casssmalefantasy

[casssmalefantasy]

guys sorry I’m on family vacation, but I’ll be back soon with more stuff!! miss ya and make sure to send some requests if you want ❤️.

[casssmalefantasy]

When are you updating beyond the baseline?

goood questionnn. i put a pause on it cause I lowkey have writers block on that story 😭😭. but hopefully soon? like i have the whole entire outline of the story I just have to actually write it. but i lowkey hate the way i wrote it 😭😭😭.

[casssmalefantasy]

NOTHING BUT NET - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

CHAPTER FIVE

new’s not always bad.

I parings: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes

I synopsis: tatum’s here to play basketball and keep her guard up. but when the team parties and eyes start to lock, the line between teammate and something more gets blurry—way blurrier than she expected.

I warnings: slow-burn romance, guarded/complex feelings, alcohol use, party scenes, emotional tension, anxiety, brief references to past cheating and heartbreak, queer themes, first kiss, soft but intense moments, internal conflict

I word count: 4.9k

I tags list (comment): @fivest4rbuecks @indigo491 @everyonewatchesuconnwbb

I last chapter • next chapter

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The gym smelled like sweat, floor polish, and the ghost of championships. Werth was loud with sneakers dragging, balls bouncing, and Geno’s voice cutting through it all like a siren. It was one of those days—three hours deep, bodies aching, and season two weeks out. Everyone knew it. The intensity had shifted. There were no more light practices. No more easing in. It was UConn now, and it was real.

Tatum stood on the baseline, hands on her hips, jersey clinging to her back from the drills. Her chest heaved from the last set—closeouts into shell drill into full-court transition defense. Geno hadn’t stopped talking for forty minutes. Nobody had. The volume stayed up, and so did the standards.

“That was the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen. Run it again,” he barked.

And they did.

Azzi hedged too slow on the switch, and Tatum caught it. “Gotta get there earlier, Az. That angle’s wide open.”

Azzi nodded, didn’t take it personally. That was the thing about this team—they respected the truth, even when it came fast and sharp.

They rotated. Paige was loud today, too—calling out switches, getting under screens, clapping in rhythm to the tempo of the drill. She pulled Jana aside during a water break, voice low and encouraging, pointing something out on the board.

Tatum didn’t do soft-spoken. She called it mid-rep if she saw it. She knew Geno would if she didn’t. And lately, Geno had stopped yelling at her and started expecting things from her instead. Which was worse, somehow.

“Slide sooner, Ice—ball’s moving faster than your feet,” Tatum said after a scramble drill.

Ice just tapped her chest and nodded. “I got you.”

That was the culture. Honest. Brutal if needed. But built from trust.

They moved into three-on-three shell—defensive reads, rotation timing, help side communication. Tatum was sharp. She anticipated passes before they left fingertips. She directed traffic, called out cutters, closed out with high hands, and clapped once when she forced a turnover.

Geno’s voice pierced over the action. “That’s what I’m talking about. Tatum, keep talking. Some of you need to follow her lead.”

Tatum didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. She just reset and got ready for the next possession.

There were micro-moments with Paige. Glances across the key. A look exchanged during a dead ball. Something wordless between them that always flickered at the edges. But Paige had dialed it back since the night at Ted’s. She hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t needed to. Tatum had made it clear without ever using words….not now.

Still, in the scrimmage, the energy between them pulsed. Paige hit a midrange pull-up with a hand in her face and didn’t say anything, just looked at Tatum as she ran back.

Tatum smirked. “Alright, Bueckers.”

Next play, she got the switch she wanted, called for the iso, and buried a three with Paige on her. The bench went loud.

“OKAYYY GIRLYYY!” KK shouted from the sideline.

Tatum just jogged back on defense. No celebration. No talk. Just game.

She was in rhythm now—reading the floor like it was breathing with her. She hit a cutter with a no-look bounce pass through traffic. She boxed out hard, got boards in traffic. She took a charge. Geno was still yelling, but it wasn’t at her.

When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 36-29. Her squad won.

Everyone bent over, catching breath, untying sneakers slowly.

Geno paced in front of them, arms crossed. “You wanna know what a UConn guard looks like? Look at Tatum today.”

Silence.

Tatum’s jaw flexed. She didn’t react. That kind of praise hit somewhere too deep. She didn’t know if she believed it yet. But she heard it.

“I’m not handing out medals,” Geno added, like he’d caught himself saying something too nice. “We’re not there yet. But that’s the kind of shit that gets you minutes in March.”

Tatum looked down at her shoes, sweat dripping off her chin. Her chest was still heaving, but not from the drills anymore.

She belonged here.

At least… she almost believed it.

The ice bath was brutal, like usual. Cold enough to make your teeth clench, but everyone had adjusted to it by now—a weird post-practice ritual that somehow felt like a group therapy session in a freezer. Tatum settled into the tub with a quiet inhale, the shock of the cold hitting her lungs first. Sarah was already there, arms resting behind her on the edge, while Ice and Jana were slowly easing in, hissing through their teeth.

Paige sat across from Tatum, legs in, in a Nike sports bra. She wasn’t saying much yet, but her eyes kept sliding toward Tatum like she wanted to.

“So,” Ice said, exhaling hard. “Who’s actually committed to a Halloween costume this year?”

Sarah grinned. “Men in Black. I got the sunglasses and everything.”

“Oh, that’s gonna eat,” Jana nodded. “I’m still deciding. Might go funny this year, something dumb as hell.”

“Magic Mike’s gonna be half the damn team,” Ice said, smirking. “KK’s in. Yana. Me. Paige.”

Paige chuckled, lifting a brow. “Gotta give the people what they want.”

“Oh we know,” Ice teased. “Wait till your fans see you in your costume.”

Paige shot her a look, mock offended. “Bro relax. I probably won’t even post it.”

“They’ll probably find out somehow,” Jana grinned. “They find everything.”

“They really do. It’s kinda scary sometimes,” Paige laughed, and the girls broke into laughter with her. Then her eyes flicked back to Tatum. “What about you?”

Tatum hesitated a second, then said, “Betty Boop.”

Jana’s eyes lit up. “Oh wait, that’s fire. You pulling that off with the curls? You better go all out.”

Tatum gave a small smile. “Yeah, just gotta grab a few more things tomorrow.”

“I still need to get stuff too,” Paige said, casually. “If you want a ride, I can take you.”

There was a small pause. Not awkward, but just long enough to register. Tatum glanced up, met her eyes. Paige’s voice had dipped, a little softer than the rest of the conversation, like there was something underneath it she didn’t say out loud.

Tatum nodded once, keeping her voice neutral. “Sure. That’ll probably be easier.”

“Cool,” Paige said, quickly, like she didn’t want to make it a thing.

Sarah leaned forward. “Tatum, you really stepping up at practice lately. Noticed it today.”

“Yeah,” Ice agreed. “You’ve been calling shit out early. That help side switch with Jana? Saved us.”

Tatum shrugged, trying to brush it off. “I just don’t like running extra when someone misses a rotation.”

“Say you’re a leader without saying it,” Jana said, nudging her foot under the water. “You been on one.”

“I just… try to fix the little stuff before Geno screams about it.”

Paige gave a short laugh. “Well, good luck with that.”

That earned a few laughs. Tatum relaxed just a bit.

“You really don’t miss much, though,” Sarah said. “Feels like you see the play before it happens.”

Tatum glanced down at the water, voice lower. “Trying to prove I’m worth the spot.”

“You already did,” Paige said—not loud, but clear.

Tatum looked up. Paige didn’t look away.

Ice splashed her hand through the water. “Y’all getting sentimental. That’s enough for today.”

The moment broke, and the group laughed again. Tatum leaned back into the cold, still quiet, still guarded, but letting herself enjoy it. The teasing. The noise. The way they made space for her without needing to be asked.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The drive was quiet. Not heavy, just soft. Like the world hadn’t fully woken up yet, and neither had they.

Tatum tugged the sleeves of her UConn sweatshirt over her hands as she slid into the passenger seat of Paige’s car. She’d gone simple—black sweats, Ugg slides, curls down, hood halfway up. Paige didn’t say much when she pulled up. Just nodded, a slow half-smile from behind her glasses. She looked warm, like sleep still clung to her—grey sweatpants, Nike slides, grey Eric Emanuel hoodie zipped halfway. Ponytail low, sleepy but still sharp around the edges. Tatum noticed and immediately tried not to.

Daniel Caesar played low through the speakers, humming like a second thought. They didn’t speak. Paige tapped the wheel once, then again. Tatum stared out the window, grateful for the silence. Mornings weren’t made for talking.

It wasn’t until they hit the edge of I-84 that Paige said, “You want anything from that coffee spot up here?”

Tatum blinked out of her thoughts. “Just an iced coffee. Maybe a croissant.”

“I got you.”

“I’ll Apple Pay you—”

“Nope.” Paige reached over, caught Tatum’s phone mid-air before she could even tap her screen. “I said I got you.”

Tatum narrowed her eyes. “I’m serious.”

Paige turned off the ignition and looked at her. Really looked at her. “Tate. It’s on me.”

Tatum froze. The nickname cut through the air like warmth in a cold room. Paige was already halfway out the door before Tatum could say anything back. She sat there alone for a moment, unsettled in a way she didn’t hate.

Tatum had never liked people paying for her. Not even back then. Her ex had let her cover everything and made her feel like that was love. She thought it was, for a while. That paying meant giving. That giving meant keeping. Now someone doing something for her—even something small—made her chest tight in a way she couldn’t explain.

Paige came back balancing two iced coffees and a brown bag. She handed Tatum hers without a word.

“How much was it?” Tatum tried again.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Tatum. Don’t worry about it.”

“You keep saying that like I’m gonna listen.”

Paige smirked. “You keep arguing like I didn’t already pay.”

Tatum didn’t respond. Not really. She just looked down at the coffee cup, the name scribbled on the side. Tate.

“Tate?” she said, quieter than she meant to.

Paige was already buckling in. “What? I can’t call you that?”

“It’s not that you can’t,” Tatum said. “It’s just… new.”

Paige shrugged, pulling out of the lot. “New’s not always bad.”

Something about the way she said it made Tatum glance out the window again. Like it meant more than it said.

They drove the rest of the way into Hartford mostly quiet. Brent was playing now, something slow and half-broken playing over warm beats. Paige didn’t say much, but her eyes kept cutting toward Tatum when they stopped at lights. Not obvious, but not hidden either. Tatum noticed. She just didn’t have it in her to call it out. And maybe she didn’t want to.

Inside the store, it smelled like cologne and new denim. Clean racks. Exposed brick. A playlist that tried too hard to be cool, but still kind of hit. Paige watched Tatum float through the space like she belonged in it—hand grazing fabrics, gaze locked in. This was her arena.

Paige was supposed to be shopping for a tie and a hat, and Tatum found her five minutes in, standing like she forgot what she came for.

“You came all the way here for a tie and hat?” Tatum raised a brow.

Paige gave her a grin. “What? It needs to look good.”

Tatum tilted her head, amused. “Doesn’t take much.”

“Oh,” Paige teased, stepping forward a little. “You think I look good without trying?”

Tatum rolled her eyes. Dangerous territory. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re attractive. People do that enough.”

“But you still said it.”

Tatum made a sharp turn down another aisle. “What kind of tie are you even looking for?”

They found one eventually. Black satin, nothing too flashy. Paige liked the one Tatum held up first, said it matched her eyes. Tatum ignored the comment like it didn’t happen.

Later, Tatum held up two red dresses. One was strapless, short. The other had a slit, a little more dramatic.

“No try-ons,” she said. “So help me pick.”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “The one with the slit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’d look good on you.”

Tatum didn’t say anything, but she put it in the cart.

They circled the store for a while longer, the music shifting into something cringey and chart-topping. Paige sang under her breath in the worst possible key just to annoy her.

“Oh my God, please stop,” Tatum laughed. “You’re ruining the song.”

“Some would say I’m improving it.”

“No one would say that.”

They finally get to the register, an older woman in a UConn crewneck and sneakers stopped in her tracks. “Oh my god,” she said, squinting. “You’re Paige Bueckers! And—wait—Tatum? The transfer?”

Paige smiled. “Yes Hii.”

The woman beamed, looking too excited for her age. “You two… y’all are gonna be a problem this year.”

Tatum blinked. “Thank you,” she said, unsure if it was the right response.

“Can I get a picture?” the woman asked, already pulling out her phone. “With both of you? My niece is obsessed with UConn and she’s been following your transfer story since it broke. Said ‘watch out for Tatum Rhodes.’”

Tatum froze for a second. Paige stepped in, gentle. “Of course.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, Paige doing the thing where she leaned in slightly, head tilted just right. Tatum stayed still, trying to smile like she’d done this a hundred times before. She hadn’t.

As they walked out, bags in hand, Paige nudged her shoulder lightly. “You alright?”

Tatum nodded. “Just not used to that.”

“What? Fans?”

“No. Being known.” She paused. “Being… seen.”

Paige looked over at her, serious now. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” Tatum admitted. “Sometimes it feels easier not to.”Tatum’s fingers absently adjusted the sleeve of her hoodie

“Feels like when people look at you, they already have an idea,” Tatum added. “What they want you to be. Who they think you are. It’s hard to breathe in that sometimes.”

Paige looked over. “Yeah,” she said, voice low. “It can be. But you get to decide who you are. Not them.”

That sat heavy between them.

Outside, the sun was sliding down, soft gold stretching over the sidewalk. The air had cooled. Paige walked a little slower now, like she didn’t want the day to end yet. They loaded the car. Brent was still playing, softer now.

—

Halfway back to campus, Paige spoke again. “You nervous about your first game?”

Tatum didn’t answer right away. “I was gonna give you some press-friendly quote. But I’m not gonna do that.”

Paige stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“I’m nervous,” Tatum said. “But excited too. This is the first time I’ve started a season and haven’t felt like there’s something broken in me. Like I’m not trying to outrun doubt every time I step on the court.”

Paige didn’t respond right away. Just nodded. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

Tatum glanced at her.

“You’re here for a reason,” Paige said. “The team sees it. Geno sees it. I see it.”

Tatum looked out the window, fingers gripping the coffee cup now half-empty. “Thank you, P.”

Paige smiled. “Nicknames go both ways, huh?”

Tatum shook her head, but there was a small grin there. “Guess so.”

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

When they got back, Tatum lingered for a second outside the door before heading in. Azzi was on the couch with Sarah, Netflix playing something nobody was watching.

“How was your lil shopping day?” Azzi asked, voice loaded.

“It was good,” Tatum said, slipping off her slides. “It was fun.”

Azzi smirked. “That all?”

“Drop it.”

She disappeared into her room.

Paige was fresh out the shower when Jana peeked into her doorway. “So?”

“So what.”

“How was the ride? Did she give you the cold shoulder?”

Paige threw a pillow at her. “No. She talked.”

Jana raised a brow. “Okay interesting. Maybe she likes you after all.”

“Yeah yeah whatever,” Paige muttered, hiding her smile. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

But she didn’t sleep right away.

She laid in bed, phone face down, lights off, thinking about the way Tatum looked when she said the word seen. About how her voice dropped when she admitted to being nervous. Paige didn’t know everything about what happened in Louisville. But she knew that something had cracked there. And maybe this year was about learning to feel whole again.

And if Paige could help her feel that, even a little?

She’d show up every time.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The apartment smelled like hair spray and setting powder and whatever sugar-sweet candle Azzi had lit in the kitchen. The playlist was all early 2000s bangers—Ashanti, Usher, Nelly—and it was already warm inside from all the movement.

Tatum leaned into the bathroom mirror, the red lipstick smooth under her steady hand. She blinked once, checking the line, then rubbed her lips together and breathed out. The wig sat perfect, curls brushing the top of her shoulders, jet black like ink. She adjusted the garter on her thigh, the lace catching the light just right, then grabbed her hoops.

Just as she was clipping the last earring in, she heard the door burst open behind her.

“Goddamnnnn,” Ice said, stopping mid-step. “You look good Tatum.”

Azzi’s head poked around the corner, already in costume as a sparkling fairy with wings that lit up. “Okay Betty Boop! I see you!”

KK let out a low whistle from behind them. “Tatum, blink twice if you’re secretly filming a music video.”

Tatum rolled her eyes, but the corner of her lip curved. “Y’all are annoying.”

“Oh, we’re annoying?” Jana’s voice came from the living room. “Says the one who walked out here lookin straight from a movie.”

When Tatum stepped into the living room, the reactions didn’t slow. Caroline smiled. Morgan clutched her heart. Sarah just stared and mouthed “Wow.”

But it was Paige that made Tatum freeze.

She wasn’t looking at anyone else. Just her.

White tank top, low-slung pants, boxers showing, fake hundred-dollar bills peeking out. She had a backward cap on, a damn tie around her neck, and somehow still looked hot enough to short-circuit Tatum’s brain. Paige’s mouth parted just slightly, her eyes dragging down over Tatum’s figure and back up with a quiet disbelief.

Tatum glanced away fast, hoping no one saw how her breath caught.

Jana broke the tension, waving her digital camera in the air. “Alright! Line up! I’m getting pics of everybody.”

There were solo shots, then roommate trios, then a big group picture that Kayla—their friend that did Paige and Azzi’s braids sometimes—took while balancing on a kitchen chair.

“Paige and Tatum—get one together,” Azzi said casually.

Tatum raised a brow. Paige looked at her, silently asking, and to everyone’s surprise—including her own—Tatum nodded.

They stood side by side. Paige’s hand went to Tatum’s waist without a second thought. Tatum’s skin prickled under the touch. Jana counted down to the flash, but neither moved after the photo was taken.

“You two look so good it’s actually rude,” KK muttered.

Tatum finally broke the silence. “That Magic Mike thing… it’s working for you.”

Paige smirked. “You think so?”

“You know so.”

There was a beat too long before Jana yelled, “LET’S DO A PREGAME SHOT!” and they did.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

They piled into Ubers, Tatum and Azzi sharing one with Sarah and KK, loud laughter filling the car. The ride was short. The house they arrived at—some football player’s off campus housing—was already packed and pulsing with music, windows lit in purple and orange.

Inside, it smelled like vape clouds, sweat, cheap cologne, and weed. Lights flashed blue then pink then red, and the bass thumped playing Drake Back To Back—enough to vibrate through their bodies.

“Okayyyy! This is my shit,” Ice announced.

Tatum joined her, then Jana, then Paige. It started out fun—Tatum letting herself move to the rhythm, letting her hips go loose, feeling the music more than thinking about it.

But at one point, she caught Paige’s eyes across the room.

She was watching. Not in a weird way. In a locked-in, you’ve got my full attention kind of way. And when some guy leaned in to say something to Tatum, Paige didn’t look away.

Tatum kept cool. The guy was nice, a little tipsy, harmless. He tried to flirt, complimented her costume. Tatum gave him a tight smile, said “I’m into girls,” and he backed off politely enough.

She walked back toward the group and Paige stepped toward her immediately.

“You good?” Paige asked, her voice low but focused.

“Yeah. He was fine. Just trying his luck.”

Paige nodded once, but Tatum could feel her eyes lingering a beat longer than necessary.

Tatum nudged Azzi. “Come get a drink with me?”

As they walked toward the makeshift bar—white claws, Trulys, cheap vodka poured into plastic cups—Tatum stared into hers and blurted, “Why does she look good.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Who?”

Tatum didn’t answer. Just sipped her drink.

Azzi didn’t press. “Come on, let’s go back.”

The night blurred in a haze of dancing and yelling and old R&B lyrics shouted at the top of their lungs. Tatum wasn’t drunk, but the tipsiness was enough to loosen the reins on her restraint. Her body was warm, her guard down just enough to let her lean into the fun.

At one point, she and Paige ended up in the corner of the kitchen, semi-shielded by a crowd but still in their own little bubble.

PartyNextDoor hummed through the speakers—low, sensual, the kind of sound that felt like heat pressed against skin.

Tatum said something about someone’s costume. Paige laughed, but didn’t look away from her face.

Then Paige’s eyes dropped.

Tatum noticed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“You’re doing the same thing,” Paige said softly.

“So?”

Paige stepped in closer. Her voice was smooth, a little slurred from the drinks. “I’m not playing games with you, Tate.”

“I’m not playing either.”

Their eyes locked, and Paige tilted her head like she was reading every possible answer off Tatum’s lips.

“You gotta tell me what you want.”

Tatum’s heart beat hard in her chest. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Tatum looked away, then back. Her voice was low. “This is dangerous.”

Paige’s smile was slow. “Maybe. But right now, I don’t care.”

Tatum shivered. Paige’s hand touched her hip, fingers gentle but certain. She leaned down, voice barely above the music.

“You look so good tonight,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to hide how much I want you.”

Tatum’s stomach flipped. Her chest felt tight and hot and terrified all at once.

“What do you want, Tate?” Paige asked, not letting up.

Tatum closed her eyes for half a second. “We can’t.”

Paige’s brow lifted. “We can’t what?”

“We’re teammates. This is messy.”

“If you want me to stop,” Paige said, pulling back an inch, “Just say it.”

Tatum didn’t say anything.

Paige tried again. “Say it.”

“I want you,” Tatum said quietly.

Paige stepped closer, hand now cupping her face. “You have to be sure.”

“I am.”

That’s all it took.

Their lips met fast—tentative at first, like a question—and then deeper, hotter, more certain. Tatum’s hand gripped Paige’s tank top. Paige’s fingers slid into the hair behind Tatum’s wig, anchoring her closer. The music melted behind them, like they weren’t at a party anymore. Just each other.

When Tatum pulled back, lips parted, breath shaky, her chest heaved. Paige smiled, flushed and close.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Tatum didn’t answer. Just grabbed Paige’s face again and kissed her harder.

Across the room, Azzi nudged Sarah. “Look.”

Sarah looked up. Her eyes widened. “Oh??”

Jana caught it too. “They’re really—okay, damn.”

KK smirked. “I knew it.”

Most of the room didn’t notice. A few of their teammates saw. But Tatum didn’t care.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t thinking about what was smart, or safe, or strategic.

She was just thinking about Paige.

And how good it felt to stop pretending she didn’t want this.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Tatum woke up too aware.

Her room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft gray light of a cloudy morning. But her head wasn’t foggy. Her thoughts, unfortunately, were clear.

Too clear.

The kiss. Paige’s hands on her waist. The weight of her stare. Her voice. That corner. The way her mouth moved when she said Tatum’s name like it meant more. The way Tatum let her.

Her heart kicked in her chest, and she sat up like she could shake it off. She couldn’t. The red garter from last night was still looped around her leg like a reminder. She yanked it off, tossed it into her laundry bin, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. “You knew better.”

The apartment smelled like toast and eggs, and Tatum barely had the energy to care. She padded out to the kitchen in her pajama shorts and socks, eyes heavy, heart heavier.

Azzi was at the stove, flipping veggie-loaded eggs with avocado toast already plated on the counter. She turned slightly, taking one look at Tatum and arching her brow like she already knew everything.

Tatum froze mid-step. “Don’t,” she said flatly.

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just gave a small smile—teasing but not unkind—and went back to cooking.

Tatum opened the fridge for a cold water and took a long sip, needing the cool burn down her throat to ground her. “I know you want to ask,” she said finally, eyes still on the fridge door, “But I don’t want to talk about it. And it shouldn’t have happened.”

Her voice was clipped. Too clipped, even for her.

Azzi turned off the stove. “I wasn’t gonna ask,” she said softly. “But… maybe it’d be better to talk to her. Before it gets messier.”

Tatum looked away. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Azzi didn’t argue. Just nodded, lips pressed together like she knew Tatum was lying to herself and didn’t want to press it.

Tatum went back to her room. She sat at the edge of her bed, water bottle in hand, staring down at the floor like she could find some version of herself that didn’t always do this—didn’t always ruin good things before they had the chance to be real.

It wasn’t about Paige. Not entirely.

It was what Paige reminded her of. The slope. The softness. The risk of falling for a teammate again when she had clawed her way out of that exact mistake last time. When she had promised herself UConn would be different.

Basketball. Only basketball.

So she told herself the kiss didn’t mean anything.

Even if her mouth had memorized the shape of it. Even if she still felt Paige’s touch on her skin.

She’d bury it. Same way she buried everything else that ever threatened to hurt.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Later that day, Jana decided to have game night at her dorm apartment—the apartment was loud the second they walked in. Ice and Caroline were already trash-talking over Uno, and KK was singing terribly to an usher song blaring from the buetooth speaker.

“I’m bringing real music back,” KK announced, holding up her phone like it was a mic.

“Okay Usher 2004,” Ice said with a grin, tossing a handful of popcorn at her. “Calm down.”

Jana looked up from refilling drinks. “Ayeeeee! The roomies are here!”

Azzi nudged Tatum forward with a smirk. “We made it. Is there space left on the couch or did KK claim it with a blanket and ten pillows again?”

KK dramatically laid across it like a Victorian widow. “I am the couch.”

Everyone laughed.

Everyone except Tatum.

She smiled tight. Kept her hands in her hoodie pocket. Made her way to the kitchen to get a ginger ale and stayed close to the snacks like it was her job.

Paige clocked it instantly. The distance. The sidesteps. The way Tatum’s eyes didn’t land on her once.

She tried not to let it get to her. But it did.

Allie—quiet, sweet, and armed with a deadly sense of humor when you weren’t expecting it—offered Paige a Sprite. “You look like you could use some hydration,” she said under her breath.

Paige cracked a half-smile. “What gave it away?”

Allie nodded subtly toward Tatum. “Just a vibe.”

Eventually, the group scattered, some settling into card games, others flipping between music and food. Paige saw her chance when Tatum went to throw her empty ginger ale can out.

They ended up in the kitchen alone. Again.

“Tate,” Paige started, voice low.

Tatum stiffened. “Don’t.”

Paige stepped closer. “You’re not even gonna talk to me?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tatum said, not looking at her. Her tone was careful. Calculated. “It was a mistake.”

Paige blinked. That stung more than she expected. “A mistake?”

Tatum turned, finally facing her. “I told myself I wouldn’t do this again. I came here to play. That’s it.”

“I didn’t ask you for anything more,” Paige said quietly. “But pretending it didn’t happen? That’s not you either.”

Tatum looked down at her drink, fingers tight around the cup. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”

“You’re not,” Paige said, voice gentler now. “We’re not.”

Tatum didn’t reply. Her heart was beating out of her chest.

Paige could see it in her eyes—the push and pull. The fear and the fire behind it.

But then the door flew open and Ice yelled, “Yo! Who keeps hiding the Oreos.”

The moment dissolved. Tatum stepped away first.

“Better get back before KK starts singing more Usher,” she said, already halfway down the hall.

Paige stood in the kitchen alone for a beat longer, still holding her cup, her jaw clenched.

This wasn’t what she expected. But it also wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[casssmalefantasy]

hiii i sent that request for the quiet part, thank you so much for writing it it was so so good 🙇‍♀️❤️

UR WELCOME AND THANK U!! FEEL FREE TO SEND MORE REQUESTS ♥️

[casssmalefantasy]

you’re one of my favorite paige writers here, thank you so much for sharing your work 💗

I COULD CRYYYYYYYYYYY THANK U

[casssmalefantasy]

hiii can i request a fic where paige has a series of bad games and reader tries to comfort her but paige lashes out at her including saying she doesn’t understand cause she isn’t an athlete which is already a an insecurity of hers to be dating a high profile athlete and feeling like there’ll always be a part of paige she’ll never be privy to, so reader she up crying and walking out which makes paige come to her senses but reader isnt answering calls and messages so paige spends the next days groveling please and thank you

THE QUIET PART - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

I synopsis: paige comes home carrying more than she can hold. you try to help. she pushes too hard. now you’re both figuring out what it means to stay.

| warnings: emotional conflict, hurt/comfort, one-sided argument, feelings of emotional dismissal, crying, soft angst with resolution, and lots of feelings.

I word count: 1.9k

I author's note: hopefully you like this!! thank you for the request ♥️

──────────────────────

the door slams harder than it should.

keys clatter on the counter like they’ve been thrown, not dropped, and it’s the kind of sound that echoes too long in a space meant to be quiet. you glance up from the couch, halfway through some comfort rewatch you weren’t even paying attention to. the tv hums behind you like static.

you expect to hear a soft hey, or even just the weight of her footsteps toward you. but paige doesn’t say anything.

she walks straight past. her sneakers squeak once on the floor before they disappear into the bedroom. not even a glance.

you blink. sit up. the silence stretches.

this isn’t her.

you don’t hesitate long. the bath you’d been running in your head as your future reward for a long day suddenly feels too far away. you pad barefoot across the apartment and stand in the doorway of her room.

she’s halfway through pulling her sweatshirt off. there’s a tension in her shoulders you don’t like. when she yanks the hoodie off, she tosses it onto the edge of the bed—not careless, but not careful, either. like she’s too full of something she doesn’t want to carry anymore.

“paige?” you ask, soft.

she pauses.

turns. finally. slowly.

and you hate the look in her eyes—not because she’s mad, but because she’s gone. like something’s been gnawing at her and she let it in too deep. like she doesn’t know how to talk to you with it sitting in her chest.

“talk to me,” you say gently.

she breathes out a bitter, frustrated laugh. “there’s nothing to talk about.”

you step closer.

you reach for her arm. not fast, not forceful, just soft—just trying to ground her, just trying to remind her you’re here.

but she flinches like it stings. like your touch is too much.

“can you not do this right now?” she snaps. “i don’t want to talk, okay?”

you freeze.

her voice isn’t raised—but it’s tense, high-strung, breaking at the edges.

she exhales, sharp and frustrated, stepping away from you. like she needs more room to breathe, or maybe to break.

“do you even understand how hard this is?” she says. “i came here straight from uconn. i’ve never dealt with losing like this. not this much. loss after loss, and i know what we’re capable of. i know we can win, but then we don’t, and there’s nothing i can do about it.”

you stay quiet.

her hands move—into her hair, then tugging at the edge of her shirt, then down again. she’s restless. spiraling.

“i work my ass off and it still isn’t enough. and everyone keeps acting like it’s fine because i’m paige fucking bueckers and i’ll figure it out eventually, but what if i don’t? what if this is just who i am now?”

you try again.

“i do get it. i might not be on the court, but i—”

“no i don’t think you do,” she says, quieter now, but not softer. “you’re not an athlete. you don’t… you don’t know what this feels like.”

and maybe what hurts the most is that you do— not the training or the noise of the court, but the weight she carries afterward. you’ve sat in silence next to her after games, handed her a protein shake she didn’t touch. you’ve folded her jerseys and tucked sticky notes into her gym bag that just said, proud of you, always. you’ve loved her through bruises and exhaustion and late-night replays. and still—none of it mattered. not to her. not tonight.

the silence is sharp.

it hits like the end of a dream. or a free fall. or something cracking in your ribs.

you don’t say anything right away. you can’t.

because it’s not just what she said—it’s the way she said it. like you’ve been trying so hard to show up in all the ways you can, and none of it mattered. like you’ve been loving her from the quiet, watching her come apart, and it still wasn’t enough to be seen.

you freeze.

and for the first time, you feel the tears sting behind your eyes.

your voice comes out small. wounded.

“wow.”

her head snaps up, and the regret’s already flickering in her eyes, but it’s too late.

you step back.

“i’ll get out of your way, then.”

“wait, baby—”

but you’re already turning. your throat’s tight. the living room feels too small. the whole apartment does.

you stop at the edge of the couch. your keys in one hand. her hoodie in the other. the one from uconn, soft with wear, smelling like detergent and her valentina fragrance.

you don’t know why you grab it. maybe because it’s hers. maybe because it still smells like her. maybe because your hands need something to hold besides your heart.

you don’t look at her. not once and for a second, you consider staying. saying something back. or nothing at all.

but you know if you stay, you’ll cry.

and tonight, you don’t want to be soft in front of her. not after that.

your phone’s in your hand before you even realize what you’re doing.

you text dijonai.

you

hey. can i come over for a bit? just need a second.

nai

ofc. everything okay?

you

just had a thing with paige. it’s fine. just need air.

nai

come thru. door’s unlocked.

you don’t look back.

your phone vibrates halfway through the elevator ride.

paigeyyy 💗

where are you? please answer.

i didn’t mean it like that. i’m sorry.

please just tell me you’re okay.

you don’t open them.

—

nai doesn’t ask questions.

she just opens the door in sweats and a bonnet, gives you a long look, and says, “blanket’s on the couch. you want tea or tequila?”

“tea,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

she nods. disappears into the kitchen.

when she returns with two mugs, she sits beside you without pushing. doesn’t say what happened? or why’d she say that? or do you wanna talk? she just hands you the tea and leans her shoulder against yours.

you could cry just from that.

she glances at your phone once when it lights up on the coffee table.

more missed calls, another “please” from paige

you don’t reach for it.

“you want me to tell her you’re okay?” nai says quietly.

you nod.

your throat’s too tight to speak.

she types something, slides her phone face-down.

lets you breathe.

you fall asleep curled on her couch, wrapped in paige’s hoodie like muscle memory.

—

back at home, paige’s apartment is too quiet.

she stands in the hallway for ten minutes staring at the door after you leave.

then she tries calling you.

once.

twice.

again.

she doesn’t mean to start crying, but she does.

it hits her like a crash—the weight of what she said. the way you looked at her like she’d just proven your worst fear right. the hoodie gone.

she can’t sit still. she paces the bedroom. opens and closes her notes app. starts to write something—erases it.

tries a voice memo.

records it. re-records it.

finally sends the third one.

paigeyyy 💗

0:56

it’s just her voice, shaky and wrecked.

“i didn’t mean it. god, i didn’t mean any of it. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. i don’t know what’s wrong with me but i know i never want to make you look at me like that again. please come home. please.”

she sits on the floor by the bed with her arms around her knees and stares at the door.

you’re her calm. her constant. her tether to the part of herself she likes best.

and she just shoved you away.

—

paige still can’t sleep.

it’s currently 2AM and the sheets feel too cold without you. her hands feel empty.

her mind replays every second of your argument a few hours ago like a highlight reel in reverse—what she said, how she said it, the look on your face after.

her guilt is bone-deep.

she gets sits up and paces once around the apartment before sitting on the edge of the bed. your pillow still smells like your shampoo.

she closes her eyes and breathes it in like a prayer.

maybe you’re gone for real. maybe this time, she pushed too far.

the hoodie you left behind is still on the floor. she picks it up. hugs it to her chest.

so when she wakes up—or doesn’t, really—and hears the hum of the fridge and the quiet clink of a glass cup, she thinks she’s dreaming.

she sits up slowly. heartbeat stuttering.

she finds you standing at the counter, back to her, pouring coffee into one of the mugs you brought from your dorm. the one with the chipped edge.

“hey,” she says, soft. broken. barely above a whisper.

you turn around.

her eyes are red. her voice sounds like it hasn’t worked right since last night.

she sees the hoodie still on you and it makes her crumble a little.

“i’m sorry,” she says, immediately. “i didn’t mean what i said. i was scared and insecure and i lashed out. and that’s not fair to you. you’ve been everything. you always are.”

you nod, slowly.

“you really hurt me,” you whisper.

her face breaks.

“i know,” she says. “and i hate myself for it.”

you let her words settle. then say, “i know i’m not a teammate. i know i don’t run plays or drop stats or sit in on film. but i see you. i’ve always seen you. and that should’ve been enough.”

paige steps forward, slow like she’s afraid she’ll scare you off.

“i know,” she says. “and you’re right. i just… i didn’t know where to put it all. the pressure, the disappointment, the noise in my head.”

she swallows.

“you’ve been my quiet in all of this. and i… pushed you away.”

you nod.

“yeah.”

“i love you,” she says. “more than basketball. more than winning. you’re the thing i’m proudest of.”

that’s what breaks you.

your throat tightens again—but this time it’s not from hurt.

“you’re just not allowed to say i don’t get it,” you whisper. “not when i see you. all of you.”

she steps closer. still slow. still cautious.

“can i hold you?”

you nod.

she crosses the room in three steps, and suddenly she’s there—arms around your waist, face buried in your neck, whole body dropping into yours like she’s letting herself be safe again.

you exhale into her shoulder. close your eyes.

“don’t do that again,” you whisper.

“i won’t,” she murmurs. “i swear. you’re the best thing in my life.”

you kiss her temple.

she kisses the inside of your wrist.

“come home?” she asks.

you glance around. technically you’re already here.

but you know what she means.

“yeah,” you say. “okay.”

and for the first time in twenty-four hours, both of you breathe like you believe you’re allowed to.

—

you’re on the couch, her head in your lap, your fingers in her hair. the tv’s on, but neither of you are watching.

her hand finds yours. she holds it like a lifeline.

you trace soft letters on the back of her palm— just little things.

L, then O, then V.

you don’t finish the word.

you don’t have to. she squeezes your hand like she feels it anyway.

she kisses your wrist like she’s saying sorry again.

and in that moment—it doesn’t matter if she wins or loses the next game.

you’re here.

and she knows it.

and this—this is the part the world never sees.

but it’s the part that saves her, every time.

[casssmalefantasy]

LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU

PAIGE BUECKERS X READER

| parings: paige bueckers x reader!

| synopsis: a physical game leaves you bruised and furious, and paige is the only one who can calm you down. back at the hotel, the tension that’s been simmering between you all season finally boils over.

| warnings: smut, fingering, oral f!receiving, praise kink, dominant!paige, tension, possessiveness, cursing, mentions of injury, game violence, and emotional intimacy,

| word count: 2.7k

| author’s note: yall wanted this one so here you go, also i wrote this like two months ago 😭.

──────────────────────

it’s been chippy all game.

it’s what you expect going against texas.

physical team, good shooters, shit refs. it’s the kind of combination that makes you want to put your fist through a locker.

they're ranked, scrappy and come to play.

and for some reason, their starting guard has had it out for you since tip-off.

the first couple plays, you let it slide. a shoulder here, a shove there. nothing new, but by the time you’re five minutes into the third quarter with a sore hip and a stinger in your arm, it’s personal.

still, you try to keep your head down. geno’s always on your ass about that, don’t lose your cool. don’t let them bait you.

but it’s hard. it’s so hard.

and when she bodies you again on a cut, this time full-on sending you to the floor, elbow to your ribs—you snap.

you’re on your feet before your ass even registers the hardwood.

"you got a fucking problem?" you bark, chest heaving.

she smirks like she’s been waiting for this moment all game.

"maybe i just don’t like how you play."

"yeah? how about i show you how i fight."

she steps forward, and you're stepping too, ready to shove her right back into the damn bleachers—

but arms are on you. pulling you back. not the ref, not your teammates—

"yo," a voice says low, right in your ear. “hey. chill. breathe.”

you glance back. it’s paige.

both arms wrapped tight around you from behind, holding you in place. her hands flat on your stomach, grounding you.

"she’s not worth it," she murmurs. "eyes on me. breathe, baby."

you do. barely.

the ref whistles again. offsetting techs. geno is pissed.

“you, out," he snaps, pointing to the bench. "cool off. paige you too. sub."

you don’t argue. not because you’re okay with it, but because paige is still holding your hand as she pulls you toward the bench with her.

"you good?" she whispers once you sit, leaning in close, hand covering her mouth like she’s telling you top-secret plays.

"i’m fine." your voice is clipped.

"don’t lie to me," she says. her gaze is soft, but locked on you like she can see everything you're trying not to show.

“they were calling everything until that," you mutter. "but when i get decked, it’s nothing until i stand up for myself?"

"i know," she says. “refs have been garbage since the jump, but don’t let it get in your head. you were cooking before that shit.”

you’re icing your arm. paige glances down at it.

“does it hurt bad?”

“i said i’m fine.”

she hums, unconvinced.

you both sit in silence. the energy between you is thick—electric, even in stillness. you look over at the same time. hold eye contact. her blue eyes are intense, like she’s still thinking about pulling you off that girl.

you look away first.

—

paige checks back in with three to play. you stay on the bench a little longer.

but you don’t miss it.

that girl—the same one who shoved you, says something as paige runs past her. paige doesn’t say much back. just a short sentence. firm. her jaw clenched.

you don’t know what she said, but whatever it was, it shut the girl up real fast.

and paige? she scores eight points straight after that.

—

uconn wins.

the bus ride back to the hotel is chaos. everyone’s talking shit, celebrating, arguing about calls.

but you’re quiet. sore. still buzzing from the adrenaline.

you almost don’t notice paige at your side until she nudges your arm gently.

"ice said she’d swap rooms tonight."

you blink at her.

"you wanna stay with me?"

"i want to check on you."

you nod. she doesn’t say anything else. she just grabs your bag for you and waits.

—

it’s quiet in the room, just the soft hum of the air conditioning and whatever random netflix show you landed on. something to fill the space.

you’re curled up with an ice pack again. paige is next to you, legs stretched out, close enough to touch, but not quite.

you haven’t said much since you got back. you’re still stuck in your head, still replaying the game, the fall, the look on her face when she held you back.

“hey," she says suddenly. “how’re you feeling?”

you glance over. her hair’s pulled into a loose bun. she’s still in her uconn hoodie.

"better," you say.

"you sure?"

"yeah."

she hums again like she still doesn’t believe you.

“you were good tonight,” she says after a second. “even when you were pissed. it was… kinda hot.”

you blink. then raise an eyebrow.

"hot?"

“what, i can’t say that?"

you glance at the tv, then back at her. "thought we weren’t talking about that shit anymore."

she shrugs. "maybe i changed my mind."

you smirk. “so now you think me nearly getting into a fight is sexy?"

"no," she says. “i think you standing your ground, playing through all that contact, being so in it, that was hot.”

you look at her. her gaze is locked on yours.

"you looked good out there," she adds, voice lower now. "like really good."

your breath catches.

"you looked good too."

she shifts a little closer. her knee brushes yours.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

you don’t know who moves first. maybe both of you.

but suddenly her mouth is on yours, and you’re kissing like you’ve wanted to for months. no hesitation. no pulling back.

it’s hungry. messy. real.

her hands slide up your thighs, under your hoodie, fingers splaying across your waist like she’s staking her claim.

"let me take care of you," she murmurs against your lips.

you nod. she pushes you back onto the bed, gentle but sure.

her mouth moves down your neck, sucking a mark just above your collarbone.

"still sore?" she asks, pulling your shorts down.

"a little."

"tell me if anything hurts."

you nod again, breath catching as her fingers trail over your inner thigh.

then her mouth is on your pussy.

slow at first, letting you feel every flick of her tongue, every kiss she places on sensitive skin.

you arch into her. she grips your hips, holding you steady.

"fuck, paige…"

"you sound so pretty when you say my name like that."

you’re writhing now, hand tangled in her hair.

"more," you beg.

she groans softly. "you want more?"

"please p."

she slides two fingers in, while her mouth keeps working.

you cum fast, body shaking, hips bucking up into her face.

she doesn’t stop until you’re whining from the sensitivity, pulling her up to kiss you again.

"jesus christ," you mumble, breathless.

"been wanting to do that since summer," she says, grinning.

you laugh, still catching your breath.

"what now?" you ask.

she leans in, kissing your jaw.

"now we sleep," she says. “and tomorrow, we do it again, just maybe without the fight this time.”

you smile.

"we’ll see."

—

you think you’re done. you should be done.

but paige doesn’t move.

she’s still lying between your legs, head resting on your thigh, arm draped across your waist. she’s tracing slow, featherlight circles over your bare stomach, and her breath is warm against your skin.

you glance down at her.

"what’re you doing?"

"thinking."

"about what?"

"how good you taste."

your entire body twitches.

"paige."

"mm?" she looks up at you, all sweet and innocent, but there’s nothing innocent about the way her fingers trail lower again.

"you already—i thought we were sleeping."

"i lied."

before you can argue, her mouth is on you again, slower this time, deliberate.

"fuck—"

you grab the sheets, back arching.

she hums like she’s enjoying a second course.

"can’t help it," she murmurs against you. “you’re too good like this."

you whimper when her tongue flicks a spot that makes you see white.

"shit, paige. it’s too much, i just—"

"no, you can take it."

her voice is soft, but firm.

"come on, baby. gimme one more."

you don’t know how she’s got you this wrecked this fast.

maybe it’s because you’ve been holding this in since summer. maybe it’s because she knows exactly what she’s doing. maybe it’s because she keeps talking to you like that.

“you’re shaking,” she says, dragging a finger through your wetness. “look at you, all fucked out already.”

you moan. it’s embarrassing how close you are again.

"i can’t—"

"yes, you can," she whispers, slipping her fingers back in, slow and deep. “be good for me.”

you cry out, thighs trembling.

"that’s it," she coos. "that’s my girl."

you cum again, this time harder, your whole body tightening under her as you moan her name like a prayer.

she doesn’t rush you. she kisses the inside of your thigh while you come down, rubbing soft circles over your hip, grounding you.

finally, when your breathing evens out, she crawls back up beside you, slipping an arm under your neck and pulling you close.

you don’t say anything for a minute. just lie there, curled against her, flushed and wrecked and warm.

"so," you mumble, voice scratchy, "you do this for all your teammates?"

“mmh yeah if they look like you.”

"you’re ridiculous."

"you’re welcome."

you pause.

"...i might not be able to walk at practice tomorrow."

"guess i’ll just have to carry you."

you look up at her.

"you’re insane."

"and you love it."

you try to glare at her. she kisses your forehead like she didn’t just make you see stars twice in a hotel bed.

"get some sleep," she whispers, already pulling the blanket over you both.

"only if you stay right here."

"wasn’t planning on going anywhere."

[casssmalefantasy]

some hurt/comfort reader isn't a public figure so they keep their relationship private but it gets leaked and reader start receiving hate comments, paige feels guilty but reader says it's okay and she knew the risks when they stated dating

WE KNEW THE RISK - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

I synopsis: your relationship wasn’t supposed to be anyone else’s business. not yet. not like this. but when the internet finds out you’re dating paige, the comments start rolling in—loud, cruel, and impossible to ignore.

I warnings: emotional distress, social media harassment, anxiety, crying, soft angst with comfort, established relationship, private relationship leaked

I word count: 1.4k

l author's note: thank you for the request 😋😋

──────────────────────

the thing is—you knew this could happen.

from the moment paige leaned against that sticky bar counter on campus last fall and asked for your number, that small warning bell went off in your chest. a whisper.

you know who she is. do you really want to do this?

but then she smiled like she already liked you, like your name was a secret she wanted to keep. and she was funny, and gentle, and warm in a way you weren’t used to. so you said yes.

and now here you are, four and a half months in, wearing her oversized uconn hoodie with your knees tucked to your chest in her bed, scrolling through comments that feel like they’re being carved into your skin.

“she’s not even cute wtf”

“paige bueckers dating a nobody is the most unrealistic thing i’ve ever seen”

“she’s using her. just watch.”

“this is why i don’t stan athletes. one taste of clout and they fumble.”

you shouldn’t have kept looking. you told yourself you wouldn’t.

you made your account private. muted everything. turned your phone face down.

but it’s still there.

in your chest. under your skin. like a weight you can’t push out.

—

it started earlier that day. aubrey posted a harmless video on her story—a day off energy, loud and messy and chaotic. but in the corner, you and paige were on the couch, barely visible, her hand on your thigh, your head resting against her chest.

someone screen recorded. zoomed in. posted it to twitter with “wait a damn minute…”

from there, it spread like wildfire. tiktok comments, message requests, people dissecting your instagram, tagging you, talking about how you look, how you dress, how you don’t seem like paige’s type.

you stayed silent.

you tried to act fine.

but your hands started shaking around 3pm.

and by the time she got home from practice, you were already in her bed—hood up, eyes wet, trying not to sob too loud into the hoodie that still smelled like her.

you hear the door open.

“baby?”

her voice is tired. not distant—just worn out.

you stiffen. don’t answer. maybe if you stay still, she’ll think you’re asleep.

but she knows you. she always knows.

the door clicks shut. her footsteps cross the room.

“hey,” she says, gentler now. “you okay?”

you don’t move.

a second later, the mattress dips beside you.

her hand finds your back—faint pressure, slow circles. “talk to me.”

you inhale. then turn.

your eyes meet hers. hers widen the second she sees your face.

“oh.” her hand freezes. “oh, baby. what happened?”

your voice breaks. “i—i made it private. i tried to stop it. i thought—”

you can’t even finish the sentence. your jaw clenches and your shoulders start shaking again.

paige slides in closer, wrapping her arm around your waist and pulling you against her chest. “what happened?” she asks again, quieter this time. “who did this?”

you hesitate. then, reluctantly, you reach for your phone.

you don’t say anything. you just tilt the screen toward her and let it speak.

her eyes flick over the messages. the comments. the zoomed-in screenshots of you two. the circle drawn around your face like you’re something to dissect. a few tweets with thousands of likes. one with your name trending underneath it.

“what the fuck,” she says under her breath. “what the actual fuck.”

you pull your phone back. your hands are shaking again. “it’s not just twitter. it’s everywhere.”

paige is quiet.

you don’t look at her.

instead, you say it before she can.

“i should’ve expected this.”

she flinches.

“this was gonna happen eventually,” you add, voice thinner now. “we knew the risk.”

she doesn’t say anything. not right away. not until you finally lift your head and glance at her.

she’s staring down at the bed. her jaw’s tight. her brows pulled together.

“…you really think you deserved this?”

your throat stings. “no. i just…”

you exhale, shaky. “i didn’t think it would hurt this bad. and i didn’t think you would feel bad about it.”

her eyes snap to yours.

you regret saying it. you don’t mean it like that.

but the truth is—it’s been sitting in your chest all day. not just the pain of the comments, but the guilt of knowing paige was never supposed to feel responsible for any of it.

and now, looking at her face, you know she does.

“…you think this is your fault,” you whisper.

she swallows. “it is my fault. you didn’t ask for any of this. i should’ve been more careful, i should’ve—”

her voice cracks, and she looks away, blinking fast.

you hate that this is what’s breaking her.

“paige.”

she shakes her head. “they’re attacking you because of me. i brought you into this. and now people who don’t even know you, are acting like they get to pick apart your face and your life just because—what? you love me?”

you don’t even think. you just move.

climb into her lap, arms around her neck, tucking your face into the side of hers.

she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

“this isn’t your fault,” you whisper. “you didn’t post that video. you didn’t make them say those things. and i don’t regret being with you. i’d do it again. even if i knew it would end like this.”

she tightens her arms around you. presses her lips to your temple.

“you shouldn’t have to say that,” she murmurs. “you shouldn’t have to defend us.”

you nod against her shoulder. “i know.”

she breathes in. slow. then again. her hands slide under your hoodie and settle at your waist.

“i just hate that this is the first time people found out about us,” she says quietly. “not because i’m embarrassed. but because i wanted it to be us. on our terms. not some grainy screenshot of you on my lap.”

you let out a laugh. it’s small and watery and real.

she pulls back just enough to look at you. tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“i hate that this hurt you,” she whispers.

you kiss her shoulder. “you didn’t hurt me.”

“but i hate that they did. and i can’t stop it.”

you don’t have an answer to that.

so you just rest your head against her again and let the silence speak for both of you.

you fall asleep like that. curled up in her lap, your tears dried into her hoodie, her arms wrapped around you like a promise.

she waits until your breathing evens out. until your hands go still. until your body settles.

then, slowly, carefully, she reaches for her phone.

she scrolls past the noise. the chaos. the speculation.

and she opens her camera roll.

there’s a picture from last month. one she never posted.

you’re sitting at a restaurant, chin in your hand, smiling at her like she’s the only person in the world who matters. the lighting’s warm. your eyes are soft.

it’s one of her favorite pictures of you.

she makes a quick photo dump. nothing flashy. some food, game flicks, a selfie from a photo shoot.

and then, at the end, the photo of you.

she hits post. watches it go up. watches the comments roll in again.

some good. some bad. but none of them know you the way she does.

then she opens twitter. types slow. deletes. tries again.

“nobody who sends hate to the people i love is a fan of me. period.”

she stares at it for a second.

then hits send.

when she finally puts her phone down and turns the light off, she wraps herself around you again.

and in the dark, she whispers it into your hair like a prayer.

“we’ll be okay.”

[casssmalefantasy]

STRUCK - PAIGE BUECKERS X READER

PART TWO

| synopsis: it started with a jersey and a look across a bowling alley. now it’s late nights, soft music, quiet competition—and maybe something more.

| warnings: basketball themes, flirting, light swearing, late-night gym energy, emotional tension, and one very soft first kiss.

| word count: 1.4K part one

| author’s note: wasn’t expecting yall to like the first one sm, but i hope you like this part!!

──────────────────────

you’d been texting since the night at the bowling alley.

technically, paige texted first.

paige

my jersey looks good on you btw. don’t think i didn’t notice 👀

you stared at it for a full five minutes before answering, trying not to scream into your pillow with your phone in your hand.

you

well thank you. it took me a minute cause they kept selling out. lil miss popular.

paige

you got it tho. you won.

you

always do.

paige

that sounds like a challenge.

and maybe it was.

after that, the energy shifted. you weren’t just a fan anymore—you were someone she sent late-night voice memos to. someone she bantered with about her midrange, or about who had the cleaner handles, her or azzi. someone she sent mirror selfies to, standing in that vintage timberwolves jersey you gave her, smirking into the front-facing camera with no caption. she didn’t need one.

and then a few nights later she texts you again.

paige

you said you hoop. come prove it.

private gym. 10pm. bring your shoes.

—

so now you’re here. tucked into the corner of a low-lit private gym in connecticut, sneakers squeaking soft on the hardwood, the bassline of some old bryson tiller track buzzing through the overhead speakers. the whole place smells like freshly waxed floor and faint laundry detergent. it’s warm, empty, and sealed off from the rest of the world.

you shoot your second warm-up three, smooth and clean. net.

she catches it off the rebound and passes it back.

“okay, shooter,” she says, slow like she’s impressed. “you got a jumper. noted.”

you glance at her over your shoulder, smirking. “i told you that already.”

“yeah but people say all kinds of things,” she teases, stepping toward the top of the key. “i gotta see it for myself.”

she’s in an old uconn tee that’s too big in the sleeves, knotted slightly at the back. her nike basketball shorts hang low, paired with kobe 6 protros that’s clearly new. her hair’s in a tight bun, and she’s chewing gum slow, studying you like you’re film she’s about to break down.

you dribble up, lazy between-the-legs motion, but she matches your energy easily.

“this your go-to move or you just tryna look cool right now?” she asks, eyes sharp, grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“wouldn’t you like to know.”

“i would like to know,” she laughs. “that’s why i brought you here.”

you pause at the wing and let a midrange jumper fly. swish.

she catches the rebound again, bounce-passing it to herself once, then to you. “alright, game to seven. ones and twos. loser buys ramen.”

“wow,” you smirk. “not even gonna pretend like you might not lose?”

“oh, i might lose,” she says, already sliding into a defensive stance. “but only if i let you win.”

you raise a brow. “cocky.”

“confident,” she corrects, voice lower now, more serious. “you ready?”

you nod.

and then it starts.

—

for the first few plays, it’s easy rhythm—hesi pull-ups, crossover floaters, both of you feeling each other out. she talks the whole time, soft and under her breath.

“nice footwork.”

“that left’s tough.”

“you always square up that quick?”

you can’t tell if it’s meant to throw you off or if she really means it. maybe both. either way, you’re locked in now. her defense is tight—sharp hips, quick hands, always a half step ahead.

you jab-step, spin, shoulder into her lightly—she doesn’t budge.

“stronger than you look,” she murmurs, close enough you feel her breath.

“you gonna keep talking or start playing?”

she grins and rips the ball from your hands clean, turns, and finishes with a left-handed lay.

“1-0,” she says, backing up, hands on her hips. “you’re cute when you get mad.”

you roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “you’re lucky i like ramen.”

she laughs again and flips the ball toward you. you catch it, take a dribble, and pause when she pulls her shirt up and over her head, tossing it onto the bench.

she’s in a black sports bra now—sweat glinting off her toned stomach, chest rising and falling as she exhales slow.

you blink, trying to keep your eyes on her face. you fail.

“what?” she says, casual, like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing. “it’s hot.”

you drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “uh-huh.”

she smirks and steps closer, bumping her knee into yours as you hold the ball. “you’re blushing.”

“am not.”

“are too.”

you clear your throat and start dribbling again, but the whole vibe has shifted. her eyes are on you, tracking your every move, but there’s softness in it now. something like curiosity. something like interest.

you pull up for a fadeaway—nail it.

“2-1,” you say, smug.

she grabs the ball from the net. “alright. i’m locked in now.”

but she’s not. not really. because when you drive baseline next play and she steps in to cut you off, her hands find your waist—not in a foul way, not even enough to throw you off, but enough to make you feel it.

“my bad,” she says, voice soft, lingering.

you swallow hard. “are you really?”

“nope,” she smiles. “not even a little.”

by the time it’s 6-6, neither of you are saying much. it’s all breath and sneakers and the music echoing faintly overhead. the air is thick, humid from sweat and something else. her gum’s gone. her bun half undone. she looks at you like she’s trying to memorize every movement.

“match point,” you say, exhaling.

she nods. “let’s see what you got.”

you fake right, crossover left, step back, and—

pause.

she’s not guarding you. not really. she’s just standing there, eyes on you, chest heaving, arms loose at her sides.

“go ahead,” she says, almost a whisper.

you shoot.

net.

game.

you’re breathing heavy, trying not to smile too wide when she catches the ball and grins, biting her bottom lip.

“guess i’m buying dinner.”

“guess you are.”

you expect her to say something cocky, but she just watches you instead. like she wants to say something that isn’t a joke.

finally, she murmurs, “you love this game.”

you blink. “what?”

“the way you move. how you still do late-night shootarounds like this even when you don’t have to. i can tell. you play like it means something. not just ‘cause people expect it.”

your throat goes tight.

you nod. “sometimes i feel like no one really sees that. like maybe i’m not good enough to be seen.”

she steps forward, brushing her fingers against yours.

“you’re wrong,” she says. “you’re really good. and people do see it. i do.”

you study her for a beat, then say quietly, “you don’t ever feel like that?”

she doesn’t answer right away.

“sometimes,” she says finally. “like no matter how much i do, it’s never enough. or like people forget i’m human.”

you nod.

“you’re not just hype, y’know,” you say. “you’re more than that.”

her eyes soften, and for a moment, neither of you move.

“we should go,” she says, voice lower now. “ramen’s waiting.”

—

the ramen spot is tucked into a quiet corner of the city of ct, open late, dim and cozy. you sit across from each other in a small booth, steam curling off your bowls, your legs brushing under the table.

she steals a piece of chicken from your bowl with her chopsticks. you smack her hand.

“you lost,” you remind her. “honor the bet.”

“i am,” she says. “i bought dinner. that doesn’t mean i can’t taste it.”

you laugh, shaking your head.

conversation comes easy now. you talk about basketball, family, the songs that always make you think of home. she’s a little softer here, less performative. her face says everything before her mouth does. she talks with her hands. she keeps looking at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

you notice.

and when the check comes, she grabs it before you can move.

“next time,” she says. “you pay. after i win.”

—

in the car, it starts raining. soft and slow, tapping against the windshield like background music. she doesn’t start the engine right away.

you’re sitting there in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward her.

her hand slides over yours.

“can i kiss you?”

you nod. “yeah.”

she leans in slow, brushing her lips against yours—soft, warm, a little unsure, like she’s scared to mess it up.

but it’s perfect.

she pulls back just slightly, nose brushing yours.

“yeah this was exactly how i imagined it,” she whispers, “i better see you again soon.”

you laugh, cheeks warm.

“you will. we got a rematch remember?”

she smiles. and you know she’s replaying the kiss in her head, just like you are.

you don’t need to say anything else.

not yet.

[casssmalefantasy]

ONESHOT IDEAS PLEASE?

i need oneshot request ideas. try not to request something you sent to another writer and try to make things as detailed as possible if you can. i already have some drafts i’m working on from other requests in my inbox, but i want some more. so send in the inbox or comment :)

and while you’re at it, read my current series (if you want ofc)

nothing but net

[casssmalefantasy]

STRUCK - PAIGE BUECKERS X READER!

| synopsis: you’ve been a uconn fan for as long as you can remember. a fan bowling event? cool. being in the same lane as paige bueckers? wild. her noticing you? absolutely insane.

| warnings: flirty tension, butterflies, confident!paige, mutual attraction, soft moments

| word count: 3.5K part two

| author’s note: this has been in my drafts so hi

you’re nervous.

you try to play it cool—white paige jersey, black cargos, your best pair of jordans like it’s just another night out, but the minute your friend parks the car outside the packed bowling alley, it hits you.

this isn’t just a cute little fan event. it’s the uconn women’s basketball fan event. and your forever celebrity crush just happens to be the face of the program.

“you good?” your friend asks as they kill the engine, glancing over at you with a raised brow.

“yeah,” you lie, tugging at the hem of your jersey. “i just didn’t think it was gonna be this many people.”

“girl… it’s uconn and paige bueckers. what did you expect?”

fair point.

you step inside, and the energy is wild. the place is packed with fans—some in custom shirts, others carrying handmade signs, a few even dragging wagons full of gifts for the players. each lane has a player assigned to it, but people are free to move around, say hi, take pics. the energy is loud, chaotic, a little overwhelming, but then your eyes land on her.

lane five.

her blonde hair put up in a bun. oversized madison reed tee with a hoodie, white sneakers, and the easiest smile you’ve ever seen.

paige bueckers.

your breath catches a little. you try not to stare too long.

“yo,” your friend nudges you hard enough to snap you out of it. “she looked at you.”

“no she didn’t,” you say too fast.

“yes the hell she did,” she whispers. “she keeps glancing over here. i swear.”

you glance up. she’s mid-laugh with a group of younger fans, holding a sharpie in one hand and someone’s custom-painted basketball in the other, but then her eyes flick your way. and linger.

your throat goes dry.

you look down at your gift—the carefully wrapped vintage timberwolves jersey you scored from a late-night ebay hunt three weeks ago. mint condition, her size. you knew you were gonna give it to her tonight but now? now you’re not sure you even remember how to speak.

minutes pass. the lane starts to clear out a bit. paige takes a sip of her soda, glancing around casually. and then somehow, she’s walking toward you.

like, actually walking. toward you.

“hi,” she says when she reaches your side, eyes on you like you’re the only person in the room.

“hey,” you manage, trying to sound normal and not like your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest.

she nods at your friend. “i’m paige.”

“she knows,” your friend grins, nudging you again. “been her favorite player since forever.”

“really?” she looks at you again, eyebrows raised. “that true?”

you laugh, a little embarrassed. “yeah. since, you played back in hopkins.”

“a real one,” she smiles. “i like that. what’s your name?”

you tell her, and she repeats it, saying it soft and slow before her smile deepens.

"cute," she says, eyes flicking over your face. "i like that."

you smile back, a little shy but holding her gaze.

then she nods toward the bag in your hand.

"so... what’s in there?"

you blink. oh right. the gift.

"uh—it's for you," you say, holding it out. "just... thought you might like it."

her brows lift, surprised. "seriously? can i open it?"

"yeah," you nod quickly. "please."

she carefully rips into the wrapping paper, eyes widening immediately.

“no way,” she breathes, holding up the jersey. “this is vintage. where’d you even find this?”

“i’m an elite thrifter,” you say with a half-smile. “it’s kind of my thing.”

she laughs again. low, but genuine.

“this is insane. thank you. seriously. can i—?”

before you can react, her arms are around you. soft, warm. she smells like clean laundry and whatever body spray she wears that’s gonna haunt your dreams now.

she pulls back with a smile and gets pulled into another group photo, but not before glancing back at you, like she doesn’t want to be pulled away.

your friend is losing their mind quietly beside you.

“sooooo,” she says. “what was that?”

you shake your head, still in a daze. “i don’t even know.”

—

you’re mid-bite of a soft pretzel when you feel someone beside you again.

“you again,” she says softly.

“me again,” you grin.

this time it’s quieter—less people crowding around, the night winding down. it’s just the two of you by the snack bar, a gentle bubble of space around you.

“thank you again for the jersey,” she says. “you really didn’t have to do that. it’s seriously so cool.”

“you’re welcome. i figured you’d appreciate it.”

“i do,” she says, leaning casually against the counter. “you always this thoughtful or is this just for me?”

your cheeks heat. “depends who’s asking.”

she laughs, a low, flirty sound.

“i’m asking. obviously.”

you glance up at her, meet her gaze.

“then yeah. just for you.”

her smile grows. “you’re cute.”

you nearly choke on your pretzel.

“uhh…thanks.”

“no, really,” she says, tilting her head. “you’re pretty. and cool. and clearly got taste. i’m impressed.”

you smile shyly. “you’re not too bad yourself.”

“not too bad, huh?”

“maybe a little pretty.”

“a little?” she teases. “damn. now i’m offended.”

“fine,” you laugh. “you’re really pretty.”

“thank you,” she grins, satisfied. “so are you.”

the air shifts. warm and soft and a little electric.

“you in college?” she asks.

“yeah,” you nod. “play at a small d1 for basketball. not uconn-level, but it’s home.”

“you hoop too?” she blinks. “okay. i really like you now.”

you laugh, ducking your head.

“you any good?” she teases.

“you trying to find out?”

“maybe i am.”

your heart is doing somersaults now. you barely notice the music turning down or the event staff telling everyone things are wrapping up.

“hey,” she says, suddenly a little more serious. “before this ends, can i get your number?”

you blink. “really?”

“yeah. unless you don’t want me to have it.”

“no i do. i do.”

you pull out your phone and hand it to her, trying not to freak out as she types in her number and sends herself a text.

“cool,” she says, handing it back. “now i can text you when i wear that jersey. or when i want someone to talk basketball with. or, y’know… just because.”

you smile. “yeah. i’d like that.”

she gives you one last grin—bright, a little smug, totally charming.

“see you soon, mystery girl.”

[casssmalefantasy]

NOTHING BUT NET - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

CHAPTER FOUR

first night

I parings: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes

I synopsis: first night at uconn, tatum’s still figuring out if she fits—paige might be the problem or the answer. (maybe both.)

I warnings: mild sexual tension / flirtation, anxiety, guarded emotional moments, casual language, light drinking references, team sports locker room and social dynamics, brief mentions of past relationship pain (implied, not explicit), and light gay panic

I word count: 3.2k

I tags list (comment): @fivest4rbuecks @indigo491

I last chapter • next chapter

──────────────────────

The apartment was buzzing like a radio tuned just right—loud laughs, quick jokes, and music spilling out of phones. Everyone was there, crammed into the living room and kitchen, the space warm and cozy with that kind of chaotic energy only a group of basketball girls could generate.

KK and Morgan were in the kitchen, phones propped up and halfway into a TikTok dance challenge that had Azzi groaning from the couch.

“I swear if I see that routine one more time—”

“You say that like you wouldn’t kill it if we asked,” Morgan called back, mid-spin.

Azzi smirked. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”

Sarah and Jana were gathered near the window, talking about First Night—how excited they felt, how wild it was that the season was basically here.

“I’m excited to see the crowd. They’re always loud,” Jana said.

“Me too,” Sarah said with a yawn. “I’m just worried about how loud they’ll be when Paige comes out.”

“Don’t even get me started on that bro!”

That got a round of laughter, even from Tatum, who was curled up at the edge of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands. She looked relaxed for once. Not performing. Just existing.

“You’ve been quiet,” Paige said, sliding down to sit beside her. “How you feeling about First Night?”

Tatum shrugged, gaze steady. “Sounds like fun.”

“Not nervous?”

She hesitated. “A little. But mostly excited to see the UConn fans. Everyone keeps saying they’re the best in the world.”

“They are,” Azzi said from the other couch. “Loud as hell. But good loud.”

“They’re gonna love you,” Ice added. “No one pulls up in a new jersey and plays like you without getting a little fan chaos.”

Tatum didn’t smile exactly, but her mouth twitched, eyes drifting to the floor. “Thanks,” she said, voice quieter. “That’s… nice to hear.”

Morgan looked up. “Y’all pick your walkout songs yet?”

“I have three artists and I can’t decide,” KK said, lifting her phone. “JP, Kehlani, and Bossman Dlow.”

“I’m going with something hype,” Tatum said after a beat. “Bop by Big Boogie and GloRilla. With DJ Drama.”

“Oooooooh,” KK said. “That’s a good one.”

“Big Memphis,” Ice nodded. “I like it.”

“What about you?” Tatum asked, glancing over at Paige.

Paige looked smug before she even answered. “TGIF.”

Tatum raised a brow. “So you’re copying me?”

“Is that what it is?” Paige leaned back, stretching her arms over the couch. “Maybe I inspired you.”

Tatum scoffed, shaking her head. “You didn’t.”

“Right,” Paige said, but her eyes were already smiling.

Behind her, Azzi raised her brows and made a face at Sarah, mouthing, “She’s annoying,” with a grin.

Ice leaned in like she was sharing a secret. “You two keep pickin’ the same songs and next thing we know, y’all gonna be walking out together.”

“Please,” Tatum said, rolling her eyes but with no heat behind it.

“You couldn’t handle it,” Paige added lightly.

“Keep dreaming.”

The room burst into laughter again, the kind that lingered like warmth. KK was already replaying the GloRilla verse on her phone, dancing dramatically around Morgan while Azzi shouted for her to sit down before they get a noise complaint.

Somewhere in the middle of the noise, Paige leaned a little closer to Tatum, voice softer now.

“First Night’s one of my favorites,” she said. “It’s like… a reminder that the season’s here. That it’s real now. It’s the one night we can just have fun with the crowd before the pressure kicks in.”

Tatum glanced sideways at her. “That sounds kind of sweet. Didn’t think you were the sentimental type.”

“Only once a year,” Paige said with a smirk. “You’ll like it. Trust me.”

Tatum’s hoodie sleeves were still fisted in her hands. She didn’t answer right away, but Paige noticed the way her shoulders dropped—just a little. Like she was letting something go, piece by piece.

And maybe it was the lighting, or the closeness, but when their eyes caught for a second longer than normal, Paige felt something in her chest twist. Not sharp. Just aware.

Azzi, watching them both from across the room, smirked into her water bottle.

Yeah. She saw it too.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Gampel felt louder than usual when they walked in. Even without the full crowd, the air buzzed.

The lights were halfway dimmed, some of the media already setting up. Blue and white jerseys were laid out in the locker rooms. Nothing felt small.

The girls filtered in one by one. The men’s team was already there, taking shots and laughing. Tatum clocked Hassan dapping up Paige, then walking over to the group where they were picking teams.

A couple of days ago.

“I’m taking Tatum,” Hassan had said, without hesitation, grinning like he was being strategic.

Paige didn’t say anything at the time. But her expression slipped—just for a second. Not disappointment. More like….. damn.

Present Day.

“White squad all day,” Hassan called, slapping her five. “Don’t let Paige talk too much trash.”

Tatum just raised an eyebrow, amused. “You sure about this pick?”

“Absolutely. You hoop. And we match energy.”

She shook her head but followed him toward the court for some light shootaround.

Shootaround wasn’t serious, but it wasn’t chill either.

There were behind-the-backs, trick layups, half-court shots. KK banked in one and screamed like she won the lottery. Azzi hit five threes in a row and didn’t blink.

Tatum mostly kept to herself, shooting from the elbow, stretching out her legs between reps. But her eyes kept drifting.

To Paige. Who was doing the same. Never full-on staring, but glancing just enough.

Paige spun a no-look pass to Ice. Laughed when Ashlyn fake-tripped into a layup. And then locked eyes with Tatum just for a moment when their rotations crossed.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Before it all started—before lights, fans, and introductions—Tatum slipped away for just a minute.

She found a quiet corner near the tunnel. Closed her eyes. And prayed.

Not for glory. Not even for peace. Just for the strength to be honest tonight. To show up. As she was.

When she came back, Paige was waiting near the entrance to the court, bouncing the ball casually.

“You ready?” she asked, eyes soft.

Tatum looked around. The crowd buzzing, the lights warming up, the music about to rise.

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

Paige smiled. “It’s gonna be fun.”

And somehow, Tatum believed her.

The lights in Gampel Pavilion dropped low, crowd already buzzing, a thick haze of anticipation in the air. Music pulsed through the speakers, bass heavy and warm. The jumbotron lit up in flashes of blue and white as smoke curled from the entrance tunnels on both ends. This was First Night.

It wasn’t just a game or a show—it was an introduction. To the team. To the season. To each other.

Players stood behind the curtain on either side of the court, half on Team White, half on Team Blue. No set order, men and women mixed, just names waiting to be called, hearts drumming along to the beat.

KK bounced on her toes, full of restless energy, shoulder bumping Morgan’s.

“You know I’m about to dance or something. Imma get the crowd hype,” KK grinned, laughing as Morgan did a little dance.

“You better not pull a hamstring on First Night,” Azzi said, teasing. “We need you whole.”

Across the tunnel, Tatum adjusted her UConn jersey, tongue pressing to the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t nervous, not exactly. Just wired. It was loud and hot and joyful in a way she hadn’t felt in a while. She kept her eyes forward, but her ears caught everything.

“They’re gonna love you,” Paige had said earlier when they were all getting ready. The words hung around longer than Tatum wanted to admit.

They were calling names now.

First a men’s player. Then Sarah. Then KK, who decided on Bad Bitty—did a spin and tossed up a peace sign, the crowd erupting in laughter and love.

Then—

“5’10 senior guard, number 14… Tatum Rhodesssss!”

The beat dropped—Bop by Big Boogie & DJ Drama ft GloRilla. Smoke rolled. The crowd cheered louder than she expected.

Tatum stepped out, her chest straight, expression cool, and then, just as the hook hit, she threw in a quick little dance, shoulder and hip pop in rhythm before striding forward with grace. Controlled. Confident. A flicker of fun.

The cheers got even louder.

The girls that were already on the floor shouted over each other.

“Okay girly pop, I see you!” KK yelled.

“That’s our transfer!” Sarah clapped.

Even Azzi let out a surprised little whistle.

And somewhere deeper in the tunnel, Paige was smiling without meaning to.

Tatum’s heart was thudding too fast. But the grin trying to tug at her mouth didn’t feel so foreign now. This wasn’t Louisville. This was new. This was hers.

One by one, the names kept coming. When Paige was the last one left, the crowd already knew. Chants started early—“Paige! Paige! Paige!”

And then the voice of the announcer boomed over the system—

“5’11 senior guard, number 5… Paige Bueckersssssss!”

The first few notes of TGIF by GloRilla hit, and Paige walked out smooth like she’d been doing this since birth. She didn’t dance, just gave a wave, pulled her jersey at the front with a smirk, and nodded at the crowd like she already knew they’d missed her.

And the team was looking at her and cracking up.

“She’s so unserious for that,” Morgan muttered.

“Nah, it fits her,” Azzi said with a laugh. “GloRilla girls, both of them.”

Tatum didn’t say anything, but her eyes followed Paige across the court, watched the way she moved like she belonged to this place. Like the crowd’s energy was something she could carry in her palms and fold into her chest.

Paige looked toward her once, and they locked eyes briefly. Tatum raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said low under her breath when Paige walked by, just loud enough for her to hear.

Paige leaned in closer than she needed to.

“I’m glad to see you being yourself out there,” she murmured, touching her back lightly before jogging toward the bench.

Tatum blinked, her stomach doing something warm and electric and annoying.

“Don’t start,” she said, more to herself than anyone.

—

The three-point contest came next.

Team White—Azzi and Tatum. Team Blue—Allie and Caroline.

They each had three racks of five balls, one men’s player as their duo. The guys were already talking trash before it even started.

“Don’t let me down,” Alex nudged Azzi.

“Have you met her?” Tatum smirked.

Azzi went first. Smooth as always, her form pure poetry, one of the fastest releases in college hoops. She barely missed. Alex didn’t do too bad either.

“They’re gonna be hard to beat,” Morgan called out.

Tatum stepped up next. The lights hit her skin different under the Gampel spotlights. She didn’t smile much, but the crowd was louder for her than she was used to. She caught Paige watching her from across the court, head tilted slightly.

“Don’t choke,” Paige called out casually.

Tatum rolled her eyes. “Don’t speak to me.”

She sank three in a row and jogged back to her spot. Not perfect, but strong.

“She’s heating up!” KK shouted from the sideline.

After, Paige walked past her again, grinning.

“Little off tonight,” she teased, “Guess we need to get you in the gym more.”

“You need to worry about your team losing,” Tatum shot back.

“I’m not worried,” Paige said, holding her gaze a moment longer than necessary.

And Tatum didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just raised an eyebrow again and let it sit there, heartbeat annoyingly loud in her ears.

—

The scrimmage was chaos—in the best way.

KK flopped dramatically on a phantom screen and pretended like she was hit in the face. Ashlyn elbowed Ice, who shouted “Ref!” with a grin. Paige fouled Tatum on purpose and immediately said, “You’re welcome.”

Tatum shoved her shoulder and smiled.

They were all laughing, yelling, hyping each other up. It wasn’t about stats or reps, it was just joy. Paige and Tatum’s back-and-forths got noticed quick. The team clocked the way they played off each other. All eyes at one point drifted their way. Even the crowd picked up on it.

Tatum hit a floater. Paige answered with a corner three. They both stared each other down with grins on their faces.

“Just so we’re clear,” Tatum said during a timeout, breathless, “we’re winning.”

“Only because I let Hassan steal my first pick,” Paige replied.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

The White team ended up winning. And when the final buzzer rang out, Tatum was laughing for real. No half-smiles. No guardedness. Just breathless, heart-thumping, joy.

Paige caught up to her near half court, leaned in close again.

“Told you this would be fun.”

Tatum didn’t say anything. Just gave a soft nod.

Fun. Yeah. That’s what it was.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to brace for something bad to follow.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Tatum stood in front of the bathroom mirror, a brush in one hand and a concealer stick in the other. Frank Ocean’s “Swim Good” played from her speaker, low but steady, wrapping the room in a kind of melancholy rhythm she found oddly comforting. She was already halfway through her makeup routine, and for once, she felt light. Almost excited. The buzz from the night—the crowd, the lights, the dancing, Paige’s voice in her ear like something she was trying not to crave—still lingered in her bones.

It felt good to go out. To let loose. To not overthink for once. And tonight, Ted’s actually sounded fun. The team had been buzzing about it all week, and even though her first instinct was to say no, Tatum surprised herself by agreeing.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She wiped her hand off on a towel, flipped it over.

Her stomach dipped before she even opened the message.

Kayla

Seems like you found where you belong.

Tatum blinked. The words weren’t kind. Not really. They were loaded. Passive. Familiar in the worst way. She stared at the screen, the warmth that had built up in her chest draining like cold water.

Kayla was her former teammate. Who never liked Tatum. She tolerated her at best, resented her at worst. And when Tatum got close to Angelina, Kayla’s words turned sharper, her presence colder. She remembered one night vividly—Kayla showing up outside her dorm room unannounced, telling her the best thing she could do for the team was leave. That she was only dragging them down. That she didn’t belong.

And maybe Kayla thought she was being clever with this message, but Tatum heard it for what it was.

A jab. Another attempt to claw at something that had already scabbed over.

She locked her phone. Shoved it deep into the pocket of her jeans. She wasn’t about to let one text take over her whole night. That was the old her. She reached for the tequila bottle instead, pouring a shot with the quiet confidence of someone who knew her limit.

“Just one,” she whispered.

The burn was familiar, sharp and steady. Her way of washing the bitterness out of her mouth before it could settle.

Azzi knocked gently on the door.

“You good?”

Tatum plastered on a soft smile, not letting the sting show.

“Yeah,” she said, pushing the door open, slipping past her. “Ready.”

She was wearing black leather jeans, Air Forces, and a black tube top. The fit hugged her body just right—cool, confident. A version of herself she didn’t always recognize, but didn’t mind being tonight.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Ted’s was packed. Sweat and music filled the air. Rap blasted through the speakers, the kind of bass you could feel in your chest. The girls were already halfway through a bottle service moment, dancing, singing along to every word. The energy was infectious.

Tatum slipped in next to Azzi and Sarah, already feeling that subtle warmth from earlier resurface—just the right buzz, just the right amount of soft.

Paige was across the room.

Sweatpants. A white crop top. Toned stomach, loose hair, light makeup.

Effortlessly good.

And maybe it was the tequila or the way the lights bounced off her cheekbones, but Tatum could feel herself noticing. Really noticing.

Paige walked up to her, leaned in close.

“You already had a drink?”

Tatum nodded. “One.”

“Mmm,” Paige grinned. “I see.”

Her voice was low, teasing, close to Tatum’s ear. Too close. Her lips were pink. She kept licking them. Her eyes—blue and bright—lingered on Tatum’s mouth for a beat too long. And Tatum should’ve looked away. Should’ve pulled back.

But she didn’t.

She flirted back. Nothing big. A smirk. A rolled eye. A clever comment.

It felt easy, weirdly natural, like a rhythm they were both starting to move in sync with.

Until Paige walked to the bar to get another Dirty Shirley.

And a girl showed up.

Light skin, curly hair, brown eyes. Bold. Flirty. A little too comfortable with touching Paige’s arm. And Paige didn’t flirt back, but she didn’t shut it down either. She was being friendly. Maybe too friendly.

Across the room, Ice nudged Tatum.

“Okay, P. Looks like she’s got herself a lil friend for the night.”

A few of the girls laughed.

Tatum forced one too. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

It shouldn’t bother her. Paige was free. Free to flirt, to kiss, to leave with whoever she wanted. Tatum wasn’t her anything.

So Tatum found someone too.

A girl who looked nothing like Paige, but had the same blonde hair and blue eyes. She was shorter, more bubbly. Pretty. Sweet. And clearly into Tatum. Within seconds, the girl had her hands on Tatum’s waist, her lips dangerously close.

Tatum didn’t kiss her. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she didn’t know her name. And some part of her—the part she didn’t want to admit existed—didn’t want this to be about someone else.

Just a distraction.

So she danced. Let the music drown everything out.

Paige eventually excused herself from the girl—Laura, apparently—and turned back just in time to see Tatum swaying with someone else.

Jealousy bloomed.

Not loud. Not obvious. But sharp, hot, and a little confusing. Paige didn’t like seeing Tatum with someone else. Not because she had any right to claim her. But because she wanted to be the one she was dancing with.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The night eventually wore out. The girls left Ted’s in a group, laughing and yelling about who danced best and whose drink was the strongest.

The energy had shifted for Tatum.

Her body was warm, but her heart felt distant.

In the Uber, Paige noticed the change first. She scooted slightly closer.

“You okay?”

Tatum didn’t look at her. “Yeah. Just tired.”

It wasn’t convincing. Paige held back a sigh, watching her, hoping the silence between them would break. But Tatum kept her gaze forward, arms crossed.

Azzi clocked it too. Leaned over.

“You sure?”

Tatum gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Just a long day.”

And that was the truth. But also a shield.

Azzi nodded, not pushing further. She knew Tatum. She’d talk when she was ready.

The rest of the girls were laughing about something in the backseat. Someone said something about KK falling on the dance floor and Sarah was half asleep with her head on the window. It was all noise, but the kind that usually made Tatum feel safe. Tonight, it felt far away.

Paige’s hand brushed hers by accident. Soft. Subtle. But enough to make them both freeze for half a second.

Tatum didn’t pull away. But she didn’t stay either.

And the silence between them said more than either of them was willing to say aloud.

[casssmalefantasy]

NOTHING BUT NET - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

CHAPTER THREE

what you show up as

I parings: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes

| synopsis: tensions rise as geno puts the team through a demanding practice, testing leadership and focus. while the group finds rhythm, tatum struggles to quiet the past and stay present. in film, accountability hits hard—and so do the moments she wasn’t ready to feel.

I warnings: intense basketball practice, geno yelling (the usual), angst, internalized frustration/ self doubt, emotional manipulation, tired players, and azzi being a real one.

I word count: 3.4k

I tags list (comment): @fivest4rbuecks

I last chapter • next chapter

──────────────────────

“Wait—KK’s live again?”

“God help us.”

The dining hall’s loud in that familiar, comfortable way. Chairs scraping the floor. Trays clattering. Ice and Jana arguing way too passionately about what the best crumble flavor of the week was. Aubrey’s attempting to make art over a napkin. Morgan’s snatching fries off Allie’s tray like it’s a morning routine.

KK spins around in her seat, phone already up. “Say hi to the live, girly pops!”

Tatum freezes mid-chew, holding her phone like a shield. “This feels like a trap.”

“Nah,” Ice grins, dropping into the seat next to her, giving up on her argument with Jana. “This is team bonding.”

“Team bullying,” Sarah corrects.

“Same thing.”

KK flips the camera to show what the girls are doing, as the comment section flies up. Aubrey asks the live if they can guess her drawing, to which Yana gives her a side eye. Saying the drawing “Looked like a five year old did it.”

“Rookie alert!” KK shouts, swinging the camera toward Tatum. “First UConn live—how we feelin’?”

Tatum lifts an eyebrow, bone-dry. “Outnumbered.”

The chat explodes with emojis and most comments asking for Paige. Someone wants Tatum’s skincare routine. Others asking for Azzi since she’s never on a live.

Morgan scrolls through her own phone, glancing up. “They love you. Literally. Someone said you’ve got to “‘drop a skincare routine tiktok’”

Ice snorts. “You do have great skin though, bro.”

Tatum rolls her eyes, but a grin tugs at her lips. Her walls aren’t down, not fully, but she’s warm here. The kind of warm that feels like a choice.

Across the table, Paige is watching. Chin resting in her hand, expression unreadable—except for the smirk that creeps in when Tatum smiles.

“What?” Tatum asks, catching the look.

Paige shrugs. “Just surprised you’re not camera shy.”

Tatum leans back in her chair. “Why? Nervous I’m stealing your fans?”

It earns a laugh. Small. Quiet. Real. Paige drops her gaze, smile lingering but muted. She wants to say something else—wants to bridge whatever’s grown distant between them—but she doesn’t know how.

Tatum feels it. The pull. The shift. The way it used to feel almost easy. The way it doesn’t now.

“You’re officially one of us now,” Ice says, nudging her shoulder. “You survived a KK live. That’s like… team law.”

Tatum laughs, but it’s brief. Practiced.

Because that line hits weird. Not bad. Just… different.

It hadn’t taken much to be accepted here. No tryout energy. No cliques. No cold shoulders. She showed up, and the girls let her in.

But Louisville hadn’t been that way. Not at first. Her freshman year, she was a starter over upperclassmen. Some of them didn’t like that. They didn’t say it out loud—but they didn’t have to. She felt it in the silence. The glances. The distance.

It wasn’t until she started getting close to her ex—a junior—until she got pulled into that inner circle, that things thawed. But even then, it wasn’t all safe. It was tangled and complicated and eventually, it cracked.

The live chat starts going off again.

Omg Paige and Tatum duo when???

Where’s Paige????

UConn about to win the natty this year.

Girly pop and 5 are my dream backcourt I fear.

PURPLE PAIGE PURPLE.

KK reads one out loud, grinning. “They said Uconn about to win the natty this year. And will. Especially cause we got Tatum this year.”

Tatum smiles tightly. Tries not to shift.

“She’s a baller,” Paige says suddenly. Smooth. Quiet, but sure. “Y’all aren’t even ready for what she’s about to do here as a Husky.”

Tatum tenses a little. It’s the first time someone’s called her that.

A Husky.

That hits different too. Not bad. Not good either. But deep. She doesn’t respond out loud. Just glances at the screen like she’s reading the comments—then lifts her eyes to catch Paige’s, just for a second.

A silent nod.

Paige smiles. Just a little.

KK catches it all in the corner of her eye but doesn’t say anything. She bumps Paige’s shoulder. “Girl, talk to the live. They miss you.”

Paige’s grin is easy, but her energy’s not. “Hey live. Y’all miss me, huh?”

“Girl Boo.” KK says with quickness while giving Paige a side eye.

The comments go feral again.

Tatum scrolls through them on her own phone, fingers light. She sees one that says she’s someone’s favorite transfer of the season. Someone else calls her a hidden gem. Another just says “This is Tatum Rhodes’ year” with three heart emojis.

She scrolls again.

The screen goes dark.

And for a second, in the reflection, she sees her lock screen.

An old team photo. It was genuine happiness and smiles—one of her favorite photos. Or… it used to be.

It was supposed to be a good day. The kind of memory you keep.

But now it just sits on her screen like something unfinished. She never got around to changing it. Maybe part of her didn’t want to. Maybe pretending she was over it felt easier than actually being over it.

Someone laughs across the table. KK’s still reading comments in the background. But Tatum’s not really there anymore. Not fully.

She unlocks her phone. Lets the photo disappear. Lets the moment pass.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The ball bounces once, twice—then splashes through the net with a clean, hollow snap.

Tatum exhales through her nose. Shoots again.

Clank.

She mutters under her breath, catches the rebound, resets. The sound of sneakers brushing against the court echoes in the empty gym. It’s late. Late enough that even the assistant trainers have gone home. But the lights are still on, the gym humming low with silence, and she can’t sleep anyway.

She takes another shot.

Swish.

Another.

Clank.

She wipes her forearm across her brow, and for a second—just one beat—she stops. Her hands find her hips. Her breathing comes fast, not from fatigue but from frustration that keeps folding over itself like waves with nowhere to crash. When she glances down at her phone on the bleacher, the screen lights up. That damn lockscreen showing again, dim in the glow.

It’s a blurry group shot—freshman year. Louisville jerseys. Four girls huddled up post-game, arms slung over sweaty shoulders, smiling for the camera. She’s in the middle of them. But the one with her hand on Tatum’s waist, the one leaning in like it meant something—that’s her.

Angelina. Her Ex.

Tatum’s thumb hovers over the photo. She nearly changes it. Nearly. But her fingers curl into a fist instead, and she clicks the screen off.

She turns and walks to the top of the key. Rebounds another miss. This time, she doesn’t shoot.

The silence gets too quiet.

That’s when it comes—uninvited, sharp at the edges.

July 2021 / Freshman Year At Louisville

She had arrived wide-eyed, sneakers still stiff from the box, heart still swollen with pride.

Louisville had wanted her. That had to mean something.

Her visit had been everything she hoped—laughs and high-fives, group chats lighting up her phone, smoothie runs with the upperclassmen who acted like they were already teammates. It felt warm then. Real. Like maybe she’d finally found the place where people played like her and thought like her and got her.

But once the season started, the temperature dropped fast.

Cliques formed like clouds—quiet, but permanent. The upperclassmen stuck close. Even the other freshmen grouped up like they’d made secret pacts without her.

Still, she figured she’d earn her place the same way she always had.

She played hard. Didn’t complain. Took extra drills without being asked. Stayed late.

She figured—if I make them win, they’ll have to like me.

But the better she played, the colder it got.

No one said anything out loud. It was subtler than that. Side-eyes. Whispers cut off when she walked by. Group texts she didn’t know existed. And in practice—teammates calling for everyone on the court except her.

She’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling of her dorm room, whispering into the dark like it could answer.

“What did I do wrong?”

Then came Angelina.

A junior. 6’1. Light skin, black hair pulled tight into a bun, green eyes sharp like glass and just as cold. A starter, a standout. Everyone respected her. Some feared her.

After one brutal late-night practice, Tatum was gathering her things in silence when she heard…

“Freshie.”

She looked up.

Angelina lounged against the scorer’s table like she’d been waiting. “You’re good,” she said, nodding at her like they were in on something. “They’re just jealous.”

“What?” Tatum says confused.

Angelina’s smirk grew. “You’re the only freshman who doesn’t kiss ass. And you play like you’ve already been here two years. That scares people.”

Tatum shifted her weight, unsure whether it was a compliment or a trap. “…I didn’t think it was that deep.”

“It’s always that deep,” Angelina said. She pushed off the table and stepped closer. “But I got you. I’ll tell them to stop freezing you out.”

Tatum’s breath caught in her chest.

She hadn’t realized how badly she needed someone to say it wasn’t her fault. That she wasn’t imagining it.

Then Angelina reached out. Her hand landed on Tatum’s shoulder. Light. Too light.

“You’ve got a cute smile,” she added, slow and deliberate, licking her lips like the words were nothing.

Tatum felt her face warm, but not from flattery. Something twisted in her gut—something unsure, something off. But all she said was, “Um. Thanks…”

“You’re good now,” Angelina said. Her eyes narrowed, voice low and velvety. “I got you, Tay.”

In the moment, it had felt like kindness. A lifeline.

Present Day 2024

Now, standing in an empty gym miles away from that night, the memory curls around Tatum’s throat like smoke.

Her stomach turns.

She hates that she ever believed the things that came out of Angelina’s mouth. Hates that some part of her still hears them. She knows it’s not her fault—Angelina was a manipulator. That’s what manipulators do. They twist. They isolate. They kiss you after practice and tell you you’re special, but only in private. They pretend their affection is protection.

Tatum had clung to her. And Angelina had liked that.

Some part of Tatum knows she needed that relationship more than she wants to admit. That she let herself believe it was love because survival inside that locker room looked like being wanted by someone.

But she’s over her. She is. She’s just not over what happened. And that’s the part she still doesn’t have language for.

And it cost her more than she realized.

Tatum swallows hard and rubs at her chest like it aches. The air feels heavier now. Like her past followed her here, one flight behind.

“…Don’t be stupid,” she mutters, trying to shake the weight. “You’re not there anymore.”

She picks up the ball and shoots.

Too long.

It bounces off the back iron.

She curses under her breath and jogs after it, but a familiar voice beats her to it.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be in here this late.”

She stops. Looks up.

Paige stands near the sideline, loose and casual, UConn hoodie pulled half over her head, her duffel slung on one shoulder. Her eyes narrow a little as they settle on Tatum—reading her like an open book even when the cover says stay out.

Tatum exhales through her nose, masking the sudden stiffness in her shoulders. “Could say the same to you.”

Paige lifts an eyebrow, stepping forward and tossing the ball back gently. “Couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Figured I’d get some shots up.”

Tatum catches it, tucks it under one arm. “Same.”

There’s a quiet pause. Paige eyes her again, slower this time.

“You good?” she asks, soft but direct.

Tatum forces a shrug, trying to make it casual. “Just getting extra reps in. Preparing for tomorrow’s hell session.”

Paige half-smiles. “Respect.”

She waits a second. Then asks, “You wanna shoot with me?”

Tatum hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want to. Part of her actually does. But being alone with Paige feels dangerous lately. Not in a bad way—just in a way that rattles her bones too much. She’s not sure what to do with the way Paige watches her when she thinks she’s not looking, or the way her voice softens around her like it wants to stay.

So Tatum puts on a smile. Light. Playful. The easiest lie is always the softest one.

“I’ve been here a minute already,” she says, brushing her braid off her shoulder. “I’m tired. Azzi’s probably about to send out a search party.”

Paige doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. “Fair.”

Tatum starts toward the bleachers, grabs her water bottle, her hoodie. She slings her bag over one shoulder and pauses—just for a second—watching Paige cross to the top of the key. She picks up a ball and starts dribbling, low and steady, feet light on the floor.

And just like always, Paige looks effortless.

Tatum watches the way she sets her feet. How quickly she adjusts her follow-through. There’s a reason people look up to her. She’s earned it. Paige is the kind of player who leads because she actually lives it. She plays because she loves it, deeply and honestly and without needing anyone to understand why.

And Tatum gets it. She really does.

She swallows the tightness in her throat, nods once in Paige’s direction, and heads for the door.

Paige hears the door shut behind Tatum, and the sound settles in her chest like the last note of a song that ends too soon.

Paige dribbles once, twice, then lets it fly.

Net.

She retrieves the rebound, eyes tracing the arc of the ball like it might give her answers. She knew something was off the second she saw Tatum tonight. The dark under her eyes. The flicker in her mouth like a smile half-forgotten. But Paige also knows what it means when someone doesn’t want to talk about it.

She’s been there.

When she tore her ACL her junior year, everything around her moved at a pace she couldn’t match. Rehab felt like a punishment. Watching games from the bench felt like failure. The noise online—the trolls, the comparisons, the ones who said she’d peaked—cut deep. She didn’t show it. Not during practices. Not during games where the team fell short and she couldn’t help them. Not even when her leg throbbed and her lungs ached and the only person she cried to was God.

Those nights, she prayed more than she spoke. Not for wins. Not for glory. Just for strength. Just to feel like herself again.

Coming back was a gift. She felt the love like a flood when she returned. But last year? Last year nearly broke her again. Six available players most nights. A roster held together with tape and stubbornness. She played more minutes than ever because there was no one else to take the weight.

They made the Final Four anyway. And when they lost to Iowa, Paige didn’t cry because of the scoreboard—she cried because it was the last time she’d wear the jersey next to Aaliyah and Nika. The last game in a season where she gave every ounce of herself just to keep them alive.

She carried that pain quietly. She always has.

So yeah. She gets it.

Sometimes the gym is the only place where the noise dies down.

She takes another shot. And another. The rhythm brings her peace.

And maybe Tatum came here tonight for the same reason she did.

To let the game say what words can’t.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The whistle hadn’t even touched Geno’s lips before the drill was live. Ball out, five on five, full-court. No water. No breaks. Only intensity.

Tatum caught the inbound from Paige and sprinted the ball up, Azzi curling hard off a stagger screen on the left wing. She glanced off defenders, sharp and fluid, like she was born running that route. Tatum hit her in stride, and Azzi let it fly—clean. The net barely moved.

Geno didn’t praise it. He never did when it was expected.

“Next play!” he shouted, voice ripping through the gym like a stormcloud cracking. “Run it again, same side. If someone screws up the switch this time, we start over.”

Jana and Sarah jogged back on defense. Paige jogged beside Tatum, half-glance, steady breath. They hadn’t talked much since yesterday. But something between them had settled—tentative, careful, but not cold.

It was a Geno Day. Everyone felt it. That particular kind of practice where nothing is forgiven and everything is remembered. The kind that decided minutes. Roles. Futures.

They ran the set again, this time a little off-tempo. Kaitlyn hesitated on the ball screen, and Tatum had to reroute around a late defender. When she drove, the help came fast. She kicked out to Paige, who pump-faked and swung it to Azzi in the corner—but the defense recovered.

Geno’s voice exploded. “Tatum! That’s your damn rotation!” His finger pointed to the replay screen on the wall. “Where are you going? That girl’s about to score a layup, and you’re jogging through shit.”

Tatum clenched her jaw, nodding once. No excuse.

They reset.

Next play, Ashlyn missed a backside cut. Geno tore into her. Then KK for sloppy footwork. Then Ice for not calling out the double early. Nobody was spared.

“Lotta talking about leadership,” Geno barked mid-play. “But I don’t see a damn leader on this court right now!”

That hit Tatum harder than she wanted it to. She knew it wasn’t only for her. But it still sunk deep—because it was true.

She’d been quiet since that flashback yesterday, letting her thoughts spiral too long in silence. But that’s not who she wanted to be here. Not anymore.

So on the next dead ball, she clapped twice. “Hey—switch right if they stack again,” she called out, eyes on Jana. “Don’t wait for it. Pre-switch if you need to.”

Jana nodded. Paige looked over. A blink. Then a soft smile—not smug. Proud.

That felt… worse, somehow. Kindness always did.

They finished the scrimmage with tired legs but cleaner plays. Tatum made sure she was loud on every switch, called for the high set herself, and when Paige slipped a backdoor cut and scored, Tatum gave her a low five on her jog back like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

Not when you’d been burned before.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The film room was dark, cold, and unforgiving.

Tatum sat front row by grade, her right knee barely brushing Paige’s. It wasn’t on purpose. The room just didn’t give you much space.

Still—it lit her nerves on fire.

And what surprised her was how she didn’t want to move.

The film rolled, and the first clip was a disaster. Ashlyn fell asleep on a rotation, and Geno paused it.

“You guarding ghosts now?” he asked, deadpan.

Snickers in the room. Ashlyn dropped her head. Geno didn’t laugh.

“You think I’m joking?” he snapped. “Do ghosts wear South Carolina jerseys? Do they shoot open three’s now?”

Next clip KK fumbled a hedge switch. Then Jana reaching instead of sliding. Then Azzi, somehow, not sprinting back—which shocked everyone. She leaned forward with a sheepish groan.

Then it was Tatum. And she knew it before the clip even played.

A beat too slow on the closeout. A misread screen where Paige ended up double-teamed. Then—worse—a moment where the offense stalled, and Tatum just passed the ball off instead of resetting and organizing.

“Who’s calling the play here?” Geno asked, standing now. “Anyone know? Because your point guard sure doesn’t.”

Silence.

Tatum’s face burned. She didn’t flinch. But inside, something twisted.

She wasn’t mad at Geno. Not really. And it wasn’t Paige either, even if her presence made everything louder.

It was herself.

Because this was supposed to be the new chapter. And here she was again, quiet when it mattered, letting someone else pull the strings. Letting old memories decide how loud she got to be.

Next clip rolled. Paige hitting a midrange jumper. Then Azzi in perfect rhythm. The team clapped a little. Geno nodded once.

Their knees still touched. Paige hadn’t moved. And Tatum hadn’t either.

She couldn’t tell if her chest was tight from the film or from the heat coming off Paige’s skin.

Either way, it was exhausting.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

They walked back to the dorm under the low hum of campus lights, the kind that made everything look sleepier than it was. Tatum’s shoulders ached. Her head too.

Azzi kept pace beside her, “You were loud today,” she said casually. “Almost didn’t recognize you.”

Tatum huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. I figured I should probably start acting like I want the ball.”

“You and Paige played clean. It’s different now, huh?”

Tatum didn’t answer right away.

“She’s… nice. Too nice, sometimes.” Tatum admits.

Azzi glanced over. “That’s not the worst thing.”

“No,” Tatum said, low. “It’s not.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence. But it wasn’t the kind Tatum hated.

[casssmalefantasy]

NOTHING BUT NET - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

CHAPTER TWO

no time for distractions

I parings: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes

I synopsis: tatum’s trying to keep her head down, but between late-night glances, old ghosts from louisville, and the way paige keeps showing up with soft eyes and careful questions, it’s getting harder to pretend she doesn’t feel anything. practice tension spills off the court, and the past she’s been running from starts to catch up—quietly, but fast.

I warnings: emotional tension, anxiety vibes, past relationship trauma hinted at, sports pressure and competitiveness, guarded feelings, slow burn unfolding, and more basketball

I word count: 5.3k?

I tags list (comment): none yet

I last chapter • next chapter

──────────────────────

The summer grind is no joke.

Early lifts at 6 A.M. Weight circuits, cone sprints, shooting volume before breakfast. Film by noon. Defensive breakdowns. Offensive sets. Team scrimmages in the afternoon. Recovery sessions. Cold tubs. Normatecs. Repeat.

And Tatum? She’s locked the hell in.

This is her element. The structure, the demand, the way Geno calls out every missed box-out and lazy closeout with no hesitation. It’s what she came here for. UConn isn’t just about another national championship banner—it’s about accountability. It’s about holding yourself to a standard every second you’re on that hardwood. And Tatum’s here to meet it, beat it, raise it.

By week two, her muscle memory is catching up to the pace.

The reads are quicker. Her footwork’s sharper. She’s finding seams, calling switches, rotating like she’s been here a year instead of two weeks. Her confidence has never been in question—but there’s still that quiet fire in her gut. Like she’s got something to prove. Not to them. To herself.

And yet… one variable still throws her rhythm.

Paige Bueckers.

“Tatum, you’re on-ball. Paige, initiate,” Geno calls out from the sideline, arms crossed, watching like a hawk. “Three-on-three live. Let’s go.”

Tatum claps her hands and slides into her stance.

She’s gone up against All-Americans before. Big guards. Shifty guards. But Paige plays like a puzzle you never fully solve—fluid, unpredictable, sees the whole floor two beats before it unfolds. She’s not flashy for the sake of it. Everything’s purposeful. Lethal.

On the first possession—Paige sizes her up, tries to turn the corner off a left-hand hesitation. Tatum beats her to the spot, chest-to-chest, forces the kick-out. Shot clock reset.

With the second possession—Paige uses a drag screen to create space, fakes the crossover mid-range pull, then snakes the lane and scoops it off the glass before the help can rotate. Clean.

For the third possession—Tatum jumps the pass, picks her clean at the top of the key, and takes it coast-to-coast. One dribble gather, finish through contact.

The gym is louder now.

Sneakers squeak. Voices rise.

Everyone’s watching.

Coach blows the whistle, letting it hang in the air. “Save it for November,” he mutters, eyes still on the two of them. “We’re not handing out trophies in July.”

Paige turns slightly, sweat curling along her jaw, and flashes a grin. “You’re quick,” she says, catching Tatum’s eye like it’s second nature.

Tatum shrugs, her breath steady. “You’ve got good change of pace.”

There’s a pause. No movement. Just eye contact that hums a little too long.

Then Paige grins wider. “Guess you’ll need it if you wanna stay in front of me.”

It’s a dig. Light, teasing. But there’s a glint behind it.

Tatum doesn’t bite. Not visibly. But the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Instead, she pivots hard into the next rep—faster off the switch, louder calling screens, more physical in the lane. She tips two passes, grabs an offensive board over Ice, and hits a step-in three off the rotation.

Paige feels the shift.

She watches Tatum from the top of the key during a dead ball, tilting her head slightly. There’s tension in Tatum’s shoulders now. Not frustration—focus. But it’s different than before. Quieter.

Paige jogs up beside her before the next inbound, voice a little lower. “Hey. I was just messing around. Didn’t mean it like that.”

Tatum doesn’t flinch. “It’s cool.”

But it’s clipped. Not cold, exactly. Just guarded. Like the door’s still open, but barely cracked.

Across the baseline, Azzi nudges KK with her elbow. ���She’s fired up now,” KK says under her breath. Ice lets out a low whistle. “Paige poked the wrong bear.”

Coach watches with a neutral expression, but he doesn’t stop it. He’s seen this before—rising stars sharpening each other. And deep down, he knows this is how greatness builds.

Practice keeps rolling.

Transition drills. Ball reversal into drive-and-kick reads. Matchups shuffle. Tempo stays high.

Tatum’s locked into every rep like it counts. Defensive stance low. Hands active. Calling out back screens before they happen. She’s not here to be cute. She’s here to make a statement.

Still, in the periphery—between drills and glances—Paige keeps looking.

And Tatum pretends not to see it.

Pretends her stomach doesn’t twist when Paige gives her that smirk again.

Pretends she doesn’t notice how Paige always seems to be where she is—just close enough to be felt, never far enough to be ignored.

It’s just another day in the grind.

But underneath the drills, under the scoreboard light and the echo of sneakers on hardwood—something’s simmering.

And Tatum feels it.

Even if she won’t let herself name it yet.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The locker room is loud after practice—music thumping low from someone’s speaker, and the chatter of tired bodies winding down. There’s laughter from KK and Ice across the way, Azzi tugging a hoodie over her curls, towels draped across shoulders, the scent of deodorant and sweat thick in the air.

Tatum keeps her head down as she unlaces her sneakers, jaw tight, expression unreadable. She hasn’t said much since the final whistle.

Paige notices.

She watches her from a few lockers over, toweling sweat from the back of her neck. The smirk she wore earlier is long gone. She waits a beat—then steps closer.

“Hey,” she says, low enough not to draw attention. She taps the edge of the locker near Tatum’s shoulder, not quite touching. “You good?”

Tatum doesn’t look up. Just finishes pulling off her sock, then tosses it into her duffel. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m good.”

Paige lingers. “It’s about what I said earlier, isn’t it?”

Tatum finally glances over, guarded. “Drop it. It’s fine.”

“I was just messing around,” Paige says, a little softer now. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I can handle trash talk, Paige.” The words come out cool, clipped. She stands up, crosses her arms, meets Paige’s eyes. “You don’t have to check in.”

Paige nods once, slowly. There’s a beat of eye contact between them—intense and unreadable—until Tatum breaks it, turning back toward her locker.

“You sure?” Paige says anyway. Her voice doesn’t waver, but there’s something quieter in it now. “Because I didn’t mean to—”

Tatum doesn’t answer. Just grabs her hoodie, slings it over one shoulder, and walks out without another word.

Azzi’s the only one who catches the whole thing.

She crosses the room a second later, tugging her headphones down around her neck as she joins Paige by the lockers.

“What was that?” she asks, keeping her voice casual.

Paige exhales through her nose. “I think I might’ve fucked it up.”

Azzi raises an eyebrow. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing bad,” Paige says. “Just a joke. I thought it was funny.” She shakes her head. “Guess she didn’t.”

“She’s probably just tired,” Azzi offers, nudging Paige’s arm. “Long practice. Could’ve hit her different.”

Paige doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

“I can talk to her,” Azzi says. “I mean… we live together. I’ll check in.”

Paige hesitates, then shakes her head. “Nah. It’s cool. She doesn’t need a middleman. I’ll figure it out.”

Azzi doesn’t push. Just nods, gives her a look that’s half thoughtful, half amused. “You’re kind of obvious, by the way.”

Paige furrows her brows. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Azzi says, already walking off toward the showers. “Just… work on your delivery.”

Paige watches her go, biting back a smile despite herself.

The locker room hums around her, full of noise and movement. But that one door stays closed.

And Paige knows she’s got some work to do.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

It’s quiet when the door finally shuts behind Tatum.

The locker room noise, the sound of basketball’s bouncing, the weight of Paige’s eyes on her back—it all fades into the low hum of the dorm hallway. Tatum lets her bag fall to the floor with a thud and leans against her closed door, head tipping back against the wood.

She exhales slow, pressing her palms to her face.

It wasn’t that deep. She knows that.

Paige was just talking trash—light, playful, the way everyone does in practice. Hell, Tatum usually fires right back. She’s never been the type to take things personally. Not on the court. Not when it’s just noise.

But something about today stuck in her ribs.

Maybe it’s because she’s still adjusting. Because everything here moves so fast, and every rep feels like a test she has to pass. Or maybe it’s because Paige’s eyes linger too long. Because when she says something—even when she’s joking—Tatum hears it different. Feels it different.

And she hates that.

She doesn’t want distractions. She doesn’t want to be the girl who flinches over some throwaway comment. Not here. Not now.

So yeah, maybe she snapped a little. Maybe she was cold.

Her arms fold tight across her chest as she paces once, then again. The edges of her nerves still buzz beneath the skin, but the fire’s gone. Just low, simmering guilt now. Not toward herself. Toward Paige.

A knock pulls her out of it—soft, hesitant, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t sure if they should even be there.

“Yeah?” Tatum calls, already halfway to the door.

It’s Azzi.

She’s in a oversized Georgetown shirt, her hair up, a book tucked in the crook of her arm like she was just about to settle in before deciding to check in.

“Hey,” she says gently. “You good?”

Tatum pauses, hand still on the door.

“Yeah,” she says automatically. “I’m fine.”

Azzi doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just waits.

Tatum sighs and steps back, letting the door stay open. “You can come in if you want.”

“Only if you’re okay with it.”

“I wouldn’t’ve opened it if I wasn’t.”

That gets the smallest smile from Azzi as she slips in. She sits on the edge of Tatum’s bed, quiet for a second, like she’s letting Tatum set the pace.

“Just… wanted to check,” she says. “You kinda dipped after practice.”

Tatum leans against her desk, arms crossed again, but not as tightly now. She shrugs one shoulder. “Just needed some air.”

Azzi nods like she understands, even if it’s vague.

“Paige didn’t mean it,” she says after a beat. “What she said.”

Tatum lets out a soft breath, looking down at the floor.

“I know,” she admits. “I just… I don’t know. Long day. Caught me off guard.”

Azzi gives her a look that’s both gentle and perceptive. “You don’t have to explain anything. But for what it’s worth… you don’t have to prove anything either.”

Tatum looks up at that. Meets Azzi’s eyes. And for a second, she lets something real flicker there—past the armor.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Sometimes it feels like I do.”

Azzi doesn’t say anything right away. Just nods again. “I get that.”

They sit in the quiet for a few seconds. It’s not heavy. Not awkward. Just… easy.

“It’s tiring sometimes to feel like you gotta show up perfect every day.” Tatum says suddenly, her voice soft but serious.

“I understand what that’s like,” Azzi says. “But I think… people here see more than just how you play.”

Tatum doesn’t answer right away. But the tension in her shoulders loosens just a little.

“Thanks,” she says finally. “For checking in.”

“Always,” Azzi says, standing. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

Tatum walks her to the door.

“Hey, Azzi?” she says before she goes.

“Yeah?”

Tatum hesitates, then: “You’re a good roommate.”

Azzi grins. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

When the door shuts again, Tatum’s still tired. Still wound up. But it feels different now. Lighter.

And somewhere deep in her chest, something starts to loosen.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The weight room is louder than Tatum would expect for it being 8 in the morning.

Drake is blasting through the overhead speakers, bass vibrating under the soles of her sneakers. Tatum walks in with her hoodie half-zipped and her water bottle, trying to shake off the nerves that settled somewhere in her chest the second she saw Paige’s name on the lift schedule.

She shouldn’t care.

It’s not like yesterday was anything serious. It was practice. A little trash talk. A misunderstanding. It happens.

Still, her jaw tightens when she spots Paige across the room, loading plates onto a barbell, already deep into her lift.

Blue UConn shirt under her practice jersey. Blue shorts. Socks rolled mid-shin, shoes tied tight. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sweating, focused, grinning at something Ice said.

And still managing to look good. Which pisses Tatum off more than it should.

“You’re late, Tatum,” Hudy—their strength trainer calls across the room before Tatum can even drop her bag. “Let’s go. Trap bar deadlifts, five sets of three. Heavy.”

Tatum nods, quick. “Yes, ma’am.”

She doesn’t look at Paige. Not directly. But she feels the glance land. Like a pause in the air. Paige doesn’t say anything, just goes back to her own reps. Tatum tugs her hoodie off and heads toward the rack.

“You’re gonna warm up or just pray your hamstrings survive?” Hudy raises an eyebrow.

Tatum cracks a half-smile. “I like to live dangerously.”

“Uh-huh. That better be a joke,” Hudy says, not missing a beat. “You’ve got good form, but I’m not pulling your ACL off the turf because you were trying to prove a point.”

Tatum exhales a quiet laugh and gets to work. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands on the handles. Brace, lift, reset. Each rep is clean. Sharp. Controlled.

Next to her, Sarah is working through a set of power cleans. Ice and Ashlyn are alternating sets of split squats. Azzi’s mouthing along to whatever Rod Wave song is playing, a pink scrunchie holding her hair up high. The room is alive, but all Tatum hears is her own breath and the clink of plates hitting the floor.

And Paige. Her presence. Her laugh from a few feet away. The fact that she hasn’t said anything yet.

After their third block, Hudy claps her hands. “Two-minute break. Hydrate. Stretch. Don’t go ghost on me.”

Tatum wipes sweat off her neck with a towel, reaches for her water bottle. She feels Paige before she sees her.

“Deadlifts looking smooth,” Paige says, voice light.

Tatum glances over. Paige’s arms are crossed, leaning against the edge of a squat rack, a small smirk tugging at her mouth.

“They should,” Tatum replies. “Been lifting longer than I’ve known how to drive.”

Paige chuckles. “So, since the 1800s?”

Tatum rolls her eyes, but it’s soft. Her dimple flashes—just for a second. Paige catches it. And her stomach does something stupid.

They stand there, the air between them warm with sweat and something unsaid. Paige shifts her weight.

“Hey,” she says more seriously now, quieting her voice. “Are we good? About yesterday?”

Tatum blinks, surprised. Then she nods. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“I was just messing around,” Paige adds. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I felt bad. You seemed… off.”

Tatum takes a sip of water, eyes on the floor. “It wasn’t you. I just—overreacted. Had nothing to do with what you said.”

Paige studies her face. “Okay.”

A beat.

“You sure?” she asks.

Tatum looks at her this time, steady. “Yeah. You’re not that special, Bueckers.”

Paige grins. “Not even a little?”

“You’re always annoying,” Tatum says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Yeah, but at least a part of you enjoys it.”

Tatum narrows her eyes. “What makes you say that?”

Paige shrugs, playful. “I see you crack smiles.”

Before Tatum can answer, Hudy claps again from the other end of the room.

“Break’s over, lovebirds! Back to work.”

Tatum’s face goes blank. Paige’s ears go a little pink. Sarah stifles a laugh across the room.

Tatum turns away, muttering, “I hate you,” under her breath.

Paige just smiles to herself. That dimple was real.

This time, when they lift, Paige doesn’t bother hiding the glances. And Tatum doesn’t look back.

But she knows.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The music was still playing from her speaker as Tatum stood in front of the mirror, applying the final touches to her makeup. Nothing heavy—just a little concealer, mascara, gloss. Enough to feel put together without trying too hard. She wore baggy black jeans, fresh white Air Forces, a black tube top, and a loose white sweater draped over her shoulders. Her curls were still damp from the shower, bouncing softly as she moved. A gold cross necklace rested against her collarbone, alongside a few rings and a bracelet. She sprayed a light mist of Valentino perfume before grabbing her purse.

The team thought it would be a nice idea to all go out tonight to a restaurant.

Azzi sat cross-legged on the bed, watching her with a smile. “Damnnnn, you look good,” she said, her curls pulled back in a messy bun, bracelets jingling softly on her wrist.

Tatum rolled her eyes playfully. “Thank you.”

Before she could say more, a knock sounded at the door. Sarah peeked in, wearing a gray Essentials hoodie, black sweatpants, and Ugg slides. “You guys ready?”

“Yeah,” Tatum replied, grabbing her phone.

They headed over to Paige’s dorm where the whole team was already gathered—laughing, talking, the noise spilling out into the hallway. KK and Aubrey were mid-TikTok in the living room, while the rest clustered around, chatting. Tatum’s eyes locked with Paige’s almost immediately. Paige didn’t hesitate to look her up and down, a small smile playing on her lips.

It made Tatum nervous, but instead of looking away, she met Paige’s gaze. Paige was wearing black cargo jeans, Jordan 4s, and a white hoodie with a cross necklace. Her hair was pulled up in a neat bun, glasses perched on her nose, looking effortlessly cool—something Tatum hated to admit but couldn’t deny.

“Hey, Tatum, you on TikTok?” KK’s voice cut through Tatum’s thoughts.

“Yeah,” Tatum said, her voice wary. “I scroll mostly, don’t post much.”

KK grinned. “Perfect. Let’s do a TikTok.”

Before Tatum could decline, KK was already dragging her into the middle of the room. The rhythm wasn’t easy, but Tatum tried to follow along, laughing when she messed up a step. KK was delighted. “Period, we ate. I’m posting this.”

Tatum rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. She caught Paige watching her, the faintest smirk on Paige’s face making her stomach flutter.

Then Paige spoke, her voice calm but commanding. “Okay, what’s the car situation? Who’s riding with who?”

The team started sorting themselves out—After a few rounds of negotiation and light teasing, Tatum found herself sliding into the passenger seat of Paige’s car. Paige smirked just a little as Tatum buckled up.

Paige pulled out her phone and passed it over. “You on Aux.”

Tatum blinked, confused. “What?”

Paige smiled. “You look like you got good taste in music.”

Tatum smiled back, glad for the break from tension. She cued up SZA’s Normal Girl and the car filled with soft singing and laughter. Everyone joined in, even Tatum, who felt herself loosen up more than she expected.

She stole glances at Paige, who was focused on the road but mouthing along to the lyrics. The sight made something stir inside Tatum—something she wasn’t ready to name. She forced herself to look away, fixing her gaze on the window instead.

When they arrived at the Italian restaurant in New Haven, the group quickly settled into a long table. Somehow, Tatum ended up sandwiched between Paige and Aubrey.

She ordered vodka pasta and a soda, trying to stay calm amid the loud, chaotic buzz of the team. The conversation was loud, funny, close-knit—celebrating the new roster, welcoming the freshmen and Tatum herself.

Jana cracked jokes that made Sarah’s dry sarcasm cut through like a knife. Ice and Yana teased KK relentlessly about how hard she was smiling at her phone. Azzi sat across the table from Tatum, their eyes meeting from time to time, sharing silent understanding.

Paige leaned toward Tatum at one point, teasing, “People on TikTok say you gotta work on your dance skills.”

Tatum laughed, shaking her head. “Not my fault KK threw me into a video I didn’t know the moves to.”

Paige smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you right. Teach you some moves.”

Tatum raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about rhythm?”

Paige chuckled, “Not too much on me. I got some rhythm for a white girl, trust.”

Tatum laughed, the sound easier than it had been all day. “Yeah, I gotta see that for myself.”

Paige’s eyes locked on hers for a moment longer, and Tatum felt a flutter in her chest. “What?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“It’s nothing.” Paige shrugged, then lowered her voice just a bit. “You look nice tonight.”

Tatum blinked, caught off guard by the way Paige said it—low, intense, eyes locked on hers, lips slightly parted. She wanted to look away but found herself holding Paige’s gaze, then looking down at her lips for a quick second before forcing her eyes back up. “Thank you. You look good, too.”

Paige smiled, but before anything else could happen, Caroline tapped her shoulder, showing something on her phone. Tatum looked down at her plate, scanning the table. Azzi was watching Paige and Tatum with a knowing look—like she saw everything and was planning to ask questions later.

Tatum looked away quickly, upset by how much she kept looking back.

The conversation shifted to relationships, with KK, Aubrey, Yana, Allie, Ashlyn, and Kaitlyn all sharing that they were currently in relationships. The rest were single—some hooking up, some just chilling.

Ice joked about Paige, “You don’t do relationships, huh?”

Paige laughed it off. “Relax, I’m just focused on basketball.”

“Or maybe you like kissing random girls at Ted’s,” Jana teased, and the table burst into laughter.

Tatum didn’t laugh. She tried not to care, telling herself she didn’t.

But when Paige turned to her and asked softly, “What about you?”

Tatum’s heart sped up. “What?”

“Are you seeing anyone? Maybe someone special back at Louisville?”

The mention of Louisville hit her like a punch, and hearing “relationship” made her tense. She hated thinking about it—about her past, about her.

“No,” Tatum said, guarded. “I don’t.”

Aubrey wasn’t ready to let it go. “Come on, there’s gotta be more than that.”

Tatum bristled but held her ground. “I don’t have time for dating. Not right now. Too much going on.”

The group moved on, but Tatum could feel Paige’s eyes lingering on her. She didn’t dare meet them and instead turned to Aubrey, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

But deep down, something was shifting—something that might just pull her guard down, whether she wanted it or not.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The apartment was quiet when Tatum stepped out of the bathroom, steam still clinging to the air behind her. Her curls were now up in a bun, as she padded barefoot across the wood floors, tugging her hoodie down. The oversized sleeves swallowed her wrists.

Azzi was curled up on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, a book open in one hand and a mug with a big A on it in the other. A candle burned low on the coffee table, something warm and sweet that made the apartment feel like home in a way Tatum hadn’t realized she needed. The only sound was the soft hum of the TV—some random rom-com flickering across the screen.

Tatum moved to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap and drinking half of it before flopping down beside Azzi on the couch.

Azzi looked up and smiled. “So… the dinner.”

Tatum raised an eyebrow, confused. “What about it?”

Azzi closed her book slowly, her expression already teasing. “Don’t do that. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Tatum tensed, her shoulders lifting slightly. “I really don’t.”

Azzi just stared, and Tatum finally groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

“There’s nothing going on,” she said flatly.

Azzi grinned. “Didn’t say there was. Just seems like you and Paige are… on better terms.”

Tatum scoffed. “We were never on bad terms.”

Azzi tilted her head like really?

“I mean—whatever. It’s good for teammates to have chemistry off the court too. Makes things easier when we play. That’s all it is.”

“Mmhmm,” Azzi said, clearly not buying it. “Sure. Totally. Just building chemistry.”

Tatum shot her a look. “What do you mean by that?”

Azzi shrugged, letting the silence hang a little too long. “Nothing. You tell me.”

Tatum leaned her head back against the couch cushion and exhaled. “There’s nothing to tell. Paige is a good player. She’s funny, she’s cool. But that’s it. There’s nothing more to it.”

Azzi smiled gently, not pushing further, just sitting with her.

Tatum’s gaze dropped to her lap. “I’ve made the mistake of letting people in before. Thinking it was one thing, when it wasn’t. Thought I could handle it. And then I couldn’t.”

Azzi didn’t say anything for a beat. Then she reached forward, touching Tatum’s knee.

“Well, I’m always here if you ever wanna talk. Or not talk. Or just sit here and pretend like we don’t feel anything at all.”

Tatum smiled a little. “That last one sounds like a plan.”

Azzi laughed gently and picked her book back up. “No distractions, right?”

Tatum nodded, like it was a rule she needed to live by. “No time for distractions.”

But when she walked back into her room, pulling the door softly shut behind her, something tugged at her chest.

She sat on the edge of her bed and glanced at the framed photo sitting on her dresser—the one of her old team at Louisville. They were all smiling. She remembered that night. Remembered thinking everything was still okay.

Her fingers toyed with the bracelet around her wrist.

This isn’t Louisville. This is different.

She laid down and pulled the covers over her body, the cool fabric brushing against her skin as she closed her eyes.

Paige is just a teammate. A good one. That’s all.

Whatever looks they may have shared tonight… whatever smile that lingered too long, whatever moment that made her heart catch—it didn’t mean anything.

She didn’t come here for this. She didn’t come here to feel things again.

She came to win. To prove she belonged. To keep her head down and her heart out of it.

So she whispered it to herself like a promise.

“I’m leaving it alone.”

But even as she said it, a quiet part of her knew—

she already hadn’t.

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

The gym was heavy with the smell of sweat and effort, basketballs echoing off the floor, sneakers squeaking against each other in hard cuts. Geno’s voice snapped across the court like a whip.

“Again!” he barked, pacing the sideline. “Run it cleaner this time—spacing’s off, communication’s nonexistent. You’re not a bunch of strangers out here, so stop playing like it!”

Tatum didn’t hear much else. Or maybe she heard too much.

She was locked in—shoulders tense, jaw set, driving harder than necessary on every cut. Her closeouts were a step too fast, her help defense late because she was overthinking the rotations. It didn’t feel sharp. It felt…desperate.

Paige called for a screen—“Tatum!”—but Tatum didn’t respond.

Not because she didn’t hear her. But because responding meant acknowledging Paige, and that felt like acknowledging the spiral in her own chest.

The whistle blew sharp. Geno’s entire body tensed as he marched toward them.

“Jesus Christ, Tatum! You’re a point guard. Start acting like one.” His voice echoed in the sudden silence. “You wanna prove something, do it by leading, not by trying to bulldoze through your own damn team.”

Tatum’s chest rose and fell. She nodded once. Quiet. Controlled. But inside, it splintered.

Azzi and Paige shared a glance across the court—barely a second long, but enough.

“Everyone, reset,” Geno growled, walking away. “And figure it out before I start running all of you until Christmas.”

As practice dragged on, the rest of the team started to notice the crack in the atmosphere. Jana leaned over to Caroline during water break.

“Tatum’s on one today,” she whispered. “You think she’s good?”

Caroline shrugged, frowning. “She was fine yesterday. Might be a bad day.”

Ice tried to lighten the mood during a drill, cracking a joke about KK getting blocked on a layup. KK grinned, tossed her head, and tried to start a dance break mid-drill. Tatum cracked half a smile—barely there, but it broke through the fog for a second.

It was the only second.

When the final whistle blew and they were dismissed, the tension didn’t leave the gym—it followed them to the locker room like a shadow.

Tatum was the last one to her locker, towel around her neck, head down. She opened it quietly, reaching for her slides. Inside the door, half-hidden, was a small photo. Taped crooked. Worn at the edges.

It was her and one of her old teammates at Louisville—Leah, arms around each other, laughing with their eyes closed. They looked…happy. Back when things felt safe, simple.

She didn’t notice Paige standing nearby until she heard her voice.

“Coach only gets like that when he knows you’re not playing like yourself.”

Tatum didn’t look up. “Yeah. I figured that out.”

It wasn’t rude, but it was cold. Distant.

Paige didn’t back off. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I appreciate the concern, Paige,” Tatum said, finally glancing over, “But I’m good.”

Normally, that would be the end of it. But not today.

Paige’s voice lost its lightness. It dropped into something steadier. “I want to believe that. But something’s wrong. You don’t have to tell me what it is. I just—I’ve been there before. Nobody plays like that unless something’s going on in their head.”

Tatum stiffened. She didn’t expect Paige to stay in it that long.

“I’m allowed to have an off day,” she said, guarded, eyes back on her locker.

“I know,” Paige replied. “It’s okay to have off days. It’s also okay to talk to someone if something’s wrong. I mean—we’re teammates. We all care about each other. It’s like a family here.”

Tatum didn’t answer.

The word family stuck in her ears like glue.

That’s what it used to feel like at Louisville. That those girls were her family. And then she left. Even though she was still in touch with some of them, deep down, she knew they were disappointed in her. She could feel it in the pause between texts. In the posts she was no longer tagged in. In the silence.

She looked at Paige and nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Thanks for being a good teammate.”

The way she said it was clipped. Like it didn’t mean what it should.

Teammate. That word again.

Paige caught the shift. The way Tatum’s voice didn’t match the softness of the sentiment. She didn’t push, not this time. But her eyes lingered a second longer than usual before she nodded and stepped back.

“No problem,” she said, heading back to her locker.

Tatum sat down slowly, eyes flickering once more to the photo inside her locker. She touched the edge of it with her fingers. She remembered the day she walked into her coach’s office at Louisville, the way her voice trembled even though she tried to sound firm. The way she walked out with her heart in her throat.

She had promised herself then—no more distractions. No more closeness. No more letting someone in just to lose them later.

But this place… it was starting to feel something.

And that terrified her.

She looked around the locker room—at Paige, at Azzi, at KK cracking another joke that made everyone laugh.

Then back at the photo.

Maybe she hadn’t walked away from just a school.

Maybe she’d walked away from the last time she let her heart believe in something that could break.

And there was a chance she was starting to do it again.

Even if she told herself she wasn’t.

[casssmalefantasy]

Going back to the whole “X reader” thing—I honestly don’t mind when writers use it even if it’s technically an OC. I get why some people might not like that, but it doesn’t really bother me. What does annoy me, though, is when people use the tag for things that have nothing to do with it… like just a random photo of Paige or someone else entirely, or even posts that are just personal life updates? That has zero connection to the hashtag and it’s just frustrating.

that is understandable!!!!

i understand why people might be upset about the paige bueckers x reader tag when it’s an oc, but writers on here do it all the time. the same way they do it with the paige bueckers x oc tag and it be the opposite. i just think it’s wrong to threaten people and be rude over a tag, when they can simply just block me or scroll down. i seen like three paige bueckers x oc stories recently that’s in the x reader tag. people just pick and choose who can and can’t do it.

but thank you for not being mean <3

[casssmalefantasy]

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

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“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.

[casssmalefantasy]

NOTHING BUT NET — PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

SERIES

| paring: paige bueckers x tatum rhodes (oc)

| synopsis: tatum rhodes transfers to uconn for a fresh start. new team, new city, and unexpected challenges. amid the pressure, she’s drawn to her teammate, paige bueckers. but love isn’t part of the game plan—not yet.

| warnings: fluff, explicit content / smut, alcohol use, drug references, injury (on court), lots of basketball, mental health themes, cheating, breakups, heartbreak, toxic relationships, jealousy, communication issues, misunderstandings, verbal arguments / yelling, performance pressure

| tag list?? (comment): opennn!!

| author’s note: lmao yes i have yet another new series. i started drafting this like a month ago and i’m excited abt this. and yes i have two series rn with the theme of transferring 😭.

──────────────────────

CHAPTER INDEX

| chapter one: new number, same name

| chapter two: no time for distractions

| chapter three: what you show up as

| chapter four: first night

| chapter five: new’s not always bad

| chapter six: coming soon!