question and Paige quietly unwrapped your straw for you because your hands were full, KK looked at Azzi again.

Paige, for her part, seemed completely unaware she was doing anything worth noticing. She was busy talking about the shooting drill from yesterday, arguing lightly with Nika over whether or not Nika had counted one of her own makes after the buzzer.

“I’m just saying,” Paige said, leaning back in her chair with the kind of confidence that made people want to argue with her even when she was right, “if the ball’s still in your hand when the time’s done, that’s not a make.”

Nika stared at her. “It left my hand.”

“After.”

“During.”

“After.”

“You were not even looking.”

“I felt it.”

“You felt it?”

“Yeah. Spiritually.”

Nika blinked. “You are so annoying.”

“You’re mad because I’m right.”

“You are loud because you are wrong.”

Paige grinned. “I’m loud because I got a voice.”

You reached across Paige for the honey packet near her tray, and before your fingers even touched it, Paige picked it up and handed it to you.

Still arguing. Still looking at Nika. Still mid-sentence. But the honey packet was in your hand.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

Paige’s voice dropped out for half a beat. She turned toward you, expression easing. “Yeah.”

Nika stopped talking. Only for a second. Then she looked at Azzi with a flat expression.

Azzi pressed her lips together.

“What?” Paige asked, noticing too late.

“Nothing,” Nika said.

“Your face says something.”

“My face says I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired when you’re losing.”

Nika shook her head, but she was smiling now. “Eat your breakfast, Paige.”

Paige looked like she might push back, so you bumped your knee lightly against hers under the table.

Paige sat back.

Picked up her fork.

Started eating.

Nika’s eyes dropped to the movement.

KK saw it too.

The table went silent for half a beat.

Then KK nearly lost it.

“Oh my god,” she said. “No way.”

Paige pointed her fork at her. “You want attention so bad.”

KK shook her head, eyes bright. “Nah, this is educational. I’ve never seen somebody go from talking crazy to trained that fast.”

“I’m not trained.”

Nika made a face. “Mmm.”

You glanced at Paige, amused. “You’re not.”

Paige immediately relaxed, like your words had settled something in her. “Thank you.”

You took another sip of matcha. “You just listen well.”

Nika gagged.

“Actually disgusting,” she said.

Paige smiled down at her plate, trying and failing not to look pleased.

That was the thing that got her teased the most. Not that she listened to you. Not even that she was softer with you. It was that she liked it. Paige, who had a comeback for every person at every table, got visibly happy when you praised her for something as simple as bringing the right drink or remembering your slides or waiting by the door.

You could ruin her with a soft “thank you.”

You never abused it. That was why it worked.

You were not demanding. You were not constantly telling her what to do. If anything, you asked less of Paige than Paige wanted you to. You carried your own weight, on and off the court. You were steady and sharp and calm in ways Paige admired even when she pretended to be too cool to say it out loud. You did not need Paige to take care of you.

That was exactly why she liked doing it.

It felt like being chosen for a job nobody else even knew existed.

By the time practice rolled around, Paige had gone through three different arguments, won two of them by volume alone, and lost the only one that mattered because you had tilted your head and said, “Let it go.”

She let it go.

Nika saw.

Nika suffered.

Practice was the one place where the softness sharpened into something else.

You and Paige had always had chemistry on the court. It was one of the first things people noticed about you as freshmen, before either of you admitted what was happening, before the late-night talks and lingering hallway moments turned into something too obvious to keep pretending around. Back then, it had been basketball first. Timing. Trust. The kind of connection that made passes look cleaner than they were because both of you were already moving before the ball left the other’s hands.

Paige knew where you wanted it.

You knew when Paige was about to cut.

She could throw a pass through traffic without looking and you would be there. You could drift to the corner half a second early and Paige would find you. You screened for her without needing the call. She slipped the ball to you in pockets that made coaches nod and teammates roll their eyes because of course.

Of course it was you two.

Of course Paige could be triple-covered and still somehow locate you.

Of course you could be running full speed and still know exactly where Paige had gone without turning your head.

The team had stopped reacting dramatically because it had been years. But KK still noticed sometimes. The newness had not worn off her yet. She would watch Paige thread a pass to you on the wing, watch you catch in rhythm and knock down the shot, watch Paige point at you with that smug little look like she had personally assisted the sun into rising.

Then KK would look at Azzi like, “Do they always do that?”

And Azzi, who had seen too much, would just nod.

That day, during a half-court drill, Nika was pressing Paige high, talking in her ear the entire time.

“You’re not getting by me.”

Paige dribbled low, grinning. “I’m already by you mentally.”

“You are so annoying.”

“You love guarding me.”

“I love humbling you.”

“You can try.”

Nika bumped her with her chest. Paige laughed, shifted her weight, eyes flicking once to the left.

You saw it.

You cut.

The pass came before Nika could turn her head.

It snapped through a narrow lane, quick and clean, landing in your hands exactly where you liked it. You rose into your shot without thinking. It dropped.

Paige’s grin went wide.

“Talk to me nice,” she told Nika.

Nika turned slowly, expression flat. “You passed.”

“And?”

“To your girlfriend.”

“And?”

“That is not humbling me. That is flirting with cardio.”

You laughed, jogging back on defense.

Paige looked entirely too proud of herself.

A few possessions later, your shoe came untied.

Later, during a pause in drills, you found yourself holding a ball under one arm, your water bottle tucked awkwardly against your side, and a towel hooked over your fingers when you looked down and realized your lace had come loose.

You made a face.

Paige was several feet away, mid-bicker with Nika again.

“I’m telling you, that was a foul.”

“It was not a foul.”

“You grabbed me.”

“I breathed near you.”

“You wish.”

“You complain so much.”

“You foul so much.”

You shifted the ball against your ribs and called, “Paige?”

Paige stopped mid-sentence.

Not gradually.

Immediately.

Nika’s mouth stayed open around whatever she had been about to say.

Paige turned. “Yeah?”

“Can you help me real quick?” you asked, polite and distracted, glancing down at your shoe. “My hands are full.”

Paige was already moving.

You did not even ask. She crossed the space between you, dropped down to one knee, and tied your shoe like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Because to her, it was.

The gym went weirdly quiet for one second.

Not fully quiet. Balls still bounced. Someone’s sneakers still squeaked. Coaches were still talking. But the pocket around you shifted, just enough for the people closest to notice Paige Bueckers, who had been arguing a foul call like she was preparing a court case, suddenly kneeling in front of you with your shoelace in her hands.

You looked down at her.

She double-knotted it.

“You gotta stop leaving them loose,” she muttered.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always do it.”

“You always fix it.”

Paige glanced up.

Bad idea.

Very bad idea.

Because you were looking at her with that small, private smile, the one that made her forget there were other people in the room. Her hands paused at your shoe, and for a second she just stared up at you, eyes soft and stupidly fond, like she could not believe this was her life.

Nika made a sound of genuine distress.

“I hate this,” she said.

KK, from somewhere behind her, whispered loudly, “She got on one knee.”

Paige snapped out of it and stood so fast she almost bumped your shoulder.

“It was untied,” she said defensively.

KK’s mouth twitched like she was physically fighting the urge to say something.

Nika made a face over her water bottle, eyes flicking from Paige to you and back again, unimpressed in the way only Nika could pull off without actually being mad.

By the time practice ended, the story had already become bigger than it was. Not because anyone was shocked, exactly, but because KK had narrated it like a sportscaster in the locker room until even Azzi told her to breathe.

“She said, ‘Paige, can you help me real quick?’” KK insisted, sitting on the bench while pulling off her shoes. “Casual. Normal, right? And Paige stopped like somebody hit pause on her whole body.”

Paige, from two lockers over, threw her towel at KK.

KK caught it and kept going. “Then she said her hands were full, pointed at the shoe, and Paige dropped. Dropped. Like we were watching a proposal video.”

“It was a shoe,” Paige said.

“It was history.”

Nika nodded grimly. “Freshman is right.”

Paige looked betrayed. “You’re encouraging her?”

“I am processing trauma.”

You sat at your locker, laughing quietly while you changed into slides. Paige heard it and turned toward you instantly, her annoyed expression easing before she even realized she was doing it.

KK pointed. “There. Again.”

Paige looked back at her. “What?”

“You heard her laugh and forgot you were mad.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You smiled.”

“People smile.”

“Not like that.”

Paige opened her mouth, then seemed to decide there was no way to win without making it worse. She turned back to her locker, mumbling something under her breath.

You leaned closer as she sat beside you to tie her own shoes.

“You’re getting cooked today,” you said softly.

Paige looked at you from under her lashes. “You enjoying it?”

“A little.”

“That’s messed up.”

“You make it easy.”

“I make a lot of things easy for you.”

Her voice dropped just enough that the words slipped under the noise of the locker room, warm and teasing in a way that made your stomach flip even after all this time.

You gave her a look.

Paige smiled.

There she was. Cocky again, but only because she knew she had gotten to you.

“Careful,” you said.

Her smile grew. “Or what?”

You did not answer right away. You just reached over and tugged gently at the front of her hoodie, barely enough to move her. Paige leaned in without hesitation, like her body had accepted your gravity years ago and never bothered resisting after that.

Her knee touched yours.

Her eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then Nika groaned from across the room.

“Not in the locker room.”

Paige did not look away from you. “Nobody told you to watch.”

“You are both in public.”

“You’re just jealous nobody ties your shoes.”

Nika stood up. “I’m transferring.”

Azzi, calm as ever, said, “You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it yesterday too.”

You laughed again, pushing Paige lightly away before she could get herself in more trouble. She let you, of course. She always let you. But she stayed close enough that her knee remained pressed against yours.

That was how your day was supposed to go.

Practice. Teasing. Food. Maybe film. Maybe homework neither of you wanted to do. Paige pretending she was not going to end up in your room later, sitting on your floor while you studied, claiming she was only there because your Wi-Fi worked better even though you lived in the same building.

You had forgotten, almost completely, that your childhood friend was coming.

Not because you did not care.

Just because Storrs had a way of swallowing everything into its routine. Basketball, classes, lifts, team meals, recovery, sleep, repeat. Outside people became messages you answered late at night and calls you returned walking between buildings. Home existed, but differently. Childhood existed, but in flashes.

Then your phone buzzed while you and Paige were leaving the practice facility.

Eli: just got here Eli: this campus is confusing as hell btw Eli: if i go missing it’s uconn’s fault

You stopped walking.

Paige stopped too, because you stopped.

She did not ask why immediately. She just looked at you, then at your phone, reading your face first.

“Oh,” you said. “Eli’s here.”

Paige’s expression did something small.

Not enough for most people to notice.

You noticed.

“Today?” she asked.

“Yeah. I told you he was visiting this weekend.”

“I know.”

“You forgot.”

“I didn’t forget.”

You raised your eyebrows.

Paige shifted your bag on her shoulder. “I remembered conceptually.”

You smiled. “That means you forgot.”

“It means I remembered there was a concept of him arriving.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet you keep me.”

She said it lightly, but there was something underneath it. A tiny searching thing she would deny if you called it out.

Eli texted again.

Eli: are you ignoring me already Eli: fame changed you

You shook your head, typing back quickly.

me: stay where you are. i’ll come get you.

Paige watched you text. She was quiet in a way that was not quite quiet. Paige had many versions of silence. There was tired silence. Thinking silence. Annoyed silence. Film-room silence, rare and usually forced. This one was the kind where she was pretending she was not curious.

You put your phone away. “He’s by the student union.”

Paige nodded.

“You coming?”

Her head snapped toward you.

You almost laughed at how fast it happened.

“You want me to?” she asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

“I mean, yeah.” You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “Unless you had something else.”

“No.” Too fast. “I’m coming.”

You looked at her.

She looked away.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

“Maybe you’re cute.”

Paige’s face changed instantly. The attitude vanished so quickly it was almost funny, replaced by that pleased, slightly bashful look she only got when praise came from you. It was not that Paige did not know she was cute. Paige had confidence for days. She knew what she looked like. She knew the effect she had. But compliments from you landed differently. They got under the armor.

She cleared her throat. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay?”

“Trying to be humble.”

“You?”

“It’s new. Support me.”

You laughed again, and she smiled like she had earned something.

The walk to meet Eli took longer than it should have because Paige kept slowing whenever you got a notification, kept shifting closer whenever a group passed too near.

By the time you spotted Eli, he was standing with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking around with the slightly overwhelmed expression of someone who did not spend most of his time on a campus where everyone seemed to be either carrying a backpack, wearing athletic gear, or moving like they were late to something.

He saw you and grinned.

“There she is,” he called. “Miss Big East.”

You groaned before you even reached him. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, too humble now?”

“I was always humble.”

Eli laughed and pulled you into a hug.

It was normal.

It was childhood-normal. Easy. Familiar. The kind of hug that belonged to old photos and family barbecues and summers when you had both been shorter, louder, and convinced adulthood would feel more organized than it did. He smelled faintly like airport air and cold wind, and for a second you remembered being thirteen and racing him down a street near your old house, both of you breathless and dramatic over absolutely nothing.

Paige stood beside you, holding your bag.

She did not move. She did not interrupt. She did not look upset, exactly. But her posture shifted.

When you stepped back, you turned immediately. “Paige, this is Eli. Eli, Paige.”

Eli’s eyes moved to Paige.

Recognition hit him quickly, because of course it did. Even people who did not follow women’s basketball closely tended to know Paige, or at least knew enough to do a small double take when they realized she was standing in front of them with your practice bag on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Eli said, smiling. “I know who Paige is.”

Paige gave him a polite nod. “What’s up?”

Not rude.

Not warm.

Controlled.

You glanced at her.

She glanced back, and her expression softened for you immediately before she looked at Eli again.

Eli noticed.

You didn’t.

Or if you did, you filed it away with all the other Paige things that had become normal over the years.

“Good to finally meet you,” Eli said. “I’ve heard a lot.”

Paige’s eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You cut in before Paige could decide whether that was a challenge. “He means from me.”

Paige looked at you. “You talk about me?”

The question came out softer than she probably intended.

You stared at her. “Paige.”

“What?”

“You know I talk about you.”

“I mean, I assumed.”

“You assumed?”

“Was hoping.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“But you do?”

Eli looked between you with the growing expression of someone who had just realized he had walked into a conversation with its own private rules.

You shook your head, but you were smiling. “Yes, P. I talk about you.”

Paige nodded, trying to look cool and failing because the corner of her mouth kept betraying her.

“Cool,” she said.

Eli looked like he was fighting a laugh.

Paige watched the two of you go back and forth, and there it was again. That small, quiet pinch in her chest. Not jealousy in the sharp, ugly way. Not distrust. Nothing that made her doubt you.

Just awareness.

Eli knew a rhythm with you that Paige did not.

He knew how to tease you from before. He knew old versions of your expressions. He knew references she had not been there for. He knew the shape of your life before Storrs, before UConn, before Paige had learned your drink order and your favorite practice socks and the exact way your voice changed when you were trying not to laugh.

Paige did not like not knowing things about you.

She especially did not like when somebody else did.

But she stayed quiet, because it was not her place to make that your problem.

That was the thing about Paige’s jealousy. It could be loud in her head, but she had learned where the boundary was. She could be clingy. She could hover. She could make one too many jokes. She could insert herself into plans with embarrassing speed.

But she would not make you smaller to make herself feel bigger.

Eli was your friend. Your childhood friend. He had come to Storrs to see you. Paige understood that.

She just wished understanding made her less annoyed.

You spent the next hour showing Eli around the parts of campus that mattered to you. Not the formal tour version, though he joked that you were a terrible guide because half your descriptions were things like “this is where Nika yelled at someone once” and “that hallway always smells weird after games” and “Paige almost ate it on that patch of ice sophomore year.”

“I did not almost eat it,” Paige said immediately.

You looked at her. “You grabbed my sleeve and screamed.”

“I slipped.”

“You screamed.”

“It was a strategic noise.”

Eli laughed. “Strategic?”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t there.”

“No, but I can picture it.”

“She was very dramatic,” you said.

Paige pointed at you. “You promised not to bring that up.”

“I did not.”

“You did emotionally.”

“That’s not legally binding.”

“It should be.”

Eli grinned. “She always this argumentative?”

You and Paige both answered at the same time.

“Yes,” you said.

“No,” Paige said.

You looked at each other.

Paige sighed.

Eli laughed again.

The thing was, Paige did argue. Constantly. With everybody. With Nika, with KK, with Azzi when Azzi was in the mood to entertain it, with coaches under her breath when she thought they were wrong but knew better than to say too much. She argued because she cared, because she was competitive, because her brain moved fast and her mouth often got there even faster.

But with you, she folded around the edges.

The first time Eli saw it clearly was outside the dining hall.

Nika had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, because Nika had a talent for entering scenes already annoyed.

“There you are,” she said to Paige. “You still owe me.”

Paige frowned. “For what?”

“For lying.”

“I lie about a lot of things. Be specific.”

“For saying you beat me in shooting yesterday.”

“I did beat you.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You counted one twice.”

“You missed enough that it didn’t matter.”

Nika stepped closer, hands up. “You are so—”

“Paige,” you said, barely looking away from your phone.

Paige stopped arguing.

Again.

Instantly.

She turned toward you. “Yeah?”

You held out your empty matcha cup. “Can you help throw this out?”

Paige took it from your hand before the question fully finished. “Yeah.”

She walked to the trash can.

Eli watched her go.

Nika watched Eli watching her.

Then Nika looked at you, looked at Paige, looked at Eli again, and made a face.

“See?” she said to Eli, despite the fact that nobody had asked her anything. “This is what I deal with.”

Eli blinked. “What?”

Paige returned. “Don’t talk to him.”

Nika ignored her. “All day. She talks crazy to me, then Y/N says one thing and suddenly she’s customer service.”

“I’m helpful,” Paige said.

“You are house-trained.”

Paige’s mouth dropped open. “Bro.”

You coughed around a laugh.

Paige looked at you immediately, then smiled despite herself.

Nika pointed at her own face like she was presenting evidence. “Disgusting.”

Eli was laughing now, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that made Paige want to be annoyed but also weirdly proud. Because yes, fine, maybe she was easy for you. But that was not embarrassing to her in the way everyone seemed to think it should be.

She liked being yours.

She liked when people could tell.

Not too much. Not enough to put words on it that you had not both agreed to share. But enough that people understood there was a line around you, and Paige lived somewhere inside it.

KK joined you near the entrance, looking way too excited for someone who had only caught the tail end of the conversation.

“What happened?”

Nika pointed at Paige. “Same thing that always happens.”

KK’s eyes lit up. “She folded?”

“I did not fold,” Paige said.

You looked at her.

Paige glanced at you and lowered her voice. “I didn’t.”

KK slapped Nika’s arm. “She said that quieter to Y/N.”

Nika nodded. “Different tone.”

“Y’all study me too much,” Paige said.

“You make it easy,” KK replied.

Eli leaned closer to you as Paige got pulled into another bicker with Nika and KK. “Are they always like this?”

“Yes.”

“And Paige is always like…” He trailed off, eyes flicking toward her.

You followed his gaze.

Paige was pointing at Nika, fully animated again. “You literally foul every possession and then act confused.”

Nika fired back instantly. “Because you complain every possession and then act like a victim.”

“I am a victim.”

“You are a problem.”

KK looked thrilled. “This team is so unserious.”

Paige turned toward her. “You’re part of the team.”

“I’m observing as a scholar.”

“You’re observing your way onto the line.”

You smiled, then said, “P, leave the freshman alone.”

Paige stopped. Her hand dropped. “She started it.”

Nika closed her eyes like she was in pain.

KK whispered, “That is insane.”

Eli looked at you.

You looked back at him, confused. “What?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Nothing.”

Because to you, that was just Paige.

Your Paige.

The one who would talk back to the entire world and then hand you obedience like it was the easiest thing she had ever given anybody.

Dinner was not supposed to become a thing.

That was how it happened.

Eli, after wandering campus and pretending not to be tired from travel, rubbed a hand over his stomach and said, “I actually haven’t eaten since this morning. You wanna grab something?”

Paige answered too fast.

“We were actually going somewhere.”

You turned your head slowly.

Paige did not look at you immediately.

Eli looked between you. “Oh. My bad. Can I come along?”

There was a pause. Not long enough to be rude. Long enough for Paige’s soul to briefly leave her body.

You could see her processing it. She had inserted herself because she wanted to be included, because you were hers and she was not above being obvious about it, but now Eli had done the reasonable thing and asked to come too. Paige could not say no. It was not her place. He was not her friend, not really, but he was yours. He had come all this way. He was being nice. He had not done anything wrong except exist with childhood memories and apparently no girlfriend, which Paige had already decided was suspicious on principle even though she had not yet confirmed it.

So she swallowed whatever first response had tried to climb out of her mouth.

Then she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s fine.”

The words were polite.

Her face was not thrilled.

You smiled at her softly.

Paige caught it and looked away, jaw shifting like she was trying not to smile back because she had a reputation to maintain and was currently losing it in front of everyone.

Eli did not ask what that meant.

He was starting to understand.

You ended up at a casual spot not far from campus, the kind of place athletes drifted toward when the dining hall felt too loud or too repetitive and everyone wanted something that did not taste like it had been planned by a nutritionist with a clipboard. The evening had settled cold around Storrs, the sky dark early in that Connecticut way that always made the day feel shorter than it was. Paige walked on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking, switching places with you so smoothly that Eli noticed before you did.

You were talking about something from childhood, hands moving as you explained a story involving a bike, a hill, and Eli apparently making a terrible decision at age twelve.

Paige listened.

Mostly.

She was trying.

But every old story felt like opening a door into a room she had never been inside. You as a kid. You before UConn. You before the girl Paige met freshman year, sharp and pretty and impossible not to look at across a gym. Paige knew that version. She knew who you became under pressure. She knew how you handled bad shooting nights and sore knees and exam weeks. She knew the way you taped your fingers. She knew how you looked when you were locked in during a close game. She knew your coffee order when you were too tired for matcha. She knew your favorite hoodie, the one you denied was hers even though it had started in her closet. She knew what made you laugh now.

Eli knew what made you laugh then. That should not have bothered her.

It did anyway.

Inside the restaurant, you slid into a booth, Eli across from you. Paige sat beside you before anyone could even pretend there was another arrangement. Her thigh pressed against yours under the table. She spread the menu open with one hand, her other resting near her own knee.

You leaned slightly into her without looking, shoulder brushing hers.

She relaxed instantly.

Eli saw that too.

The conversation stayed easy at first. Food orders. Travel complaints. Eli making fun of how cold Storrs was. You telling him he was dramatic because it was not even winter yet. Paige muttering that he would not survive January, which made you laugh.

Then Eli mentioned an old nickname. It slipped out casually, like he had said it a thousand times before.

Paige’s head turned.

You groaned. “Do not call me that.”

Eli grinned. “What? It’s classic.”

“It is not classic. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s history.”

“It’s banned.”

“You can’t ban history.”

“I can ban you.”

Paige looked at you. “What nickname?”

“No.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “No?”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m asking.”

“You’re starting by asking.”

“I wanna know.”

Eli smiled like he had just been handed a weapon. “You don’t know?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to him.

There was no heat, not really.

But there was something.

You felt it immediately.

Not jealousy, exactly. Something softer and more sensitive than that. Paige hated being outside of anything involving you. She would never say it that plainly, but you knew. She wanted every version of you she could get. Not to own, not to control, but to understand. To keep safe. To love properly.

You nudged her knee under the table.

She looked at you.

Your hand slipped down, quiet and easy, finding hers under the table.

Paige went still.

Then her fingers wrapped around yours.

Just like that, the sharp thing in her expression eased.

Nobody above the table needed to know.

Eli kept talking, but his gaze dipped once. Maybe he saw the movement. Maybe he only saw how Paige’s shoulders dropped the second your hand touched hers.

Either way, he did not mention it.

Your food came, and Paige immediately pushed the sauce you liked closer to your side before you reached for it. She pulled a napkin from the dispenser and put it beside your plate. When you got distracted answering one of Eli’s questions, she moved your drink away from the edge of the table because you had a habit of gesturing too much and almost knocking things over.

Eli watched all of it.

After a while, he started testing it. Not cruelly. Just curiously.

“You always take care of her like that?” he asked Paige.

You looked up, confused.

Paige did not hesitate. “Yeah.”

Your face warmed.

Eli’s eyebrows lifted, amused by the directness.

Paige shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. “She forgets stuff.”

“I do not forget stuff.”

Paige looked at you.

You looked back.

She said nothing.

You frowned. “Okay, I forget some stuff.”

“You forgot your keys this morning.”

“I was testing you.”

“She says that every time,” Paige told Eli.

Eli laughed. “Sounds like her.”

Paige’s smile tightened at the edges.

There it was again.

Sounds like her.

Like he knew. Like he had known longer.

Your thumb moved over Paige’s knuckles under the table.

She inhaled quietly.

You kept talking to Eli, but your hand stayed in hers.

Paige clung to that small contact like it was a lifeline.

The night got warmer after that. Not because Paige stopped feeling strange, but because you kept choosing her in ways that did not interrupt the conversation. Your knee stayed against hers. Your hand returned to hers whenever you could. Once, when Eli was telling a story about some mutual childhood disaster, you leaned sideways and murmured, “You okay?” so softly only Paige heard.

She nodded.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re quiet.”

“Listening.”

“To him?”

“To you.”

You looked at her then, and Paige looked right back, no joke ready, no smirk, just that open fondness she sometimes forgot to hide.

You squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back.

Eli watched you both from across the table and smiled faintly to himself.

Later, when Paige stepped away to take a call from one of the staff members about something schedule-related, Eli waited until she was out of earshot before leaning back in the booth.

“So,” he said.

You looked up from your drink. “What?”

He nodded toward the direction Paige had gone. “That’s Paige.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Obviously.”

“No, I mean…” He smiled. “That’s Paige.”

You looked down, fighting the way your mouth wanted to curve. “Yeah.”

“She’s intense.”

“She’s Paige.”

“She looks at you like you hung the moon.”

You went quiet.

That was not the kind of teasing you could swat away easily.

Eli softened a little, elbows resting on the table. “You happy?”

The question settled between you.

You looked toward the hallway where Paige had disappeared, then back at him.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

He nodded. “Good.”

You stirred your straw through the ice in your cup.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The noise of the restaurant filled the silence: silverware, voices, the low hum of music, someone laughing too loudly near the front. It was strange, having someone from before sit across from you in the life you had built after. Strange, but not bad.

Then Eli asked, quieter, “Who is she to you?”

You did not answer right away.

Not because you did not know.

You knew exactly who Paige was to you.

She was the girl outside your door with matcha. The hand under the table. The pass before you cut. The hoodie on your chair. The person who had learned you in details so small other people would have missed them. She was cocky, impossible, soft where it counted, annoying when she wanted attention, loyal in a way that made your chest ache. She was the person who could make you roll your eyes and feel safe in the same breath.

But the relationship was not only yours to hand out.

Even after almost three years, even when the team knew, even when people close to you could figure it out, you were careful with it. Not ashamed. Never ashamed. Just protective. Paige was not a headline to you. She was not gossip. She was not something you tossed casually onto a table just because someone asked.

You looked toward the hallway again.

Paige was still gone.

Then you smiled faintly.

“She’s important,” you said.

Eli studied you for a second.

Then he nodded, like he understood exactly what you were not saying.

“Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”

You did not deny it.

You did not confirm it either.

You only took a sip of your drink, still smiling down at the table like you could not quite help yourself.

Eli leaned back, satisfied. “For what it’s worth, she seems good for you.”

“She is.”

“She’s also wildly obvious.”

You laughed.

“She is not subtle,” he said.

“No,” you admitted softly. “She’s not.”

“And you don’t notice?”

You frowned. “Notice what?”

Eli stared at you.

Then he started laughing.

“What?”

“You’re kidding.”

“What?”

“She follows you around like you’ve got her on a leash.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face felt warm. “She does not.”

“She absolutely does.”

“That’s just Paige.”

“With you,” Eli said. “I’m getting the sense that is just Paige with you.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

Because the easy answer was to deny it. To say Paige was like that with everyone. Helpful. Touchy. Loyal. Big-hearted beneath all the attitude.

But that was not fully true.

Paige cared about her people. She would do anything for her team. She would show up, protect, support, fight, love hard. But with you, there was a softness that had its own shape. A quiet automatic obedience that did not appear anywhere else. Paige could argue with a coach, a teammate, a ref, a wall, and herself.

But you said her name, and she stopped.

You had never really thought about how that looked from the outside.

Before you could answer, Paige came back.

Her eyes moved between you and Eli immediately. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said.

She did not believe you. “Why you smiling like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you were talking about me.”

Eli lifted his drink. “We were.”

Paige slid into the booth beside you, suspicious. “What about me?”

You leaned toward her, shoulder brushing hers. “Good things.”

Her suspicion wavered.

“Good things?” she repeated.

You nodded.

Paige tried to hold onto the attitude, but your knee pressed into hers under the table and your fingers found her wrist. Her entire expression softened again, helplessly.

Eli watched it happen.

Then he laughed under his breath.

Paige looked at him. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.”

“You keep saying nothing.”

“Because it’s nothing.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “You’re annoying.”

Eli pointed at you. “She used to say that to me all the time.”

Paige’s attention snapped toward you. “Did you?”

You blinked. “Probably.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You had other annoying people before me?”

You smiled. “P, nobody is annoying like you.”

She looked pleased before she could stop herself.

Eli covered his mouth with his hand.

“You’re laughing again,” Paige said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just seeing the vision.”

“What vision?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Paige looked at you. “I don’t trust him.”

You patted her hand under the table. “Be nice.”

Paige immediately muttered, “I’m being nice.”

Eli whispered, “Leash.”

You kicked him under the table.

He laughed so hard he almost choked on his drink.

Paige looked between you again. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, but you were laughing now too.

Paige huffed, but she was smiling because you were smiling, and that was usually all it took.

By the time dinner ended, Paige had relaxed more. Not fully. She still watched Eli with that quiet competitive focus whenever he mentioned something from your childhood. She still asked too many casual questions that were not casual at all. She wanted to know how long you had known each other, when you stopped living near each other, whether he visited often, whether you two still talked a lot, whether he had a girlfriend.

That last one came out too smooth.

Too smooth meant dangerous.

“So,” Paige said, pushing fries around her plate like she did not care. “You got a girlfriend or something?”

You turned your head slowly.

Eli blinked, then smiled. “Subtle.”

Paige shrugged. “Just asking.”

“Uh, no. We broke up a few months ago.”

Paige’s hand paused.

You felt it because you were still holding it under the table.

There it was.

The clocking.

The immediate mental file opening in Paige’s head.

Single childhood friend. Knows your old nickname. Makes you laugh. Came to Storrs. Hazard level: annoying.

You squeezed her hand before she could spiral too visibly.

Paige looked at you.

You gave her the smallest smile.

She exhaled through her nose and nodded once, like fine, okay, she would behave.

“Sorry,” you told Eli. “That sucks.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “It was mutual. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Okay, maybe not fully mutual.”

You gave him a sympathetic look.

Paige, to her credit, said nothing mean.

You were proud of her.

So proud, actually, that under the table, you brushed your thumb over the inside of her wrist.

Paige’s posture changed.

A tiny shift. Barely visible.

But you felt it. The way she melted in increments, like you had found the exact place to touch to make the jealousy drain out of her. Her shoulder pressed more firmly into yours, and when you did not move away, she stayed there.

Eli saw that too.

He smiled to himself again, less teasing this time.

Something gentler.

After dinner, the three of you walked back toward campus under streetlights, the air cold enough that your breath showed faintly when you laughed. Eli told more stories. Paige listened more than she spoke, but she was not withdrawn anymore. She made comments. Teased you. Asked questions. Got offended when Eli claimed you used to be faster than you were now.

“She is faster now,” Paige said immediately.

Eli lifted his hands. “I’m just saying, at twelve—”

“At twelve she was racing you on a street. Now she’s training every day.”

You glanced at her, amused. “You sound personally offended.”

“I am.”

“On my behalf?”

“Always.”

The word came out too easy.

You looked at her.

Paige looked back, realizing after the fact what she had said. Her cheeks pinked slightly, though she would blame the cold if anyone asked.

Eli looked away politely.

You let your hand brush hers as you walked.

Paige caught it.

Just for a second, your fingers linked.

Then you let go before it became too obvious to anyone passing by.

Paige did not complain.

She just smiled at the ground.

Eventually, Eli had to head back to where he was staying. He hugged you goodbye, promised he would text in the morning, and told Paige it was good to meet her.

Paige nodded. “You too.”

Then, after a beat, she added, “For real.”

Eli seemed to understand the effort in that.

He smiled. “Take care of her.”

Paige’s expression shifted.

Not defensive.

Certain.

“I do,” she said.

Your heart did something stupid.

Eli glanced at you, then back at Paige. “Yeah. I can tell.”

When he left, the quiet that followed felt bigger than it should have.

You and Paige walked back toward the dorms side by side. For the first minute, neither of you spoke. The cold pressed in around you. Somewhere in the distance, people were laughing. A car passed, headlights sliding over the sidewalk before disappearing around the curve.

Paige had her hands in her hoodie pocket.

You had your arms crossed against the chill.

Normally, she would have said something by now. A joke. A complaint. A dramatic comment about the cold. A question she pretended was casual.

Instead, she stayed quiet.

You glanced at her. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“P.”

She looked at you.

You stopped walking.

Because that still worked too.

Paige stopped immediately, turning to face you.

The streetlight caught the side of her face, softening the sharpness of her features. She looked younger like this, hood up, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes searching yours with the kind of openness she rarely gave anyone else.

“You were hovering,” you said.

Paige’s mouth twitched. “Was not.”

You gave her a look.

She held out for maybe two seconds.

Then she folded.

“A little.”

You smiled. “A little?”

“Medium.”

“P.”

She sighed. “Fine. A lot.”

Your smile widened.

She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite in it. “Don’t look all happy.”

“I’m not happy.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I think it’s cute.”

Paige looked away quickly.

There it was again. That pleased, shy little crack in her confidence.

“You think everything I do is cute,” she muttered.

“Not everything.”

“Name one thing.”

“When you leave your socks on my floor.”

“You love that.”

“I do not.”

“You love that I’m comfortable.”

“I love you. That is different.”

Paige went quiet.

It still got her sometimes.

Even after almost three years.

Especially after almost three years.

Her eyes came back to yours, softer now. “Yeah?”

You stepped closer. “Yeah.”

The tension in her shoulders dropped.

For all her confidence, for all the attitude and cockiness and noise, Paige still looked at you sometimes like she could not believe she had gotten this. Like there was a part of her still standing in freshman year, watching you across a gym, wondering how someone could be that pretty and that good and that calm under pressure. Like some part of her was still amazed that you had chosen her back.

You reached for her sleeve, tugging her closer.

She came immediately.

Of course she did.

“You know you don’t have to compete with him, right?” you said.

Paige’s eyebrows pulled together. “I wasn’t.”

“P.”

She looked down.

You waited.

The thing about Paige was she could argue with everyone else forever, but with you, silence usually worked better. You did not have to push. You just had to stay.

Finally, she said, “He knows a lot about you.”

“He knew me when we were kids.”

“Yeah.” Paige swallowed. “That’s the part.”

Your chest softened.

There it was.

Not jealousy, not really.

Want.

Paige wanted every version of you. The teammate. The girlfriend. The girl who forgot her keys. The girl who hit corner threes. The girl who got quiet when she was tired. The girl who used to race bikes down hills and apparently had an embarrassing childhood nickname she refused to share.

She wanted all of it.

Not because she felt entitled to it.

Because she loved you so much she hated the idea of missing anything.

You slid your hand down her sleeve until your fingers found hers.

“You can ask me anything, you know.”

Paige looked up. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What was the nickname?”

You groaned immediately. “No.”

“You said anything.”

“I said anything, not that.”

“That is included in anything.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately.”

Paige smiled, bright and victorious. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Baby.”

You looked at her.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The nickname landed soft and low, wrapped in that pleading tone she only used when she wanted something from you and knew she had a decent chance of getting it. Paige could be shameless when she wanted attention. Worse, she knew you liked it.

“Don’t baby me,” you said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Is it working?”

You stared at her.

She smiled.

You sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“But it’s working?”

“Maybe.”

She stepped closer, fingers tightening around yours. “Then tell me.”

You looked around, even though nobody was close enough to hear. “If I tell you, you can’t laugh.”

Paige’s face turned serious immediately. Too serious. Fake serious. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Not at you.”

“At the nickname.”

“That’s different.”

“Paige.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t laugh.”

You hesitated.

She leaned in slightly, eyes fixed on yours like this mattered more than anything else in her entire night.

So you told her.

Quietly.

Paige stared at you.

Her lips pressed together.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Her shoulders shook once.

“Paige.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are literally laughing.”

“I’m holding it in.”

“P.”

She stopped.

Mostly.

Then she cleared her throat, face red from the effort. “It’s cute.”

“It is not cute.”

“It’s very cute.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“You’re done.”

“No, wait—”

You started walking again.

Paige followed instantly, still holding your hand.

“Baby, wait.”

“No.”

“I’m serious. It’s cute.”

“You’re never allowed to say it.”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

You glanced at her.

She looked sincere for about half a second.

Then she said it under her breath.

You stopped.

Paige immediately tried to run.

You grabbed her sleeve, laughing despite yourself. “Paige!”

She was laughing now too, stumbling backward as you pulled her close. “I had to.”

“You promised!”

“I said it quiet.”

“That does not count.”

“It counts emotionally.”

“You are so annoying.”

“But you love me.”

“Barely.”

Paige gasped. “Barely?”

You tried to pull away, but she caught your waist gently, tugging you back in like it was instinct. Not rough. Never rough. Just enough to make you step into her space, your hands landing against the front of her hoodie.

Her face was close now.

Too close for a public sidewalk, maybe.

But not close enough for either of you to move away.

“You love me barely?” she asked, voice softer.

You looked up at her. “Maybe medium.”

“Medium?”

“Fine. A lot.”

“How much?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re needy.”

“For you? Yeah.”

That shut you up.

Paige smiled, but it was not cocky this time. It was honest. Warm. A little vulnerable around the edges.

“I am,” she said, like she had decided there was no point pretending otherwise. “I’m real needy for you.”

Your fingers curled in her hoodie.

“Everyone noticed,” you said softly.

“I don’t care.”

“You cared earlier.”

“I cared that he knew stuff I didn’t.” Paige’s thumb moved lightly at your waist. “Not that he noticed I’m obsessed with you.”

Your face warmed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am.” She leaned closer, nose brushing yours for half a second. “Still got you though.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“Still don’t know how.”

Your expression softened.

Paige said it like a joke, but her eyes gave her away.

You lifted one hand to her face, thumb brushing her cheek. She went still under the touch. Completely still. Paige Bueckers, who could not stop moving most days, who bounced and shifted and talked with her whole body, froze like your hand on her face had turned the world quiet.

“You don’t have to know how,” you said. “You just have to stay.”

Her eyes searched yours.

Then she nodded once.

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

“I’m good at that.”

“You are.”

“Best thing I do, probably.”

“You play basketball pretty well too.”

Paige smiled. “Pretty well?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

You laughed, and Paige kissed you before the sound could fully leave your mouth.

It was quick, soft, familiar. A kiss that belonged to quiet sidewalks and cold nights and the kind of love that had been built over years of mornings, practices, passes, arguments, teasing, and Paige waiting outside your door with your drink in hand.

When she pulled back, she was smiling.

You tapped her chest. “Come on. It’s cold.”

Paige immediately stepped beside you.

Then, after two steps, she gently took your hand again.

You looked at her. “You’re clingy tonight.”

“I’m clingy every night.”

“True.”

“You like it.”

You did not answer.

Paige bumped your shoulder. “You like it.”

“Maybe.”

“You do.”

“P.”

She grinned. “Okay.”

And just like that, she stopped pushing.

The walk back was quiet after that, but not empty. Paige kept your hand in hers until you reached the building. She opened the door for you. Followed you inside. Pressed the elevator button before you could. Stood close enough that your shoulders touched as you waited.

When the doors opened, KK was inside again. Because apparently the universe had a sense of humor. She looked at your joined hands.

Then at Paige.

Then at you.

A slow grin spread across her face.

“Damn,” KK said. “Still on the leash?”

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “You got one more time.”

You squeezed Paige’s hand.

Paige shut her mouth.

KK’s grin got huge. “Oh, this is sick.”

You stepped into the elevator, laughing.

Paige followed, muttering, “I hate everybody.”

KK looked at you. “She don’t hate you.”

“No,” you said, leaning slightly into Paige’s side.

Paige looked down at you, all soft again, all helpless again, all hers and yours and gone in that way everyone could see except maybe the two of you.

“No,” Paige said quietly. “I don’t.”

KK made a gagging noise.

Paige ignored her.

You smiled.

And when the elevator doors closed, Paige was still holding your hand, still carrying your bag, still standing close enough to follow wherever you went next.

Like always.

Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Like she had never once wanted to be anywhere else.

you’d seen her argue passionately with a vending machine for four full minutes after it gave her extra chips, not complaining, celebrating, giving it a genuine speech about integrity and reward.

you’d seen her walk into a film session fifteen minutes late with a breakfast sandwich and no apology and somehow make geno laugh anyway you had known, intellectually, what you were getting into but this, this is something new.

“you’re mic’d up,” you remind her during the first timeout of the second half you’re down four it’s a home game, gampel loud and close around you, and geno is at the whiteboard drawing out adjustments with the focused energy of a man who does not have time for anything that isn’t basketball.

paige is standing next to you with her elbow propped on your shoulder like you are a piece of furniture she has personally claimed like this is just where her elbow lives now. “i know,” she says pleasantly.

“paige. the whole country can hear you.”

“i know,” she says again, same tone, zero concern, and then she turns slightly toward her own collar and says, louder, with the deliberate energy of someone making an announcement: “my girlfriend is the prettiest player on this team and i will not be taking questions at this time.”

the timeout explodes nika loses it first full body, hand over her mouth, turning away like she can hide it. aubrey makes a noise that is not a basketball player noise.

ice throws her head back completely, done, gone, not coming back kk pulls her jersey up over her face. azzi, who is famously the most composed person on this roster, makes a sound in the back of her throat that is, without question, a wheeze.

even aaliyah, still operating under the impression that she should probably be professional, covers her face with both hands geno does not look up from the whiteboard.

“bueckers.”

“coach.”

“are you done.”

“yes sir.”

he keeps drawing, sets it up, taps the board twice a full five seconds of blessed silence while he walks through the adjustment and everyone pretends to be paying attention then, quieter so quiet it’s almost just for you, just breath and words and the weight of her elbow still on your shoulder: “she really is though.” and the mic catches every single syllable of it.

it airs on the espn feature two weeks later, tucked between a segment on the team’s defensive rating and a profile on geno’s coaching philosophy.

they give it a title card they use it as the closer the producer, you will later find out, fought for thirty seconds to include it and won unanimously as your phone doesn’t stop buzzing for four days.

your mom calls, your mom never calls during the season she calls to say, and these are her exact words she seems very nice, honey. paige, who is sitting next to you when you take the call, hears this and looks extremely smug about it for the rest of the evening.

the second incident and yes, there is a second incident, there is always a second incident with paige, this is what you have come to understand about your life during warmups before the villanova game.

it’s a road trip, a night game, the gym still mostly empty when you’re running shooting lines forty minutes before tip.

it’s routine catch, shot, rotate, the lights are up, the music is going, kk is talking too loud about something that happened at dinner and aubrey is responding with equal volume and it’s just it’s normal.

it feels like every other pregame warmup you’ve had for three years and then paige, who is supposed to be on the other end of the court working pull-ups with the assistant coach, cups both hands around her mouth and shouts across half court: “that’s my girlfriend.”

you do not look at her. “number —” a pause, like she’s checking, which she is absolutely not doing, she knows your number, “— that one. right there. she’s mine.”

there are maybe fifty people in the building, students filtering in early, a few parents, the opposing team still in their locker room, every single one of them looks at you.

“paige.” you catch the pass you do not look at her. “i’m just saying.”

“you’re always just saying.”

“because it’s always true.” a beat. “also she just made that shot which, statistically, proves my point.” nika, rotating behind you, makes a sound that she converts very quickly into a cough.

you make the next shot you rotate you are a composed and serious basketball player who is completely unbothered by her girlfriend’s complete lack of social self-regulation you are not smiling you are the picture of calm.

you are absolutely smiling, it is a losing battle and you know it aubrey catches it on your way back through the line and bumps your shoulder without a word.

nika raises both eyebrows so high they nearly leave her face entirely, a gesture that communicates i see you and i will never let you live this down without a single syllable.

you point at her in warning she holds both hands up innocent, uninvolved, completely blameless and she is also smiling, everyone within fifteen feet is smiling, this is what paige does, she walks into a space and somehow makes the whole room.

“still mine, by the way,” paige calls out from half court, just to make sure you haven’t forgotten.

“oh my god,” you say, to the basket.

“i love you,” she adds, bright and easy, and she’s already turned back to her pull-up, already mid-motion, like she didn’t just say that into the open air of a villanova gymnasium with witnesses present.

the ball comes to you, you hold it for a half second longer than you need to. “i love you too,” you say quietly, almost just for yourself.

almost.

azzi appears at your shoulder on the next rotation; she doesn’t say anything for a full beat, just exists there in that steady azzi way, and then. “you are so down bad.” delivered with great tenderness like a eulogy like she is sorry for your loss.

“i know,” you say. “it’s kind of sweet,” she allows, after a moment. “don’t tell her that.”

“she already knows.”

you look over without meaning to paige is on her pull-up again, mid-motion, and she’s not looking at you, but she’s smiling.

that specific smile, the one that means she’s aware of exactly what she just did and she’d do it again in a heartbeat you make the shot you make the next five shots you win by twelve.

the third incident is the one that ends up on twitter and you want this on the record, stated clearly, with full acknowledgement from all parties it was not your fault. not entirely.

you were running on adrenaline and forty minutes of game time and the specific kind of exhaustion that only comes when something matters, when the stakes are real and your body has been spending itself against them for the better part of an hour.

you had just hit the go-ahead layup forty seconds left, three-point game, you had taken the feed from paige on the baseline and gone up and kissed the glass and the crowd had come completely apart around you and then paige had come flying in from the perimeter like she’d been launched, full speed, arms already open, and you had caught her on pure reflex, no thought just hands, just instinct, both arms around her before your brain had even processed what was happening and she had said, right into your ear, warm and immediate. that’s my girl.

like it was the most natural thing like it was just a fact she was confirming and you had turned your head, and she was right there, and you had kissed her temple.

on the court with eleven thousand people watching and three cameras in the building and forty seconds still on the clock.

it lasted maybe one second, maybe less paige pulled back, and the expression on her face was something you’d never seen before not the grin, not the smug look, not the performed unbothered cool.

something quieter something that sat behind her eyes and didn’t have a name yet, something that made your chest do a thing you weren’t prepared for in the middle of a basketball game with forty seconds left and then nika was there, and aubrey, and the crowd was still going, and paige tapped your hip once and said let’s close this out in her captain voice, and the moment folded itself back into the noise.

you closed it out after, in the handshake line, two opposing players told you that was the cutest thing they’d ever seen on a basketball court but one of them said it twice as you didn’t know what to do with that information so you just said thank you and kept moving.

the clip is eleven seconds long whereas someone caught it from the student section, slightly shaky, the sound of eleven thousand people underneath it.

it opens on you going up for the layup and ends three seconds after the kiss just long enough to catch paige’s expression, that unnamed thing, before she pulls back and taps your hip and the camera loses you both in the crowd.

four hundred thousand likes by morning six hundred thousand by noon the caption is just a string of emojis a star, a flame, a broken heart, repeated and the quote tweets are a disaster, a beautiful unhinged disaster, and you watch the whole thing spiral from the hotel bed with your phone held above your face while paige showers.

she comes out in a t-shirt and sweats, hair damp, and looks at you, looks at your phone and reads the expression on your face. “how bad,” she says.

“it’s not bad,” you say. “it’s — there’s a compilation. someone made a compilation of every time you’ve done something like this on camera. it’s four minutes long.”

paige is quiet for a moment. then. “is it a good four minutes?”

“paige.”

“i’m asking.”

“it has eight hundred thousand views.”

she takes this in with the equanimity of someone who has long since made peace with being perceived then she crosses the room, takes your phone gently out of your hand, sets it face-down on the nightstand, and gets into bed with the decisive energy of someone who has made a decision and is not revisiting it. “go to sleep,” she says.

“my mentions are —”

“they’ll still be there tomorrow.”

“paige, there’s a thread. someone made a whole thread. they went back through like two years of footage and found every —”

“babe.” she turns toward you and there’s that thing again, that unnamed quiet, closer now and easier to see without eleven thousand people around it. “let them. okay? let them find every single one.” a pause. “i’d do all of it again.”

you look at her, the room is dim, just the glow from the parking lot through the curtain gap somewhere down the hall you can hear nika laughing at something, full and easy, the way she laughs when she’s really gone.

“you are the most embarrassing person i have ever met in my life,” you tell her.

the corner of her mouth lifts. “yeah,” she says, like this is not new information, like she has heard this before and filed it correctly. “but i’m yours.”

the city hums outside nika laughs again, further away now you look at her for another second two three. “yeah,” you say.

“you are.”

she reaches over and turns off the lamp in the dark, she finds your hand under the blanket and holds it with the easy certainty of someone who has decided and doesn’t need to keep deciding.

you fall asleep like that your phone buzzes twice on the nightstand you don’t check it until morning.

the twitter thread has a title now: someone with a uconn fan account with forty thousand followers and apparently a lot of free time has been updating it in real time since the villanova clip went viral.

it is called paige bueckers cinematic universe: a love story (documented) it has seventeen entries and is pinned to their profile; they update it within hours of any new incident.

you know this because kk told you kk told you while showing you her phone at breakfast with the expression of someone delivering genuinely important news, which, to be fair, she seemed to believe it was.

“seventeen,” she said. “and they’re not even counting the vending machine speech because you weren’t there for that one.”

“i was there for the vending machine speech.”

“then they should count it.” she scrolled. “look, they have timestamps.”

you had looked you had immediately regretted looking entry number fourteen was the temple kiss, and whoever ran the account had captioned it simply case closed. the court adjourned. we can all go home.

you showed it to paige paige read it, nodded once like it was a reasonable conclusion, and went back to her eggs this is your life now geno finds out about the thread on a tuesday.

you are not there when it happens you hear about it secondhand from kk, who was there, who describes it with the reverence of someone recounting a historical event.

apparently one of the assistant coaches mentioned it during a film session, offhand, the way you mention something you assume everyone already knows.

geno had stopped the film and asked, in the specific voice he uses when he is gathering information before forming an opinion, what exactly a twitter thread was and why it had seventeen entries about his point guard’s romantic life.

the assistant coach explained that geno had been quiet for a long moment then he looked at paige and said. “are you done.”

paige, who had not been the one to bring it up, who had been sitting there completely innocent for once in her life, said. “coach, i didn’t —”

“are you done,” geno said again.

“…yes sir.”

he had restarted the film kk tells you this in practice, in a whisper, while you’re waiting for the drill to reset, and you have to press your mouth together very hard to keep it from becoming something audible.

“he wasn’t even mad,” kk says. “that’s the thing. he just looked at her. and then he moved on.”

“that’s worse,” you say.

“so much worse,” kk agrees.

across the court, paige is running a ball-handling drill with complete focus and zero apparent awareness that she is being discussed.

she looks like an athlete, she looks like a professional, she looks, in this specific moment, like someone who has never in her life caused a four-hundred-thousand-like moment on twitter.

she catches you looking winks you look away. “entry eighteen,” kk says quietly, and you say “kk, i will actually end you,” and she smiles like she’s been waiting for that.

the road trip to providence is a six-hour bus ride and paige sleeps for approximately forty-five minutes of it before waking up restless and deciding that your shoulder is a better pillow than the window.

this is not unusual; this is, in fact, so usual that you don’t even clock it anymore, just shift slightly to give her a better angle and keep your headphones in and go back to whatever you were watching.

azzi, across the aisle, glances over and makes a face that communicates that you two are genuinely unbearable with great efficiency. “don’t,” you tell her. “i didn’t say anything,” azzi says.

“you had a whole sentence on your face.”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about.” she looks back at her phone. a beat. “she’s literally asleep on you.”

“she’s tired.”

“she slept the whole flight to the last road trip.”

“azzi.”

“i’m just noting,” azzi says, with the precise innocence of someone who is noting on purpose. “for the record. for the thread.”

“do not put this in the thread.”

“i don’t run the thread.”

“you know who runs the thread.” azzi’s expression does something complicated and she goes back to her phone very quickly and you narrow your eyes at her and she does not look up and you make a mental note to investigate this later.

paige shifts against your shoulder, resettles her hand, finds your arm without waking up, just pulls it slightly closer on instinct, and something in your chest does the thing it always does, the thing you’ve stopped trying to name.

azzi, from behind her phone screen, says nothing but she’s smiling you can tell.

the providence game is not close, you go up by eighteen in the second quarter and never really let it back, and by the fourth it’s the kind of game where geno is rotating deep into the bench and the starters are on the sideline in their warm-ups watching the younger players get minutes.

you’re sitting next to paige this is normal you’re always near paige on the bench when you’re both out, it’s just where you end up, gravitational, the way water finds level her knee is against yours this is also normal.

what is not normal is that kk, two seats down, is watching you both with the focused attention of a naturalist observing something in the wild. “kk,” paige says, without looking at her. “hm?”

“stop.”

“i’m watching the game.”

“you’re watching us.”

kk considers this. “i’m watching the game,” she says again, with no additional information, and goes back to looking exactly where she was looking.

paige looks at you, you look at paige some wordless agreement passes between you and you both look back at the court.

two minutes later, your team’s freshman point guard makes a ridiculous no-look pass that results in a layup and the bench erupts and in the chaos of everyone standing and reacting, paige leans in and says into your ear. “you played really well tonight.”

it’s quiet it’s just for you no broadcast, no audience, no mic it still gets you the same way it always does more, maybe, because it’s not a performance, it’s not for the thread or the clip or the eleven thousand people.

it’s just her voice close to your ear and her knee against yours and the noise of your teammates around you. “yeah?” you say.

“yeah.” a pause. “that drive in the third. that was you.”

“that was the play call.”

“the play call doesn’t hit the shot.” she pulls back enough to look at you properly and there it is again that thing behind her eyes, the unnamed one, the one you saw in the villanova gymnasium and again in the dark of the hotel room easier to see now that you know to look for it. “you hit the shot.” you hold her gaze for a second.

“you’re being normal,” you say.

“i can be normal.”

“you literally have a twitter thread.”

“that’s not my fault.”

“paige —”

“seventeen entries,” she says, like this is a reasonable defense, “is a reflection of the documentation, not the behavior.”

you stare at her she looks back at you with complete sincerity kk, two seats away, makes a noise that she converts into a cough so badly it doesn’t even almost work. “i hate you,” you tell paige.

“no you don’t,” she says easily she’s right she’s completely right and she knows it and that’s the worst part, that she has always known it, that from the very beginning she somehow knew exactly where this was going before you did, and she had just waited.

let you figure it out given you all the time you needed and not a single second of pressure. “no,” you say. “i don’t.”

she smiles not the grin, not the performed one the real one, the smaller one, the one that only comes out in the quiet moments that belong just to you the buzzer sounds uconn wins by twenty-two.

the locker room after is loud the way locker rooms are always loud after wins music up, everyone talking at once, the particular chaos of twenty people in a confined space all feeling good at the same time.

geno comes in, does his thing, says what he needs to say, and then pauses at the door on his way out he looks at you then at paige then back at the room in general.

“seventeen,” he says, and nothing else then he leaves the locker room and goes completely silent for approximately two full seconds then nika absolutely loses it.

ice is right behind her aubrey is gone kk is sitting on the bench with her face in her hands making no sound but shaking azzi is the only one who looks unsurprised, which you are filing away for later.

paige, for the first time in recent memory, looks genuinely caught there is something happening on her face that is almost, almost embarrassment she looks at you and you look back at her. “geno knows about the thread,” you say.

“geno knows about the thread,” she confirms.

“are you done,” you say, in your best geno voice, which is not very good something breaks open on her face she laughs, real and full, head back, and it’s the laugh you like best, the one that doesn’t have any performance in it, and you think distantly that you would do a lot of things to keep hearing that laugh, that you have been thinking this for a long time without saying it, that maybe you don’t need to say it because she already knows she already knows she has always known.

“come on,” she says, when she’s done, still grinning. she holds her hand out. “bus leaves in twenty.”

you take her hand kk, from the bench, says. “entry eighteen,” at a volume she clearly thinks is under her breath.

it is not under her breath. “kk,” you say. “congratulations on the win,” kk says.

you leave the locker room hand in hand and the music follows you all the way down the hall.

the thing about the final four is that nothing prepares you for it, not the practices, not the film sessions, not geno standing at the whiteboard drawing it out like a map you can follow if you just pay close enough attention.

not the two years you spent getting here, not the recruiting rankings or the expectations or the weight of what this program means to people who were wearing uconn blue before you were born.

none of it prepares you for the specific feeling of walking into an arena that size with something real on the line and understanding, in your body, that this is it this is the one you’ll remember.

you’ve been in big games you’ve been in games that mattered but this is different in a way that lives in your sternum, a low persistent hum that’s been there since the bus pulled into the parking lot and hasn’t left.

paige, walking beside you through the tunnel, bumps her shoulder against yours. “you’re in your head,” she says. “i’m focused.”

“you’re making the face.”

“i don’t have a face.”

“you have a face,” she says, easy and certain, the way she says everything. “you’ve had it since warmups, your jaw does the thing.” you consciously unclench your jaw.

she watches you do it and doesn’t say anything, which is somehow worse than if she had said something you walk another twenty feet in silence, the noise of the arena building around you, and then she says. “hey.” you look at her.

“we’re here,” she says just that we’re here like it’s the whole point, like it contains everything the two years and the practices and the film sessions and the vending machine speech and the seventeen entries and the hotel room in providence and all of it, every single piece of it, compressed into two words.

something in your sternum settles. “yeah,” you say. “so let’s go play,” she says, and she’s already moving, already ahead of you, already in it the way she’s always in it completely, without reservation, like she was made for exactly this floor.

you follow her you always follow her the game is everything it’s everything in the way that the best games are not clean, not easy, nothing handed.

you go up by six in the first half and lose it in the third and claw it back point by point in the fourth, and it’s the kind of basketball that takes something from you even when you’re winning, that spends you down to the last reserve of yourself and then asks for a little more.

paige is everywhere this is not unusual paige is always everywhere but tonight it’s different, tonight it’s the version of her that you’ve only seen a handful of times, the version where she’s fully unlocked, where every decision she makes is half a second faster than it should be possible for a human person to think.

she finds you twice in the fourth quarter in ways that shouldn’t work, passes that require her to know where you’re going before you’ve decided to go there, and both times you make the shot and both times you look at each other for exactly one second before the game pulls you back with forty-three seconds left you’re up two.

with eighteen seconds left you’re up two with four seconds left, after a stop and two made free throws, you’re up four.

the buzzer sounds and for a moment just a moment, maybe two seconds, maybe less the arena is so loud it becomes a kind of silence a wall of sound so complete it cancels itself out and leaves you standing in the middle of it feeling like the only still thing in the world then paige finds you.

she doesn’t come flying this time, no running start, no full-speed collision she just crosses the court and gets to you, and when she does she puts both hands on either side of your face and looks at you for a long moment without saying anything and her eyes are bright and she’s breathing hard and you are too and the confetti is starting somewhere above you and neither of you are looking at it.

she doesn’t say that’s my girl she doesn’t say anything for the record, nothing for the broadcast, nothing that will end up in the thread.

she just looks at you like you are the thing she wanted to see most at the end of all of this you put your hands over hers.

“we’re here,” you say, because it’s her words and they’re the right ones and there’s nothing else that fits.

something moves through her face that thing, the unnamed one, the one from villanova and the hotel room and the bench in providence except now it has more room, now it isn’t compressed into a single second between plays, now it can just be there, open and unhidden, and you can look at it as long as you need to.

you think maybe you know what to call it now. “yeah,” she says, low and certain. “we are.”

later much later, after the celebration and the trophy and the interviews and the photos and geno’s speech, after nika has cried twice and tried to pretend she didn’t, after kk has documented everything extensively, after azzi has said entry twenty-six with great satisfaction into what she thought was an empty hallway but wasn’t.

later, you find each other in the quiet it’s a hallway off the main locker room, not glamorous fluorescent light, the distant sound of music from wherever the team has migrated.

paige is sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her legs stretched out and her medal around her neck and her eyes closed she looks like something poured out and left to rest you sit down next to her, your shoulder against hers. she doesn’t open her eyes. “hey.”

“hey.”

a long beat the music somewhere the hum of the building. “kk’s going to make a whole post,” she says.

“i know.”

“with pictures.”

“i know.”

“the thread is going to be unhinged tomorrow.”

“i know.” a pause. “azzi runs it, by the way. i figured it out.”

paige is quiet for a moment then, slowly, a smile. “i know,” she says you stare at her. “you knew?”

“since entry four.”

“paige —”

“she asked me before she started it,” she says, still with her eyes closed, still smiling. “she wanted to make sure i was okay with it.”

you sit with this for a moment, the specific image of azzi pulling paige aside, probably in the dining hall, probably with her phone already open, asking permission to document your entire relationship for forty thousand followers. “and you said yes,” you say.

“i said yes.”

“why?”

she opens her eyes then turns her head to look at you, unhurried, the way she does everything when there’s no game to get back to, no clock running.

the medal sits heavy and gold next her chest, the fluorescent light is unflattering and she looks like the best thing you’ve ever seen.

“because it’s true,” she says simply. “everything in it. every single entry. it’s all just — true. and i didn’t want to hide any of it.” a beat. “i never wanted to hide any of it.”

you look at her for a long moment the music is muffled the light hums somewhere nika laughs again, her real laugh, the full one.

“i know,” you say, finally and you do.

you have always known, maybe from before you had the language for it, that paige was never going to be someone who hid things.

that choosing her meant being seen, consistently, in front of everyone, with no take-backs and no footnotes.

that the thread and the mic and the warmup announcement and all of it were never really about showing off they were just her.

all the way through. no performance, no edit just paige, pointing at you in a half-empty gymnasium and saying she’s mine like it was the most natural thing in the world because to her, it was. “i love you,” you tell her.

not quiet this time, not almost, just for you just said, clear and easy, in a fluorescent hallway off a championship locker room.

she smiles, the real one, the small one and the one that has always been yours. “i love you too,” she says she leans her head on your shoulder.

you stay there for a while, the two of you, while the celebration goes on without you somewhere down the hall.

the medal is cold when it brushes your arm her breathing evens out slowly, the way it does when she’s finally letting herself come down.

you don’t need to say anything else you don’t need to entry twenty-seven, posted at 2:47am by a fan account with forty thousand followers, is just a blurry photo taken through a doorway. two figures sitting on a hallway floor, shoulder to shoulder, one of them with a gold medal catching the light.