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whitechocolate355 · 3 months ago

Text

time out

oneshot

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 2k

warnings - language

synopsis: after a heated argument during a scrimmage, Paige and Azzi are both benched for “unsportsmanlike behaviour.” Forced to sit in silence while their teammates play, the tension between them begins boils over — and neither of them can hold back what they really want to say (or do).

one shot request from a lovely anon!! getting around to everyone’s requests so bear w/ me… also chap 5 for full court press will be uploaded tmr morning

The gym was blisteringly loud. Sneakers screeched. Whistles pierced. Coaches yelled in a flurry of clipped commands and clipboard slaps.

And Paige was about two seconds from completely losing her shit.

“I SAID SWITCH!” she yelled, throwing her arms up as Azzi jogged past her, completely ignoring the rotation.

Azzi didn’t even spare her a glance. Just caught the rebound like it was hers by divine right and launched the ball effortlessly into the net.

Swish.

Paige’s blood boiled. “You’re seriously not gonna talk to me now?”

Azzi brushed past her again, the faint scent of musky vanilla clinging to her skin, her face stoic, as if carved in stone. “I didn’t realise I had anything left to say.”

“Oh, cut the cold act,” Paige hissed, stepping into her space. “You’re playing selfish. This is a team scrimmage, not your personal Steph Curry highlight reel.”

Azzi stopped. Turned. Her hair whipping around like a blade.

“You want to talk about selfish?” she snapped. “Maybe look in a mirror before you start throwing around words you don’t understand.”

And that was it. All it took. Paige shoved her shoulder into Azzi’s, and Azzi shoved right back.

“HEY!” Coach blew the whistle like it was a goddamn siren. “You two—BENCH. NOW. You wanna act like children? You’ll sit like them too.”

Paige stormed to the bench, jaw clenched, heart clawing at her ribs. Azzi followed, expression unreadable.

But this had been building for weeks.

Paige could feel it in the way Azzi always passed to someone else when she was open. In the glances they shared that lingered too long. In the breathless moments after every scrimmage where she half expected Azzi to say something—anything—that might make sense of the way her heart pounded after every brush of their hands.

And now, with them both benched and pissed and sitting shoulder to shoulder, Paige couldn’t take it anymore.

They sat on opposite ends of the same metal seat, separated by maybe three feet and about a mile of heat.

The game continued. Shouts echoed. The scoreboard buzzed. But in their corner, time held its breath.

Paige bounced her knee. She could feel Azzi’s presence like a gravity field.

Neither of them spoke.

Not until the fourth whistle of the quarter blew and the gym momentarily dulled into ambient chatter.

"You always do this," she muttered without turning her head.

Azzi’s brow ticked. “Do what?”

“You push until I snap, and then you act like I’m the problem.”

Azzi finally turned to face her, eyes sharp. “Maybe you are.”

Paige laughed bitterly. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“Right back at you.”

Their teammates were across the court, deep in the scrimmage, too far to hear. Too far to care. Paige felt something inside her break loose—something reckless.

“You don’t have to hate me, you know.”

Azzi’s expression flickered. “I don’t hate you.”

“No?” Paige turned now, fully. “Then what is this, Azzi? Why is it that every time I try to talk to you, it turns into a fight?”

Azzi exhaled slowly, then said, “Because if I don’t fight you, Paige, I might actually—”

But she didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. Paige felt the unspoken words hang in the air between them like a thread about to snap.

Might actually what?

Their breath tangled somewhere in the air between them. The game raged on, but the court felt impossibly small now, the air between them thick with tension.

Flashback: The First Game

The first time Paige had seen Azzi play, it was more than just basketball. That girl was a display of effortless grace, precision, and an undeniable swagger that drew Paige’s eye from the beginning.

They had met at a youth basketball camp, and Paige hadn’t been able to forget the way Azzi dominated the court, effortlessly gliding from one play to the next. Paige had never felt the need to be jealous, or scared for her spot on the team. But for the very first time, she was. And the culprit: Azzi fucking Fudd. It wasn’t just the way she played—it was the way she carried herself. Confidence radiated from her every movement. It pissed Paige off.

But at the same time, she was drawn to it. The two were the first off the court.

Azzi wasn’t like anyone Paige had met before, which made her feel unsettled. It was as if she could read Paige’s movements, and every one of her thoughts because before Azzi even knew where she was, Paige had kicked it to her in the corner in one, smooth movement. And unlike her other previous teammates that would’ve just fumbled the ball in surprise, Azzi caught it mid-pass with ease — as if she intercepted her own ball — to fire the quickest release the crowd had ever seen. And with that, Paige held her fingers out in celebration, because as soon as that ball graced Azzi’s hands, Paige knew that shot was cash.

—-----------

“I don’t get you,” Paige growled, slamming her water bottle to the ground. “You show up like you’ve got nothing to prove, and then you play like your whole damn career depends on it. What is it? What do you need to prove?”

Azzi took a breath, her face a mask of calm, but Paige could see the tension in her jaw, the way her muscles were coiled, ready to spring.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Azzi said, her voice lower than usual, laced with frustration. “Not everything is about what you want, Paige.”

“Then stop pretending like you’ve got it all figured out!” Paige shot back, her voice trembling with anger and something else she didn’t want to acknowledge. “It’s like I can’t even look at you without feeling like you’re hiding something.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered, just for a second, like she was about to say something but thought better of it. The silence that followed stretched out between them, thick with unsaid words.

They were sitting inches apart. But emotionally? Miles.

Azzi finally turned toward her, eyes softer now. “You think I’m hiding something? Paige, you have no idea.”

Paige swallowed, heat rising in her chest. Her heart beat erratically in her ears.

“Oh, I think I know,” she said, voice low and dangerously soft. “You don’t let anyone close. You keep everyone at arm’s length. But I’m done with that. If you’re hiding something, then I want to know. Because I’m not gonna keep playing this game with you.”

Azzi stood up suddenly, the motion sharp and filled with frustration. “I’m not hiding anything,” she said, her voice a growl. “I’m not the one here pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m the one who shows up every single day, working my ass off, and all you can do is act like I’m the problem.”

Paige stood up too, the two of them facing each other, inches apart. “Maybe I’m not pretending,” she shot back, her voice hard, eyes burning with a fire she couldn’t suppress anymore. “Maybe I’m tired of you acting like I’m just another player you can push around. I’m done with that, Azzi.”

Azzi’s breath hitched, and for a second, Paige thought she saw something flicker in her eyes. But before she could analyze it further, Azzi was stepping back. Her hand went to the back of her neck, rubbing the tension there.

“I think we both need a timeout,” Azzi muttered, more to herself than to Paige.

“Yeah, we do.” Paige replied under her breath.

Benched and bitter and burning from the inside out, Paige knew she needed to get away. Before she did something she shouldn't do. Watching Azzi glance over at her every so often as their chests rose and fell in sync with each other was driving her crazy. And before she could stop her thoughts, Paige stood abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Azzi asked.

“Out back. Before I say something I can’t take back.”

Azzi hesitated, then stood too, following closely behind. “Say it.”

Paige turned, inches away from the gym door. “What?”

Azzi stepped in, closer now than she had any right to be. “Say what you want to say. I’m right here. And besides, I’m done following you.”

“Fine.” Paige grunted. It was time to get real. The blonde couldn’t take it anymore. “I don’t get you,” she began. “One second you’re giving me eyes like you wanna ruin me, and the next you’re pretending I don’t exist. What the hell is your game, Azzi?”

Fuck. Did she really just air herself out to Azzi?

Azzi stepped toward her slowly, closing the distance. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but there was something else there too—something raw.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Azzi said, her voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t a game. You think you know me, Paige. You think you understand me. But you don’t. You’ve only seen the parts of me I’ve allowed you to.”

Azzi stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending.”

And just like that, Paige couldn’t take it anymore.

Grabbing onto Azzi’s jersey, she pulled her into her chest —not hard, not violent, just… desperate, while her free hand pushed the door back.

[Outside]

Azzi’s breath caught as Paige leaned in. It was slow at first, hesitant, like a dare. Azzi’s heart pounded in her chest, and before she could stop herself, she was leaning into Paige too, their mouths meeting in a frantic collision of teeth and heat.

Paige slammed her palm against the building wall, caging Azzi between her broad shoulders all while forbidding herself to tear away from Azzi’s lips. Her fingers curled around the metal grate, trying to stay grounded — as if this moment wasn’t what she was fantasising about since she met Azzi.

It was a kiss that held everything—frustration, longing, pain. All the words neither of them had said but both of them had wanted to for so long. There were no zone defences anymore. No hesitation. Just the messy, overwhelming need to feel something, anything, between them.

Azzi’s hands slid to Paige’s back, pulling her closer. Paige’s hands found the hem of Azzi’s shirt, fingers pressing against the soft skin there, memorizing the feel of her. The kiss deepened, becoming frantic, like they were trying to devour each other whole.

Why the hell did she look at Paige like that when we first met?

Why does she keep pushing Paige on the court, then staring at Paige like she’s hers?

Why does this feel better than any win?

Paige shot away her thoughts with her mouth, biting softly on Azzi’s bottom lip, as if that was where she held the answers. Azzi pressed against the wall as Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi’s waist, her muscles tensing —which sent a jolting sensation to Azzi’s spine. Paige’s hands gripped the back of her neck, pulling her impossibly closer.

Azzi gasped into her mouth, and Paige took that gasp like a win, like a possession. She leaned back, admiring her view with a smug smirk on her face —as if she had manifested this moment— before she tilted her head, deepening the kiss, her body flush against Azzi’s now — muscle to muscle, sweat to sweat.

Azzi moaned before she could stop herself…

And Paige kissed her harder for it.

They didn’t pull away. They couldn’t. Not until a water bottle dropped somewhere in the locker room, echoing just loud enough to remind them where they were.

Paige’s hands were still bunched in Azzi’s jersey. Azzi’s fingers were threaded through Paige’s hair.

Neither of them moved. Their foreheads touched.

Paige’s voice was hoarse. “I hate you.”

Azzi’s breath fanned her lips. “No, you don’t.”

Silence.

Then Azzi kissed her again — slower this time. Like a statement. Like a fuck-you and a promise in one.

The buzzer rang again. Timeout was over.

They pulled apart, barely. Lips swollen. Chests rising and falling.

Paige glanced down, cheeks red but jaw still set. “We have five minutes.”

Azzi smirked, voice low. “Then you better move fast...”, leading her to the locker room by the jersey.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi #uconn womens basketball #azzi35 #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #paige buckets #paige bueckers uconn

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yuta-nakamots · 9 days ago

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The Number One Girl Stays A Little Longer - L.Jeno

Pairing - Baseball!Jeno x Team Manager!Female Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, University!AU

Warning(s) - unofficial relationship (a situationship, if you will)

Summary - Jeno is the golden boy of the baseball team, all eyes on him, except his are always on you. What starts as quiet support behind the scenes turns into something neither of you dares name, until time runs out and choices have to be made. Love blooms in between the dugouts, the late nights, and the quiet goodbyes.

Word Count - 6.6k

Author’s Note - Perhaps I cried while writing this…Perhaps I did not. It’s like a curse that I only write angst for Jeno

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls @chenlesfeetpic @awktwurtle (join my taglist!)

Part of my NCT J-Line: Roses Are Rosie Collection.

Now playing: Number One Girl - Rosé, Stay A Little Longer - Rosé

The stadium roars around you, a wall of sound vibrating through the bleachers, through the dugout bench beneath you. The lights overhead cast the field in a sterile tint, harsh and brilliant, as if the whole stadium were holding its breath from behind a microscope. You glance at the scoreboard.

Bottom of the ninth inning. Tied score. Two outs. Bases loaded.

None other than Jeno Lee steps into the box. The number 23 is stitched in bold blue across the back of his white jersey. He’s been one of the team’s star players since his rookie season, the kind of athlete that headlines articles and carries expectations on his shoulders like it weighs nothing at all.

For years, he’s been the golden boy of the university’s baseball program. Eyes were always on him. All eyes, except his. Because his? They were always on you.

You were never supposed to be here, not really. You only applied for the team manager position in your second year of university because a friend dared you to after you both attended a game. You’d barely understood baseball then, only that it made your heart thump a little harder when the camera zoomed in on your school’s players.

By some event of fate, you had gotten the position. You learned fast, quickly grasping the importance of the position to the team. How to log pitch counts and rotate equipment. How to wrap a wrist so it holds just right. How to read silence and soreness. You stayed late when no one else did and showed up early, even when the skies threatened rain.

That’s how he noticed you. Not with flash or drama, but in the quiet, consistent way only someone like Jeno paid attention to. You earned your place on this team. Earned his trust. You memorized the way Jeno likes to tape his hand. Two strips over the knuckle, one across his palm. Somewhere between his second pulled muscle and third-year slump, you became the person he went to when his shoulder ached, when the pressure became a little too much, when he didn’t want to be Jeno Lee, the headliner, the star athlete, just Jeno, the boy who never forgets to thank you after every water bottle you delivered to him.

Now, he adjusts his helmet and rests his bat on his shoulder. His stance is relaxed, deceptively so, the kind of ease that comes only from years of repetition and weight behind every swing.

You’ve seen this look before. He wears it before every game-winning hit, those calm eyes, loose fingers, and a breath held just behind his teeth.

You don’t call his name. You don’t even shift forward on the bench, but he finds you anyway. He glances over his shoulder, quick but precise, enough to land squarely on you. For a moment, just a beat between heartbeats, it’s like the noise fades and you’re back in the gym, wrapping his wrist, your fingers moving carefully across his warm skin.

The pitch comes in fast. Crack. The ball soars.

The crowd doesn't wait. They erupt before the ball even clears the fence. You shoot to your feet in the dugout, clipboard forgotten, heart in your throat.

Jeno doesn’t watch the ball. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he runs.

The stadium is chaotic as the runners cross home plate, followed by Jeno. Players storm the field, coaches throw their arms into the air, and someone dumps a cooler of Gatorade that soaks multiple people.

And Jeno? He doesn’t run to his teammates and join their group celebration. Helmet off, chest heaving, he jogs toward the dugout, toward you. His eyes find yours and never leave them, not once. You nod in acknowledgement, and that was all he needed.

Cameras are flashing, fans screaming his name, teammates waiting to throw him into the air, but he stops in front of you first. He’s close enough that you can see the sweat beading at his temple, the dirt smudging his cheek. Neither of you says a word. His fingers brush the back of your hand, brief but electric, before pulling you into a tight hug. A thank you, a promise, a beginning.

The locker room buzzes later, the clatter of cleats, music thumping from someone’s portable speaker, the team still high off the win. You’re folding towels at the back of the room when someone shouts over the noise, teasing, “Hey Jeno, was that your good luck charm I saw you running to after the homer?”

He doesn’t look up from unlacing his shoes. “Yeah,” he says casually, but his voice carries over the room. “She always was.” He doesn’t say your name because he doesn’t need to. Everyone already knows.

Late one night, after the stadium had long emptied out following practice, Jeno calls you over from the dugout where you helped the team pack up equipment. “Wanna stay a little?”

You glance up from the ball bag you were zipping closed. “You mean…like, now?”

He shrugs, already shouldering his bat. “Just to watch. You don’t have to do anything.” You nod and follow, wishing his teammates a good night.

The batting cages are a short walk from the main field, tucked beside the back parking lot, quiet now except for the buzz of cicadas and the hum of a lone fluorescent bulb flickering overhead. The mesh netting rustles softly in the warm, spring night air. Jeno drops his duffel outside the gate of the cage before stepping in and taking a few practice swings while you turn on the pitching machine.

You watch him through the net. It’s not a performance. He’s not showing off. There’s something therapeutic in the repetition of his bat meeting the ball, the low clunk of contact echoing in the stillness. Sweat gathers at his jaw and trickles down his throat, but he doesn’t stop. Swing after swing, breath after breath.

Eventually, he speaks. “They’re sending scouts next week.”

You blink, pulling your mind away from ogling the way his sweat-slick skin glistened under the light. “Scouts? Like for the major league?”

He nods, keeping his focus on the machine, eyes narrowed as the next ball shoots out. “Yeah. And that team from Japan. They’ve been keeping tabs on me all season, apparently.”

You lean against the netting, arms folded across your chest, the air between you thick with unspoken things. “That’s good,” you say carefully. “Right?”

He exhales hard through his nose. “It’s what I wanted. It’s what everyone wanted.” He glances back at you. “But sometimes I don’t even know if I’m still playing for me or just…not to disappoint anyone.” You let the silence sit.

He swings again, landing another solid hit, another thump against the far end of the cage. “Do you ever feel like that?” he asks. “Like everyone is watching, and if you screw up, it’s not just your dream that breaks, it’s theirs too?”

You nod slowly, tracing your finger along the twine of the net. “I do. All the time.”

He glances over his shoulder, just for a second, as the machine gears up to spit another ball at him. “Really?”

You laugh under your breath, a little bitter, a little sad. “I’ve been the background girl for years, Jeno. I show up, I organize, I patch you guys up when you’re hurt. I make everything easier for everyone else. And when I’m not needed, I just…disappear. No one really notices me until I make a mistake.” He turns toward you fully after clocking the last ball in the tank, bat hanging at his side, shoulders loose.

You don’t mean to keep going, but it spills out anyway. “I’m writing a thesis no one’s going to read aside from the committee. I’m graduating into a world that I’m not sure wants me or even has space for me. Sometimes I feel like I’m only visible when I’m useful.”

He’s quiet for a long time. “I see you.” Your breath catches. He says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world, like it doesn’t carry the weight of your whole chest. “I always see you,” he adds, softer. “Even when you think no one is paying attention. Especially then.” You blink hard and look away.

He walks toward the gate of the cage, and you meet him there, pushing one of his water bottles through the opening. “Here,” you say. “Make sure you stay hydrated.” He takes it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. “You know,” you start again, voice steadier now, “you should’ve majored in communications. You’re weirdly good at talking people down from ledges.”

He cracks a smile. “Only yours.”

You roll your eyes. “Seriously, you’re enough, Jeno. Even if you’re scared, even if you don’t have all the answers yet, even if you don’t have a plan sorted out.” His eyes search yours like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your words. Then he nods, just once.

When he steps back into the cage, something shifts. He reloads the balls into the tank, gearing up for another round. His swing is sharper this time, cleaner. The thwack of the ball against the net sounds crisper now, like it knows it’s going somewhere. Like he does, too.

The university’s banquet hall is decked out in warm lights, too-loud music, and round tables dressed in blue and white. You almost didn’t go to the athletic banquet this year. The sheer thought of putting on fancy clothes and pretending to mingle sounded exhausting, especially as finals were drawing closer. But the team insisted. “Just come for the food,” someone has said. “The players want you there,” one of the coaches added.

When you arrived at the venue, nerves buzzing beneath your skin at the increased attention the baseball team had drawn during their season, you felt every eye turn. Jeno spots you immediately. You’re wearing a varsity jacket, heavy on your shoulder, the number 23 stitched over your heart. The jacket was originally his. You had found it earlier in the season, folded neatly on a bench in the equipment room, and tried to give it back to him, but he refused, saying he thought it would look better on you. It still smells like him, fresh grass, pine tar, and something warmer, like safety and strength.

When the baseball team is called up for their team photo, you stand off to the side with the other staff. The boys roughed each other up, arms slung over shoulders, all laughter and inside jokes, and right in the center of it all stood Jeno. His smile is bright, easy, and confident.

But when the camera flashes, he’s not looking at the lens. He’s looking at you. You look down, flustered and suddenly aware of how his jacket drapes across your frame. When you look back up, he’s still watching you, like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing.

The rest of the evening flows in hazy beats of speeches and cheers, clinking glasses, plates scraped clean. The athletic director gives a long-winded speech and leads a toast, kicking off a series of MVP awards to various athletes from all the sports the university has to offer.

When it comes time for the baseball team, the trophy practically flies into Jeno’s hands. His teammates chant his name, pounding the table. He just laughs, half-embarrassed, holding the award in one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. But even while the room applauds, he’s not smiling at the crowd. He’s smiling at you.

At some point, one of the boys bumps shoulders with him, voice too loud. “Damn, Jeno, didn’t know you had it in you to get a girlfriend.”

You freeze, heart in your throat. But Jeno? He just grins. Not sheepish, not panicked. Proud. He doesn’t correct them, doesn’t even blink. He just says, “Yeah?” like it’s the most natural thing in the world and takes a slow sip from his water.

It wasn’t a confession, not blatantly, not out loud. But everyone hears it.

When the night winds down, the crowd begins to trickle out. You say your goodbyes to the team, collecting stray napkins on the floor along with a few compliments on your way out. “Couldn’t have done the season with you, team manager!” one of the guys shouts. You give him a smile and a short wave before slipping away.

You don’t even realize Jeno’s already waiting until you see him by the door, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t ask you to stay, just waits. And when you walk toward him, he smiles like he knew you would gravitate to him.

The banquet hall around you hums with fading noise, laughter echoing from somewhere near the dessert table. You stop beside him, close enough to brush shoulders, and you tip your head toward the door.

“You know,” you murmur, careful to keep your voice low enough for just the two of you, “that was a bold move earlier.”

His smile tugs wider, unapologetic as he knew exactly what you were talking about. “Was it?”

You narrow your eyes at him, though it lacks any real heat. “What if I weren’t your girlfriend? What if I didn’t want to be your girlfriend? That could’ve been awkward.”

He shrugs, too casually. “And yet here you are, with me.” Then, more quietly, “even if we haven’t said it.”

You should correct him, remind him that there has been no official confession, no boundaries drawn, no promises made. But instead, you just shake your head with a faint laugh. “You’re lucky you’re so charming.”

“And you’re lucky I like girls who wear my jackets.”

You roll your eyes, lightly hitting his arm. For a moment, the world narrows down to the warm space between you, to the way his gaze softens like he’s trying to memorize this moment, you, here, in his jacket, laughing effortlessly.

“I should go,” you finally say, glancing toward the exit. “I have classes in the morning.”

He nods, like he already knew you’d say that. “See you at practice?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You don’t hug, nor do you linger. But when you turn to leave, you feel him watching you until the door clicks shut behind you.

Later that night, you take off your shoes by the front door of your apartment, shrug out of your jacket, and fold it gently over the back of a chair. You’re about to start your night routine when your phone buzzes from where you threw it onto your bed.

A message. It’s from Jeno. It was a blurry photo of you, taken from across the room, half-laughing, caught mid-motion in the varsity jacket.

You’re my number one.

That was all he said, and yet it made you smile as if he had written you a sonnet.

The first practice after the banquet is lighter than usual. The drills are more relaxed, and the coaches are distracted by logistics for senior night. The sun hangs low, golden and kind, while a breeze flutters across the infield. The air smells like freshly cut grass and sunscreen.

You’re sitting on the team’s bench in the dugout, jotting notes into the lineup spreadsheet for the seniors’ walkout songs while the outfielders run pop-fly drills. A familiar presence drifts toward you, and you can feel him before he even speaks.

“You forgot to bring water.” Jeno appears at your side, holding a bottle from the vending machine in one hand and his glove tucked under the other.

You glance up, raising a brow. “You say that as if we don’t prepare far too many water coolers each practice.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d try to impress you with my effort.”

You snort, nudging him with your elbow as he takes a seat next to you. “You hit a walk-off homer and won an award last week. I think you’ve impressed me enough for a while.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your mouth and lingering for a second too long. Then he leans in just slightly, enough for only you to hear. “But I want to impress you.”

Before you can come up with something clever to say back, a loud voice cuts through the calm. “Jeno!” One of his teammates yelled. “Don’t let her distract you, man. Scouts are gonna be at the next practice and the game!”

Another player calls out behind him. “Nah, let him stay distracted. Maybe then he’ll loosen up for once.”

Jeno waves them off, grinning, but you catch the brief shadow that crosses his expression. The weight slips back onto his shoulders, scouts, expectations, futures that feel too big for just one person to hold.

You lower your voice. “You okay?”

He nods once, then cuts himself short. “I should be excited. But something just feels like…I don’t know. Like I’m waiting for a train that might not stop where I’m waiting to get on.”

You reach for his hand, just a brush of fingers. You’ve touched him before, taping his knuckles at workouts, patting his shoulder after a game well played, fixing the collar of his uniform, but this feels different. Softer. Quieter. The kind of thing you don’t need to explain anymore.

“You don’t have to get on if it doesn’t feel right,” you tell him. “You’re allowed to want something else.”

He turns to look at you. The noise of the field fades like it always does when it’s just the two of you. “But what if everyone’s already packed my bags for me? What if they’re already waving goodbye?”

You squeeze his finger. “Then maybe they were cheering for the idea of you. Not the real you.” He exhales slowly, like your words permitted him to just be for a moment.

Their coach yells for the team to set up for a new drill. Jeno reluctantly pulls away, jogging to join the rest of the guys, but not before turning back, catching your eye like a secret. You smile, just enough to steady him.

It’s senior night, the final home game. The final time this exact team will take the field together. And somehow, even in the electric buzz of the crowd, there’s an ache in the air, like everyone knows nothing else will feel exactly like this moment.

The stands are packed, louder than usual. Families are dressed in the whites and blues of your school, phones out for photos and videos, voices caught between pride and emotion. Posters of the graduating players wave in the breeze.

The last inning moves more slowly than the rest of the game. The team is winning enough to breathe a little easier, but not enough to forget what this night means.

You’re in the dugout with the rest of the players who weren’t taking the pitch at the bottom of the final inning. Your clipboard is held firmly in your hand, but you weren’t using it for notes or checking stats anymore. Not when each senior steps onto the field like they’re saying goodbye to something sacred. Not when Jeno jogs out to his position one last time, the number 23 bold on his back, his head held a little higher than usual.

Every step he takes is heavier. Every pitch, every crack of the bat, every cheer from the crowd lands deeper in his chest. The coaches aren’t barking instructions anymore. The team isn’t playing for the rankings tonight. They’re playing for each other. For the moment that will become a memory.

When the final out is called, a pop fly drifting up into the glow of the lights before falling safely into a glove, the stadium erupts, but it’s different this time. On the field, there’s no dogpile, no champagne celebration, just this…pause. It’s as if no one wants to leave, as if they’re holding the moment in their palms, reluctant to let it slip through their fingers.

After the final scores are announced and the stats are run, the announcer’s voice cuts through the static, calling the seniors one by one. The team was crammed into the dugout, patting each other on the back, congratulating each other for the last time. They parted as the seniors stepped out to cheers and camera flashes, receiving framed pictures of themselves in action, along with flowers and handshakes from the coaches.

When Jeno is called, he doesn’t try to hide the way his smile tugs unevenly. He bows, shakes hands, accepts the applause, but when his achievements and contributions to the team echo through the loudspeaker, your chest tightens from the quiet knowing that this version of him, the one in dirt-smudged cleats, sweat on his brow, and heart on his sleeve, is slipping into memory.

After the team lines up near home plate to take one last group picture, the head coach steps forward with a microphone. His voice is gruff but thick with something softer behind it. “These boys have given their all,” he begins. “They’ve played with grit, with grace, and with heart. And tonight, we say thank you. For the early morning, the late nights, the busted knuckles and bruised egos, and for every second they wore this jersey with pride.”

The coach pauses, scanning the line of seniors. “I hope you remember what this field felt like. I hope you remember each other. Because teams change, life moves fast. But no matter where you go next, this? This was yours and nothing can take that away.”

Beside you, Jeno exhales slowly. His shoulders shift, the way they do when he’s trying not to show his emotions. His gaze stays ahead, sharp and quiet, but his hand lowers, brushing yours. And this time, he doesn’t pull away. His fingers lace with yours as if he’s done it countless times before, like he’s been holding back for months and finally doesn’t have to. The weight of his palm against yours is steadier than anything in that moment.

You don’t turn to look at him, you just hold his hand tight as the night carves itself into your memories. You don’t need to look at him to know what he’s thinking. You feel the way he squeezes your hand.

‘I’m here. This is real.’

You squeeze back. ‘I’m here too. It is real.’

The celebration that follows the ceremony is loud. There’s music blasting from portable speakers, laughing spilling from every corner of the dugout, seniors being hoisted onto shoulders, and group photos taken in blurry bursts. Your name is called a few times, thank yous thrown your way between high fives and strong hugs. But you barely hear any of it.

Your world feels narrowed down to the residual warmth of Jeno’s hand in yours. The feeling lingers like a ghost on your skin as the night winds down. Later, when the floodlights of the stadium flicker off and the last of the trash has been scooped into bags, the finality gradually sets in like the sound of cleats walking away for the last time.

The locker room is quieter the next day. Players trickle in to clear out their belongings. The locker room is filled with the rustle of plastic bags, the dull click of lockers opening, and the occasional laugh over a long-forgotten item.

You find Jeno standing in front of his locker, a box at his feet filled to the brim, his fingers resting over the number plate that bears his name just above the door. It’s loose now, barely clinging to the screws. You step in without needing an invitation. “Need help?” you ask gently.

He glances back at you. Something in his eyes says ‘thank you’ before his mouth does. “Yeah,” he breathes, stepping aside to let you have access to his locker.

You stand beside him, reaching for jerseys folded too many times, pants faded from too many washes, pine tar-stained gloves, cleats worn smooth at the edges. It’s not just gear. It’s everything he’s been, everything he’s given.

When he pulls out an old game ball, scuffed and inked with a barely legible signature from his freshman year, he hesitates, then presses it into your hands. “Keep it,” he says. “For luck.” You curl your fingers around it, grounding yourself in its weight.

Jeno exhales, glancing down at the overflowing box near his feet, then over at his duffel bag, barely zipped, sitting on the bench. “I might have overestimated how much I could carry in one trip,” he admits, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

You tilt your head at him. “You? Overestimating yourself? I’m shocked.”

“Okay,” he huffed a laugh. “Maybe just this once.”

You let the teasing fade before you offer, quietly, “I can help you get it back to your place.”

His smile softens into something endearing. “Are you sure?”

You glance down at the game ball sitting in your palm. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I want to.”

So you help him load his boxes into the back of his car along with extra bags you scrounged from the coach’s office. Everything that made up the last four years of his life with the team was packed into the trunk and backseat of his car.

The drive is short but quiet, the kind of silence that holds things that refuse to be spoken. When Jeno unlocks the door to his apartment and leads you inside, it feels like stepping into a different season entirely, one already shifting toward goodbye.

Later that evening, you’re in his bedroom, helping him go through all the things he brought home. You fold his shirts and organize his pants into neat stacks. He packs them away in silence. You don’t speak much, not because there’s nothing to say, but because neither of you wants to say what really matters.

You find an old photo stuck in the grooves of a worn-out glove, one of the early practices from the past season, a group shot with the team, and in the background, barely visible, you with the rest of the staff. You stood behind a ball bucket, a spare catching glove on your hand. They made you throw with them that day. Jeno watches you turn it over in your hands.

“I didn’t know I was in this,” you remark.

“I did,” he replies. “I saw you.” Something in your chest crumpled inward. You set the photo aside and keep folding.

When the last of his stuff is emptied from the box, you stand in the doorway of his room. Jeno walks you to the front door, his expression unreadable in the dim yellow glow of his desk lamp. His hand finds your wrist, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin.

“Don’t forget to wrap mine next season,” he says quietly.

You nod, your smile caught somewhere between hope and ache. “Don’t forget your bat.” He chuckles under his breath, but neither of you really laughs.

You leave before he can ask you to stay.

Your phone lights up with his name on a night that would’ve been filled with practice, drills, and dugout banter.

‘No practice today. Feels kinda weird not seeing you. Wanna come over?’

That’s all he says, but it’s enough to send you out the door to pick up food on your way to his apartment. When you show up knocking at his door, he greets you in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair damp as if he had just taken a shower. He looks at you like he hasn’t seen you in weeks.

“Hey,” you greet, lifting the bag of food like a peace offering. “Thought you might want dinner.”

He just nods with a smile growing on his face. “And you.”

You follow Jeno inside like it’s instinct, like you’ve always belonged there with him.

Together, you unwrap the chosen dinner for the night. It’s fast food, greasy and guilty, exactly the type of food he wouldn’t have allowed himself to indulge in during the season. Even with everything spread out on a table by the couch, you don’t call it a goodbye dinner, but that’s what it is.

You eat side by side, knees bumping, dipping fries into shared sauces and pretending like this is normal, like there’s still time. He laughs at a joke you make, his mouth full, and for a second, it feels like nothing’s ending at all.

When the food is mostly gone and the quiet starts to stretch, Jeno glances toward the window, then at you. “Wanna go up to the roof?”

“The roof?” You echo.

He stands, gathering the trash in his large hands. “It’s where I go when I can’t sleep…or when I think too much.”

You hesitate just for a breath before nodding. “Okay, let’s go.” You help him gather the rest of the items on the table, clearing it of empty wrappers and used napkins. It all gets tossed in the trash before you’re following Jeno out the door.

He leads the way out of his apartment and up the narrow staircase to the rooftop door. The city greets you in silence, a sprawl of lights and concrete stretching endlessly beneath the stairs, glowing faintly. It’s not cold, but Jeno had brought a blanket, one he had often thrown at you when the morning practices made you shiver. Before you could protest, he’s reaching around your shoulder, an edge of the blanket in his hand, stretching it open like a cape. You settle beside him, shoulders touching, the blanket feeling like a shield from reality.

Jeno’s breath is warm against your cheek when he leans in just enough to murmur, “I signed to a team.” You turn to him, but his eyes remain fixed on the city lights. “The team from overseas. Minor league affiliate. They offered a contract. I told them yes.”

You don’t speak right away. The words land like a stone in your stomach, not unexpected, but still sinking heavily. “That’s…” You force a small smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “That’s great. Really.”

He finally looks at you, and something in his gaze falters. “You don’t sound like you mean that.”

You look down at your hands in your lap. “No, I do. I’m happy for you, Jeno. I just–” you swallow, “I guess I wasn’t ready to hear it out loud.”

He lets out a heavy breath, as if he had been holding it this whole time. “Me neither.”

That surprised you. “You weren’t?”

He shakes his head. “I thought signing would feel like relief. But instead, it just felt like I was turning the page on something I’m not finished reading.” Your heart aches at his words. You don’t know what to say to that, or maybe you do, but you don’t trust yourself to say it. “I don’t want to leave,” he says then, something raw in his tone. “Not yet. Not from here. Not from–” He breaks off, gaze dropping to where his hand sat on your shoulder. “Not from you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself together. “Can I be selfish?”

He exhales in a sound that’s almost a laugh. “You always are,” he teases, but there’s no malice.

You jab at his side with your elbow. “Then let me ask you this. What would you do if you didn’t have to leave?”

“I’d stay,” he answers without hesitation. “For you. For us. If I knew how to make it all work. I’d stay.”

It felt like everything had stopped, and then he leaned in, slow and careful, his eyes on yours like a question. When yours flutters shut, he kisses you like it’s an apology and a wish all in one. It was soft and lingering, the kind of kiss you memorize in case you never get it again. Jeno holds you like a memory already slipping through his fingers, and you let him, your hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, your breath tangled with his. When you finally pull apart, neither of you speaks.

That night, you sleep in his arms for the first time while acting as if it were the last because it just might be. You hold him like a goodbye you don’t want to give.

The weeks that follow blur in warm, golden tones. It’s not quite summer yet, but already softened around the edges like something you’ll miss before it’s gone.

You fall into a rhythm that doesn’t need naming. Jeno starts keeping two toothbrushes in his bathroom. You never talk about it. You cook pasta together in his tiny kitchen, bumping hips while arguing about sauce ratios. He steals bites off your fork, and you pretend to be annoyed because you like the way he grins when he gets away with it. On rainy afternoons, you fold his laundry while he reorganizes his baseball gear for the hundredth time, his cleats, gloves, tape rolls in plastic bags labelled with your handwriting.

Nights are slower and softer. You crash on his couch, cuddled against him while watching games from the team he’ll soon be playing for. Your head always finds the nook where his shoulder meets his neck, and he always tilts his head to rest against yours. One evening, he reads to you from a dog-eared notebook he used to write notes in during practice. You ask him why he doesn’t throw it away.

“Some things are worth remembering,” he says simply. You don’t ask what they are, but you have a feeling you already know.

Then the boxes and bags start piling up again. Jeno’s apartment becomes a warzone of cardboard and clothes, bubble wrap and leftover takeout. You kneel next to him on the floor, helping fold his winter jacket that refuses to be pinned down while he whines that he won’t need it.

You laugh, but you hate being reminded that in just a few days, he’d be gone. He notices and tries to lighten the mood by tossing a stray sock at your head. You pretend to be scandalized, causing him to kiss you on the nose. “Thank you for still being here.”

You want to say, ‘of course I’m here. I’d follow you anywhere,’ but you hold yourself back and instead, you only smile and go back to wrestling with the puffy jacket.

That’s what love looks like when time is short. It’s not grand declarations, but it was helping someone pack, all while wishing the box was just a little more empty so they’d have to stay one more night.

On the dreaded day Jeno was scheduled to fly out, you woke before the sun did. Jeno’s room is still, painted in the softest shade of early morning light, looking like a skeleton of the room you first saw all those nights ago. Beside you, he breathes slow and steady, one arm slung around your waist like his body knows what his mind is still denying.

You don’t move, not right away. You take the time to memorize him, the curve of his lashes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the warmth of his fingers resting against your ribs. It’s the last time. You both know it, even if no one says it.

When he stirs, you pretend you’ve just woken up too. No one mentions the time.

He gets dressed in silence, pulling on a hoodie and the same beat-up sneakers he’d wear to practice before changing into his cleats. His backpack sits ready by the door with the rest of his luggage. You wonder which of them holds the life he’s about to live and which holds what he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

You help him take them all to your car, a regular in his apartment building’s parking lot, neither of you saying much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because nothing would be enough.

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper, when he slides the last bag into the trunk of your car.

You didn’t mean for Jeno to hear you, but he did. He doesn’t answer, instead choosing to pull you into a hug so full, so complete, it says ‘no, you won’t. Neither will I.’

The sky shifts from dark ink to cobalt as you get closer and closer to the airport. The drive was short, but you wished it were endless.

When you pull up to the curb outside the check-in area, Jeno gets out and opens the trunk. You hate how easily he lifts the bags and how good he looks doing it. You hold his luggage together, watching the early travelers file into the terminal. Hardly anyone looks back. Everyone has somewhere to be, and so does Jeno.

You stay with him as he checks in with the airline, and you help him tag his suitcases, each moment feeling more heart-wrenching than the last. All too soon, his bags are being carried away by a conveyor belt until he’s left with nothing except the backpack on his shoulders.

“I’ll walk you to the gate,” you say, already moving.

But Jeno stops you with a shake of his head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you state. “But I want to.” Just like when you helped him to clear out his locker.

When you reached the start of the security checkpoint and saw how the line was inching forward already, you knew you were running out of time. Right before the entrance to the line, he turns to you, eyes rimmed with something too sharp to name.

“Stay a little longer,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“I wish I could,” he says back, like it’s both an apology and a confession. He fidgets with his hands, then presses something into your palm. A wristband he made in his first season during a team-bonding activity, frayed with use. His number is etched into the beads, faded from sweat and sun.

“You don’t play without this,” you gasp, eyes going wide.

“Now you don’t either,” his lips going tight as he tries to smile, but it doesn’t hold.

You close your fist around it like it’s the only thing tethering you to him. And maybe it is. He hugs you then, hard and whole and trembling. He smells like detergent and everything else you’ve tried not to memorize. You clutch the back of his hoodie like you could anchor him with just that.

You don’t say ‘don’t go,’ but your eyes do.

He doesn’t say ‘I love you,’ but his arms do.

When you finally separate from him, you feel hollow. You practically rip your gaze away from him, and in that moment, he joins the crowd of people going through security. Practically against your wishes, you find yourself tracking the back of his head as he gets through the line until he’s gone in the sea of people finding their gate, their path to somewhere else. When you finally lose sight of him, your heart cracks like a bat on impact.

During your drive home, your phone buzzes. It’s a photo he took from the window seat, a view of the sky and clouds. You never open it fully because you knew if you did, it would make everything feel all too real.

Yet now you wore his number around your wrist, a reminder of who he was, and what once was.

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like We Go Up - L.Mark

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yothatshitgas · 23 days ago

Text

Maybes and What Ifs | Chapter 1 Pairing: Paige x Azzi Word Count: 3.7k Note: Work of fiction.

This is the start of the expansion series of The Dress. Hope y'all like it. I kinda rushed towards the end, but hopefully it still flows nicely. Let me know yalls thoughts :)

Summer 2017

“Your eyes are wandering,” Celeste said, sliding up beside me on the right. Her gaze followed mine across the court, “Azzi Fudd. That’s who you’re staring at.”

I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze follow Azzi Fudd as she ran down the length of the court. Her pace wasn’t mind blowing athleticism, but there was a rhythm to the way she moved. A kind of efficiency so precise in a way that made it hard to look away. Her arms pumped in controlled strides, her legs extended with each push against the hardwood. She wasn’t the fastest, no. But she was definitely smooth, her muscles work in sync with an exact tempo.

I blinked, tearing my eyes away then turned to Celeste, “haven’t heard of her before.”

“Not surprising,” she replied, cracking open her Gatorade, “she was literally just in middle school, like, last week.”

“Makes her one of the youngest here, right?”

“Yeah,” Celeste nodded, taking a sip, “but out of anyone actually worth watching? She’s the youngest.”

That made me pause. I glanced back toward the court where Azzi was still running. Her cheeks were flushed, but she looked nowhere near winded. Just a steadiness in her every being that was far beyond her age.

“Right,” I said, “I haven’t seen anything that impressive.”

Celeste turned her head slowly, eyebrow fully cocked and her mouth curled into a smirk that said she wasn’t buying a single word, “okay,” she drawled, “totally. That’s why you’ve been watching her like she hung the moon.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, Celeste just got up and jogged back towards another group of girls that huddled under the far basket.

I mean, I really am not that impressed. Not in the way everyone else seems to be, at least. There’s nothing about her that screams generational talent. Sure, Azzi’s got decent handles. Her shot’s near perfect. But the same could be said about every other girl in this gym fighting for a spot. Nothing she’s doing is revolutionary.

At least… that’s what I keep telling myself.

‘Cause honestly, the only thing that caught my attention was that damn smile. Bright, easy. Like she wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Everyone else has that look - tight jaw, narrowed eyes, desperation practically tattooed on their forehead. But Azzi? She looked like she was playing a pickup game at the local rec center. Just turned fifteen and somehow the most relaxed person in the building.

And that bugged me more than it should have.

Who the hell smiles that much during drills? Maybe it’s her age playing a part. Maybe she hasn’t felt the pressure yet, the kind of pressure that makes your chest tight, your legs heavier and your hands shake. She doesn’t look like she’s carrying any of that. Not yet.

During scrimmage, Azzi and I ended up as pairs on the backcourt. It wasn’t planned, just how the rotations panned out. We trailed by a few points in the beginning, not by much, but enough to make every possession feel like it mattered. Their frontcourt consisted of Aliyah and Samantha who, I guess, found it fun to bulldoze through our defense with the sheer difference in size. Forcing our way into the paint won’t work, so I needed to figure out a different angle. Something to shift the pressure to the perimeter. And then, I saw her.

Azzi.

Posted up just beyond the arc on the left wing. Wide open.

Without hesitation, I whipped her the ball with a clean, fast chest pass. The moment it hit her hands, I just knew it would go in. She didn’t fumble, there was no sign of panic. She squared her shoulders, dipped into her form and released. Fluid - like everything else she does, as I’ve observed. Her motion was pure muscle memory, her follow through so crisp the net barely stood a chance.

Swish.

From that moment on, it was like we were synced. Unspoken chemistry. No looks needed. I’d drive, draw the defense and she would be at the wing, ready for a corner three. The more shots she knocked down, the more defensive gravity she pulled and that gave me breathing room I needed to slice into the midrange. I got on the board and Azzi stayed hot. We clawed our way back into the lead, one possession at a time and by the time the whistle blew to signal the end of the scrimmage, our team was up. Barely, but up

I jogged toward the sideline, breathless and buzzing with post-game adrenaline. I dropped to the bench, towel draped over my shoulder, heart still knocking at my ribs. Azzi strolled over, stopping just in front of me. I looked up, only to be met with bright eyes and a crooked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Thanks for finding me,” she said quietly. Her voice was soft, almost shy, almost like it was meant just for me to hear and that made my cheeks burn hotter than the scrimmage ever had.

I looked away too fast, yanking my water bottle to my lips and taking a long drink I didn’t need, I just needed to give my hands something to do, “yeah,” I managed, my voice came out rough and I cleared my throat, “no problem. Good shots.”

She gave a little nod, “thanks. I’m Azzi, by the way.”

“Paige.”

“I know who you are.”

“Oh.” I blinked. Brilliant. I cleared my throat again, trying to hide the smile forming on my lips, “I mean, you know, formality and shit. Kind rude not to introduce myself, too.”

Azzi smiled, just little but it was enough to make me feel as if I’d been holding my breath during this entire conversation. Then she started to walk backward, still facing me as she drifted toward her bench, “good job today,” she said, that same soft timbre in her voice, “and good luck tomorrow, Paige.”

“Paigey,” Celeste sang from across the room, dragging out my name like she’d been rehearsing it just to annoy me. Her voice laced in a kind of smug delight that already had me sighing before she even finished, “you and Azzi? Y’all were kinda going crazy out there today. Gave Clark and Boston a run for their money.”

I didn’t look up, just gave her a noncommittal hum under my breath as I stared at the game footage playing on my iPad. Although, I hadn’t actually registered a single play in the last five minutes. I couldn’t stop replaying the scrimmage in my head. It wasn’t the stats or the matchups, it was just her. Azzi’s perfectly timed cuts, the way her shot looked from my angle whenever it sailed through the net and stupidly soft thanks for finding me that had burrowed deep in my chest and refused to leave.

“C’mon,” Celeste pressed, “that pass from the top of the key?” she brought her fingertips to her mouth to her lips and flicked away, “chef’s kiss, Paigey.”

I sighed, pausing the video and let a moment of silence stretch between us, “she’s decent,” I said, keeping my tone as casual as I could.

“Decent?” Celeste scoffed, “that girl shot like bricking a pass from you is a sin punished only in the depths of hell, don’t be annoying.”

“I’m not being annoying,” I mumbled, fiddling with the corner of my iPad case, “I’m just being objective.”

“Right.”

No bite, no dramatics. Just smug certainty and a smirk that got under my skin. I let out an irritated breath and tossed my iPad onto the nightstand, “bro, why the hell was she smiling the entire scrimmage?”

“You have a problem with her smiling now?”

“Yea. No. I don’t fucking know, maybe?”

Celeste doubled over, dissolving into a full-body laughter. Almost comically. She clutched her stomach, still laughing. High pitched and helpless.

I stared at her, “you done?”

She wasn’t. She wheezed between gasps, wiping tears that weren’t even there from the corners of her eyes, “you found someone who can actually keep up with you on the court,” she choked out, “and you’re mad that she’s doing it with a smile?”

I opened my mouth, but she didn’t give me a chance.

“You, the same girl who grins like a Disney villain after a no-look dime, are pressed because a fifteen year old might be having too much fun on the hardwood?”

“I’m not mad,” I corrected her through clenched teeth, “I’m confused. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t even celebrate her own shots. When she misses? No scowl. She doesn’t even flinch after a turnover. She just smiles. Like none of this matters.”

Celeste flopped back on her bed, “maybe it doesn’t,” she said, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “or maybe it does and she just doesn’t show it the same way we do.”

I hummed.

“I mean,” she said after a moment, “you’ve never had someone sync with you like that, right?”

I stayed silent.

“Be sure to invite me to the wedding.”

“Gross,” I groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow, launching it at her, “she’s in middle school.”

“Freshman,” Celeste corrected, catching the pillow with one hand, “and you’re a sophomore, one year difference. It’s not that deep, Bueckers.”

“God, please, shut up.”

She grinned and pulled her blanket over her shoulder, “just saying. Chemistry.”

By day five, the roster had been sliced down to eighteen. None of the cuts came as a shock, but they were sure as hell sobering. The air felt heavier, more desperate. Six more girls needed to go and nobody felt safe anymore. That was when it stopped being tryouts and started feeling like survival. The shift was obvious - conversations got shorter, laughter disappeared entirely and water breaks felt calculated. Everyone was trying to figure out who’d survive the final cut. It wasn’t just about talent anymore. It was poise, mentality, consistency. How you moved when the coaches weren’t looking, and especially how moved when they were.

We had two days left to prove we belonged in one of those sacred spots. Two days to look irreplaceable.

And that’s exactly how Azzi and I presented ourselves. Together. We didn’t talk much, not that there was much need to. On the court, it was instinctual. We were finishing each other’s sequences as if we’d run drills together for years. Our chemistry was starting to speak louder than our resumes and people noticed.

I caught the coaches whispering on the sideline more than once. Nods and notes jotted down. Quick glances after another seamless backdoor dish. If there was one thing I felt halfway confident in, it was us. We were making this team.

At least, we should be. But nothing was locked in. Not with the depth chart crowded, guard-heavy didn’t even begin to describe it. We had four too many, each player with a case to make. Some were taller, stronger. Some had national titles under their belt. Others were just straight up dogs - relentless in a way that I admired and feared at the same time. I didn’t want to admit it, but the doubt crept in more often than I’d like.

I pulled my hair back for what felt like the tenth time that morning when the elastic snapped between my fingers. Perfect.

“Fuck,” I muttered, staring at the broken tie like I could will it back together.

“Here.”

I turned.

Azzi was already holding out a spare black hair tie, dangling it between two fingers.

I blinked, “thanks.”

She shrugged, “you look nervous,” she said, as casual as ever.

“I don’t get nervous, Fudd,” I replied, looping the new tie around my fingers, “I just want this, more than anyone in here.”

She didn’t flinch, just sat down beside me on the gym floor, cross-legged, elbows resting on her knees, “what if I wanted it more than you?” she asked, it didn’t come out as a challenge, it came out as a simple question that had just occurred to her.

I snorted, “right.”

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know,” I rubbed the back of my neck, “you make it look easy. You glide around the court like you could do all of this in your sleep. So no offense, but it’s hard to picture you wanting this more than me when it barely looks like you’re breaking a sweat.”

She stared at me, then a smile tugged at her lips, “thank you? Also fuck you?”

That made me laugh and I grabbed a towel, dragging it across my face to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks, “yeah,” I admitted, grinning into the cloth, “I deserved that. That made no sense.”

I stole a glance at Azzi as she watched the court, eyes sharp and unwavering. Every muscle in her posture leaned toward the game, charged with intent. Nothing about her energy read anxious or eager to prove something, she simply belonged on the court and she knew it with every fibre of her being. The effortlessness wasn’t arrogance, it was certainty. While everyone else was gripping at control, she already held it in her hands.

That’s when it hit me, maybe she did want it more than me but, at the very least, we wanted it in different ways.

The low hum of the AC filled the room, a mechanical heartbeat that did little to cut through the blank quiet pooling in my chest. Celeste was downstairs in the lobby with the rest of the girls, probably knee deep in someone’s group chat scandal. I tapped out early, an attempt at salvaging the remainder of my social battery, chasing silence to fix the strange weight pressing behind my eyes.

I was halfway through drying my hair after a much needed shower when a soft knock broke through the stillness. I walked over, opening the door without thinking and there Azzi stood barefoot in the hallway, wearing a faded oversized t-shirt with pale blue pajama shorts. No makeup, curls loose and still damp, post shower. Just her. Soft and unexpected.

“Hey,” she said, that same calm smile plastered on her face, “figured you’d be here.”

“Uh, well…” my voice caught somewhere between surprise and confusion, “I was downstairs, just got tired. Early day tomorrow and all.”

“Right,” she nodded, but then she continued, eyes meeting mine, “can I come in?”

“Huh?”

“I wanted to hang out. If that’s cool with you?”

“Oh.”

Heat unfurled beneath my skin, climbing from my neck to my ears. I stepped aside in silence, unable to formulate an actual sentence. She stepped in with ease, making her way over to the small loveseat in the corner of the room and folded herself onto it, cross legged, perfectly at ease. She looked around, eyes wandering from the desk clutter, to the dirty pile of laundry, to the practice gear draped over the chair then back to me. Waiting.

I stood frozen before I came to my senses, dropping onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the towel around my neck. The AC failed to help with the sudden warmth gathering across my face.

“Where do you live?” I asked, grasping for anything to say, my voice came out lighter than intended at my attempt to make small talk.

“Arlington,” she replied, then clarified, “Virginia.”

“What school?”

“St. John’s this Fall, My dad coaches there.”

“Cool.”

Cool? That’s what I went with?

This is getting ridiculous. There was nothing about this girl that should be this intimidating, for God’s sake, she wore unicorn-print pajama shorts and smiled at vending machines. I sat a little straighter, turning more fully toward her. She didn’t move much, still perched on the love seat, fingers drumming slightly against her knee. She seemed comfortable, entirely unbothered. Meanwhile, I was busy second guessing every single blink.

I glanced at her again and found her already watching me. Our eyes held.

The lamplight from the desk hit her at an angle, casting the softest gold along her cheekbones. Her eyes weren’t brown, but not quite black, either. It was something richer, a color that made you want to look longer just to figure it out. In her eyes, I suddenly forgot what my own voice sounded like.

“You?” she asked, tone light but she still held my gaze, “where are you from?”

“Minnesota.”

“I’ve got family there,” she replied.

“Cool.”

Jesus Christ.

I almost groaned out loud. Cool again?

I broke our eye contact and looked down at my lap, my hands restless. I searched for something grounding, anything to tether me back to myself. My fingers drifted to the black hair tie still looped around my wrist, the same one that she’d handed me during practice without hesitation. I caught her eyeing the band.

“You want it back?”

She shook her head, “it’s just a hair tie, keep it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

The silence returned. It wasn’t awkward, just full of things neither of us had figured out how to say yet. Then, her voice came again.

“Paige.”

Just my name, soft through her voice. It hit me square in the chest and my heart completely stalled, it felt like my breathing was out of rhythm.

“Yeah?”

She hesitated but then came her question, “do you hate me?”

“What?”

“You’re relaxed with the other girls,” she said, eyes landing on mine again, “you joke, you laugh. You’re loud. But with me, you close off. You freeze. It’s like you don’t even want to give me the time of day.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said immediately, hoping to ease her worry.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“Just is.”

I expected that to frustrate her, yet the only thing that came from it was another tilt to her head, studying me with the same focus she had on the court.

“Paige,” she said, quieter this time.

“Az.”

There was a small shift, her smile cracking through the silence, “only my grandparents call me Az,” she murmured, amusement tugging gently at her voice.

“Oh,” I suddenly felt self-conscious, “sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep -”

“No,” she said, cutting me off with a quick shake of her head, “there’s nothing wrong with it, I like it. It sounds right when you say it.”

I scrambled internally for something to say, anything to pull me back from whatever this was starting to become. But my mind was empty, too full to speak. Every second that passed felt like a thread pulling loose.

Not because of her.

Definitely not.

“Paige,” her voice cut through, enough to pull me out of the mental spiral I had fallen in.

“Hm?”

“I like playing with you.”

Five simple words, but each syllable caused my heart to jump, stumble and skip a beat.

“Oh,” I said. Fucking brilliant, then, because my mouth hated to cooperate with my brain at even the most vital moments, I smiled, “I like you, too. I mean, playing. I like playing with you, too,”fuck, I immediately buried my face in my hands, groaning into my palms, “just… please ignore me.”

Through my fingers, I peeked up and caught her smiling.

When the final roster was announced, among the twelve names was mine and Azzi’s. There was no ceremony, just a printed list taped to a wall outside the meeting room. I stared at it longer than necessary, even after finding my name. Around me, girls hugged, cried, calls made. Others left with their heads down, fast steps and forced smiles. But Azzi and I had made it. Whatever we were or weren’t, it had worked. On the court, at least.

We were told we had a week. Enough time to go home, reset and wrap our minds around what came next. Buenos Aires. International competition. A tournament that would last just four days, but would require every bit of focus, discipline and resolve we could muster.

When we touched down in Argentina, something in me clicked. This was real. The stakes, the stage, the flag we proudly wore across our chests. It was the kind of dream you didn’t allow yourself to believe in until you were already living it.

We didn’t just play, we won. Went completely undefeated. Game after game, Azzi and I came off the bench, a sudden burst of pace that threw off our opponents. While the starters set the tone, we rewrote it. Disrupted rhythm, changed the tempo. Where they expected fatigue, we brought fire. She cut, I passed. I drove, she created space. We didn’t need to talk, just read each other effortlessly. It was chemistry in motion, and it felt as natural as breathing.

By the end of the tournament, people noticed. They all saw the two youngest players out there syncing up like we’d grown up in the same driveway. But eventually, the medals were handed out, jerseys packed away and the lights dimmed on our short spotlight. Just like that, it was over and the moment in my hotel room, whatever it had been between us, it had stayed there. Pressed into the folds of that quiet night, never spoken out loud. Never picked up again. Then we flew home.

Summer blurred around the edges. Workouts, conditioning, long days under the gym lights. My legs stayed tired and my schedule stayed full. The only thing I had room for was forward motion.

Azzi and I messaged a few times in between the chaos that the tournament had created. Nothing deep. Jokes. Reactions to Insta stories. One word check-ins that never led to anything.

On my birthday, she sent a text: Happy Birthday :)

I replied: Thanks!

She didn’t text after that, so I let it sit. Then I let it - let her - go. Filed Azzi away in the back of my mind under almost. Not a heartbreak, not even disappointment. Just a soft, strange ache of something never really got to begin. A summer crush I didn’t even have time to understand while it was happening, let alone mourn once it passed.

But even so…

I remembered.

The knock. Her soft voice when she said my name. That flicker, brief but undeniable, that settled between us.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remember.

#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi

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casssmalefantasy · 2 months ago

Text

NOTHING BUT NET — PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

CHAPTER ONE.

new number, same name

| parings: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes

| synopsis: tatum rhodes has always been that girl. jersey-born, louisville-made, and now... husky. her decision to transfer to uconn for her senior year wasn't taken lightly-but she's ready for a new chapter, and maybe, just maybe, she's ready for whatever tension sparks when she meets paige bueckers for the first time.

| warnings: light cursing, light suggestive banter, lots of basketball referencing, mentions of sweat and college dorm chaos, slow burn setup, first impressions with tension

| word count: 2.3K?

| tags list (comment): none yet

| masterlist • next chapter

──────────────────────

“You think she’s gonna fit in?”

Paige looks up from her phone, a bag of chips tucked between her legs as she leans back into Azzi’s pile of throw pillows. She grabs an another chip, chewing. She’s half-listening, but the question catches.

“Who?”

“Tatum Rhodes.”

Azzi’s cross-legged on the floor in front of her bookshelf, rearranging her books for the third time this week. Color-coded stacks, soft flicker of candles behind her, the whole room humming with warmth and pink edges. Even in summer, Azzi’s dorm feels like a blanket.

“Rhodes from Louisville?” Paige tilts her head. “Point guard, number nine?”

“Was number nine. She’s wearing fourteen now.” Azzi glances up. “Coach said she’s moving in tomorrow.”

Paige puts her phone down. “Oh, her. She went crazy against Tennessee last year, right?”

“Thirty-two points,” Azzi says, lips curving. “Six threes.”

“Damn,” Paige breathes, low and impressed. “I remember that game. She played like she was mad at the world.”

“Maybe she was.” Azzi smiles, soft but knowing.

Paige leans back further, eyes on the ceiling. She’s quiet for a second, then, “You ever talk to her before?”

“We were mutuals. Met once on her visit, remember? You weren’t around. Few of us grabbed ice cream after practice. She was cool.”

Paige hums. Doesn’t say more, but something lingers behind her eyes. That name. That statline. Thirty-two points. Six threes. The kind of game that said she was someone.

And tomorrow, she’d be theirs.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Tatum’s been hooping since before she could spell it.

Rec center leagues. Weekend tournaments. Free throws in the driveway with her older sister yelling “Bend your knees!” every Saturday morning. Her dad took her to every open gym in Essex County, watched her grind out hours under flickering gym lights, gloves on, fingers numb in the cold Jersey air.

Basketball was the only thing that made sense. It’s how she made friends. How she got through school. How she learned control.

Louisville gave her everything she thought she wanted—three years, a conference ring, a few deep tourney runs. But after last season, something shifted. Not in her minutes, not in her role. Just in her.

She wanted more. More pressure. More demand. More of a fight.

Geno had called it “The storm you’ve been asking for” when she committed.

And now, standing in the middle of her new dorm apartment, sweat sticking to the back of her neck, duffel bag in hand, Tatum’s starting to believe him.

“This is the last one!” her sister Riley shouts, lugging in the box labeled “posters + kicks.”

“Jesus,” their dad groans behind her, hauling the suitcase. “You moving in or opening a Foot Locker?”

“Don’t start,” Tatum mutters, already tugging her room key from her back pocket.

The door swings open to reveal Azzi, framed in soft lamplight, wearing a hoodie and fuzzy socks. Her room is tucked to the right—walls blushing pink, books stacked in threes, candles on her desk. Warm as hell.

“You made it,” Azzi grins. “And you weren’t lying. You really brought the whole store.”

“Rotation essentials,” Tatum shrugs, stepping past her.

Her own room is darker—blues, purples, shadows layered into corners. A few posters already pinned above her bed: Lauryn Hill, Kendrick, Solange. A vintage photo of Kobe mid-fadeaway. Her sneaker rack lined like an altar.

“You good with the mattress?” Azzi asks, hovering by the door.

“He’s got a system,” Riley deadpans, pointing at their dad.

“Don’t mess with the system,” he echoes, already halfway done.

It doesn’t take long—clothes hung, snacks stashed, posters straightened. When it’s all said and done, there’s a small pause.

“You okay?” Riley asks, quieter now.

Tatum nods. “Yeah. It’s just… weird.”

She doesn’t say what she’s really feeling. Not the part about leaving Louisville. Not the ache in her chest when she saw that team selfie tucked into her nightstand, from just before everything went south. Smiles frozen. Her ex standing too close, her hand on Tatum’s back like she owned it. The girl who sent the receipts on Instagram had DMed her that same night. The kiss. The party. The cheating.

She’d blocked them both by morning.

No one ever knew they were together, not even her closest teammates.

Now, it’s just her.

“You got this,” her dad says, hugging her one-armed.

“Don’t let anyone punk you,” Riley adds, already tearing up.

“Love y’all,” Tatum murmurs. Then they’re gone.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

“Game night,” Azzi announces later that night, knocking on her door. “Paige’s dorm. Mandatory.”

“Mandatory?”

“Yeah. It’s team law.”

Tatum throws on a black hoodie, slips her feet into slides, and trails behind her down the hall. Paige lives across the quad, third floor. The second Azzi opens the door, it’s chaos.

“Ayyy, hey girly poppp!” KK yells, sprawled across the floor with Aubrey, chips scattered like confetti.

“It’s Tatum,” Azzi corrects, rolling her eyes.

“Tatum! Come catch this Uno smoke!” Jana calls.

“You guys are so dramatic,” Morgan a freshman laughs, handing Tatum a soda. “But hey—welcome.”

She doesn’t expect it. The noise. The way everyone’s already a part of something. But then Caroline pulls her into a game and someone hands her a handful of Skittles and before she realizes, she’s got cards in one hand, Pepsi in the other, and she’s laughing.

Paige is holding court on the other side of the room, shoulder to shoulder with Ice and KK, her presence like gravity. Loud. Quick-witted. Everyone listens when she talks. Everyone wants her on their team. She doesn’t try to be the center—she just is.

Tatum watches her from the corner of her eye.

Mid-game, Caroline leans over. “Tatum, didn’t you cook Tennessee last year?”

“Oh yeah,” KK nods. “Career high, right?”

“Thirty-two points,” Paige says casually, glancing up from her hand. Her voice isn’t loud, but Tatum hears it clear.

“You remember that?” Tatum asks.

“I remember players like you.”

And it hits. Not the compliment. The memory. That night. The game, yeah—but also the fight after. The DMs. The heartbreak. Her ex ducking her eyes in the locker room.

Tatum’s smile shifts. Not enough for most to notice.

But Paige does.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Later, when the games wind down and the room empties, Paige finds her in the kitchen. Tatum’s rinsing her cup in the sink when she hears soft steps.

“You good?” Paige asks.

Tatum doesn’t look back. “Yeah.”

“You dipped for a sec.”

“Just needed air.”

There was a silence between them for a second.

“It was that Tennessee game, right?” Paige asks. Not a question, really.

Tatum dries the cup, slow and measured. “What about it?”

“You shifted. When we brought it up earlier.”

Tatum finally turns. “You’re watching my face that close?”

“Your shoulders,” Paige says. “They dropped. Like you flinched.”

Tatum stiffens. She hadn’t even noticed.

“Damn. Didn’t know you were in the business of analyzing body language.”

“I notice things,” Paige shrugs, leaning against the fridge. “It’s kind of part of the job.”

“Reading people?”

“Reading teammates. Reading the room. Makes the passes easier.”

Tatum folds her arms. “I’m not one of your reads, Paige.”

Paige’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

“Okay. I’ll back off.”

A silence stretches between them. Not cold. Just… cautious.

“You ever have a game that everyone else remembers for the box score,” Tatum says finally, “but you remember for something else entirely?”

Paige nods. “Couple of those.”

“Yeah. That was one of mine.”

She doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to. And Paige—surprisingly—doesn’t press.

“Your game’s nice, by the way,” Paige says, stepping back toward the door. “Clean footwork. Smooth release.”

“Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

“Noted,” Paige grins. “But it’s not flattery if it’s true.”

The door creaks slightly as she goes, and Tatum’s left in the hush of the kitchen. Heart not racing, but not quite calm either.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Sarah drops her bag with a thud and kicks off her sneakers like she’s just landed on Earth after a long space mission.

“Wow, I missed this apartment,” she says, flopping onto the couch with a sigh that’s half relief, half exhaustion.

“You barely moved in and you were gone like two and a half weeks,” Azzi says, curling one leg beneath her as she settles next to Sarah.

“And in that time,” Sarah points between them like she’s calling out a crime, “And somehow come back to a new roommate who only exists when there’s food involve.”

Tatum, perched on the counter with a half-finished water bottle, raises an eyebrow. “You just got here. Also harsh first impression.”

“You don’t talk much Azzi said,” Sarah says, blinking like she just realized the truth herself, “But you’re chill. I respect it.“

“Tatum hangs out with me sometimes,” Azzi says, pulling out her phone. “She just doesn’t talk unless it’s worth saying.”

“Exactly,” Tatum deadpans, sliding off the counter. “So… Wingstop or Domino’s?”

“Wait, you paying for it?” Sarah asks, a little too eager.

“Yeah,” Tatum says, opening the food app, “We can call this a roomie night or something.”

They order enough to feed a small team—garlic bread, wings, a box of cheese pizza, and some bread sticks

Tatum’s on aux, Azzi lights two candles and flicks off the main light. Sarah awkwardly places her Team USA medal on the windowsill like it’s a trophy she can’t quite own yet, then sinks back into the cushions.

“So… Team USA?” Azzi asks, chin propped on her hand.

“Intense,” Sarah says, voice dropping like she’s sharing a secret. “Like, good intense. Playing next to girls I only ever watched on highlight reels. Everyone’s tall, fast—blink and someone’s shooting on you.”

“You cook anyone?” Tatum asks, smirking.

Sarah smirks back, but it’s a little shy, a little surprised at herself. “Just a little. Caught one girl slipping, hit her with a spin into a step-through. Got her twice with the same move.

“Gotta pull that move when the season starts,” Azzi teases, nudging Sarah.

“I mean, maybe,” Sarah says, voice cracking just slightly, “Depends on the team.”

Tatum settles deeper into the couch, the warmth between pillows and people making something feel a little easier.

They talk music, food, old basketball games, and Sarah’s sarcasm keeps catching Tatum off guard, making her laugh more than she thought she would.

“Honestly,” Sarah says, looking at Tatum with a half smile, “You’re way cooler than I thought.”

“Oh yeah?” Tatum replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Well because Azzi told me you didn’t talk much, I assumed you were going to be one of those people who never hangs out, unless needed to. ”

Tatum smirks. “Maybe I am.”

“You definitely aren’t,” Azzi says with a grin. “Besides I would never let you stay in your room longer than you need to.”

They all laugh—and for the first time since she got here, Tatum feels like maybe she’s not just visiting.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The gym smells like sweat and hardwood and something almost electric in the air. The kind of charge you only get when it’s real. No cameras. No fans. Just buckets, breath, and blood.

Geno’s already pacing. Whistle around his neck. Clipboard balanced against his chest.

No welcome speeches.

Just, “Get on the line.”

Geno’s whistle cuts through the air like a blade.

“On the baseline. Thirty-second touches. Go.”

It’s hell. Three touches, full-court sprints, backpedals, suicides. Azzi’s already setting the pace. Paige stays a step behind her, even though she’s barely breaking a sweat.

Tatum’s holding her own. Footwork tight, arms pumping, lungs burning in that familiar way—painful, but alive.

“Slide, slide, hands!” CD shouts from the sideline.

They run shell drills next. Live ball screen coverages. Paige and Azzi on one side, Tatum and Sarah switching on the other. Geno stops the rep.

“Rhodes—what are we doing when they screen flat up top?”

“Hedge hard, recover quick.”

“So why are you trailing her like we’re playing soft drop?”

Tatum exhales sharp. “Got it. Again.”

They reset. Screen comes. She hedges, bodies Azzi high, recovers like a shadow. Sarah rotates behind her.

Geno claps once. That’s all she gets.

They scrimmage for the last half hour. Full-court, scoreboard on. Paige takes control like she’s orchestrating a symphony. Calling sets—“Horns twist! Chin drag! 5-out ghost!”—but always with freedom laced into it.

Tatum starts to feel the rhythm.

She sinks a catch-and-shoot three from the slot. Then a jab-step drive into a floater off the glass. When Paige tries to cut baseline off a stagger, Tatum bodies up and denies it. Full chest, no space.

“Nice,” Paige says under her breath, half-grinning.

“Not that nice,” Tatum mutters, locking in.

“Give it time.”

Geno stops everything after a missed defensive rotation. Not Tatum’s fault, but he doesn’t care.

“Do it again. This isn’t a highlight tape. This is habits.”

They run it back. And this time? Tatum closes out with a low base, contests the shot, sprints to the glass, and snatches the rebound out of midair like it owes her something.

That’s not the end. Days before she knows it, Geno is back to yelling.

“Move your feet, Ashlyn!”

“Ice, finish the layup!”

“Tatum—take the shot!”

Tatum takes it all. Soaks it in. Doesn’t flinch when he barks her name. Doesn’t complain when her legs burn. She hits a stepback three in transition. Then another. Then drives hard into the paint and finishes through contact.

Paige sees it. The way she doesn’t just score—she thinks, moves with purpose, reads the floor like a map she’s already memorized.

Geno blows the whistle.

“Tatum.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Don’t float. You might be new to the team, but you’re still one of the leaders. So lead.”

Tatum nods. Steady hands. Chin lifted. She knows what this is. She came here for this.

As everyone heads to get some water, Tatum stays at half court. Paige jogs past her and claps her shoulder once. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Tatum watches Azzi laugh with Caroline. Hears Ice and Jana bickering about who missed a switch. Sees Kaitlyn already calling the next drill.

She breathes in the gym air. Hears her heartbeat slow.

And maybe—

Maybe she doesn’t have to guard her heart when everyone around her plays like they got her back.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #ncaa women’s basketball #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x black!reader #wbb #dallas wings #wlw #nothing but net series

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