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lupinqs · 2 days ago

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wait i’m fucking obsessed

RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER ONE

content: language, light alcohol use, the line between a slow burn and a fast burn is incredibly thin and cam and paige brought a ruler to measure it, unbelievably messy

wc: 6.3k

notes: super excited to start writing this for y'all 🫶 this has been in my drafts since february and im so happy that everything is finally falling into place for it. i will probably go back to eventually add a playlist but i was feeling very uninspired on that front sooo 😕 just know reckless driving by lizzy mcalpine and vibes by chase atlantic are the two main songs for this fic. i don't have as much of this prewritten like i did irp and i go back to class on the 30th so i have no idea what updates r gonna look like 💔 pls be patient w me but i love chatting w y'all so don't hesitate to send an anon 🫶 if i missed anyone on the taglist lmk, i still dont know how it works LMAO but i hope you guys love camille as much as i do (and as much as y'all loved tess) and as always lmk what y'all think and enjoyyy 🙂‍↔️

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog

Camille has always loved draft night.

There’s something so bittersweet, yet so impossibly exciting about it. She attended her first one in 2019 to support her Stanford teammate, Alanna Smith, who was drafted 8th overall to the Mercury. Cam was a rising junior when she heard Alanna’s name be called, when she watched her walk to the stage and pose with the jersey, when she realized just how monumental it is.

Draft night is one of those things that creep up on you. It’s easy to think about how long it takes, to sit there while the teams “make” their selection, as if they didn’t already know whose name they would be calling. In fairness, it’s a lot of sitting and waiting and watching highlight tape and analysts discussing the same things in different fonts.

She has great size, a true beast in the paint, they’d say. Or variations of, Her shot is clinical. The ball is through the net before you can get a hand up to defend. She’s dangerous in transition. A menace on defense.

Camille, honestly, doesn’t pay attention to that part. She pays attention to the people. That’s always been her thing. When she watched Alanna get drafted, she noticed the way her shoulders sunk in barely concealed relief. She noted the order in which she hugged the people at her table, the way she closed her eyes and held onto them a little tighter.

It’s bittersweet to know that the draft may take you far away from these people – your friends, your family, the teammates and coaches that held you up when everything had seemed so impossible. But it’s exciting, to watch these girls wipe away their tears, to hold their chin up and march across the stage like it was something they were destined to do as soon as they picked up the ball for the first time.

Cam likes that part where it sinks in. When they realize they’d truly been drafted to one of the most competitive leagues in the country, when the smiles come quicker than the tears. It’s that strong feeling of pride that keeps her coming back to watch these girls lift their jerseys.

Cam might not know a lot of them. She didn’t know Jackie well, or Phee, or Tearia, or Arike – but she stood and cheered as if they were her own teammates. Whether it was a conscious realization or not, they’d all had the same dreams of playing professional basketball. Draft night was something that just took them one step closer to that goal.

The 2020 draft was streamed online, and there wasn’t anyone from Stanford that had been selected for it that year, but Cam hosted a small, intimate watch party with her teammates.

And the 2021 draft? That one was hers. Her table consisted of her parents, Antoine and Valerie, her older sister Colette, and Coach VanDerveer. Her teammates filled the seats in the back and when Cam was selected first overall to the Dallas Wings, the room had exploded into an applause so raucous that you’d think Cam just scored a game winner.

She doesn’t think she’s an explosive player by any means. She’s calm. Confident. Dangerously consistent, known more for the leadership and poise that she brings to the court. At 6’2, she’s most comfortable in a versatile point-forward role, and while her offense is amazing, her defense is even better. Cam was the unanimous pick for the 2021 Rookie of the Year, so she thinks she might be doing something right.

Cam still went to the drafts. She greeted the new rookies, congratulating them and welcoming them into the league in a far kinder way than the other vets would (she likes to think she was preparing them for all of the Griner screens they’d get hit by). She made a conscious effort to prioritize the Wings rookies, knowing first hand how daunting it can be to go from the college season to suddenly being thrown in with the big dogs. It was less about networking and more about genuinely trying to make the rookies feel like they belonged.

It might be the younger sister in her. She’d spent so much of her life looking up to Coley – literally and figuratively since Coley was both three inches taller than her and somehow the coolest person she knew. She’s always a little bit in awe of everyone she meets.

To Cam, to go from being the one who used to look up to others to now have people looking up to her – that means a lot. It’s a role she takes seriously, even though Arike teases her about becoming the frontman of the unofficial Dallas Wings welcome squad.

Her rookie contract expired at the end of the 2024 season, although the front office had her in discussions for an extension. Cam wasn’t completely sold on returning. With a vacancy in the GM position, the head coach position, as well as the fact that Cam did not know what direction they were going in during the free agency period – okay, Cam might be hating a little too much. Dallas was her home, but things weren’t looking great, and she had offers from Atlanta, Connecticut, Phoenix, and Las Vegas.

Then Dallas won the draft lottery, which meant they’d get the first pick. Which unofficially translated to getting Paige Bueckers, which meant under the right GM, the right coach, and some good free agency moves, the Wings – hypothetically – wouldn’t suck as much. Insert new GM Curt Miller, then head coach Chris Koclanes – Camille honestly could not wrap her head around the fact that Curt passed on Lisa fucking Leslie for a USC assistant coach, but she was willing to give him a shot.

They would draft Paige Bueckers. The new staff promised as much. Through trades, they were getting Ty Harris, NaLyssa Smith, and DiJonai Carrington, and they signed Myisha Hines-Allen out of free agency. Despite a promising offseason period, Cam was sure she had her decision as soon as the lottery results were official. She signs the contract extension – just a one year deal given the new league negotiations – and that’s how she finds herself repping the Wings at the 2025 WNBA Draft.

“Camille Roman, as I live and breathe,” Rickea coos dramatically, and Cam grins as she allows herself to get swept into the interview. “If I had a dollar for every tall, Stanford baddie named Cam I knew, I’d have two dollars, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it’s happened twice, right?”

Cam nods solemnly as Rickea holds the microphone out for her. “Nai would kill me if I didn’t mention it, but for the record, I would like to point out that we are bad and educated,” she says into the mic, making direct eye contact with the camera.

“I know that’s right,” Rickea hums approvingly, before a slick grin appears on her glossed lips. “Emphasis on bad. Tell me about your fit.”

“Well, I just saw Kiki Iriafen walk by, so I’m feeling a little underdressed,” she starts, which makes Rickea laugh. Cam peers down at her outfit, pinching the fabric of her black bomber jacket modestly, pulling the lapels to reveal a simple white crop top. She’s wearing a pair of baggy black cargos that hang low on her hips, revealing toned muscle from hours in the gym. “This fit is a Cam Roman original. Uh, jacket’s from…my closet. Crop top also from my closet.”

“Are the pants also from Cam’s closet?” Rickea asks sarcastically.

Cam grins proudly. “These are actually from Coley’s closet. I stole them when I watched her play the Rise on Thursday – shout out to the Orlando Valkyries, by the way.” Then, with mock sadness, she adds, “In another life I’m a libero.”

“Still no luck convincing your sister to pick up a basketball?”

“Coley is unfortunately married to volleyball,” Cam replies, much to Rickea’s amusement. “I’m working on it, though! I keep trying to tell her that a Roman frontcourt would be nasty but she’s just not seeing the vision.”

“Dozens of WNBA players across the country just breathed a sigh of relief,” Rickea narrates. “Centers, your jobs are safe.”

“For now,” Cam interrupts.

Rickea nods in agreement, an unserious frown on her lips. “For now.” The two of them share a brief laugh before Rickea straightens up, eyeing her next interviewee from her periphery. “Alright, Cam, one last question and I’ll let you get out of here. It’s hard to beat the 2024 draft class–” Cam narrows her eyes at Rickea, who flutters her eyelashes innocently, although the both of them grin, “–but what are your first impressions of the 2025 class? What do you see from them?”

“Oh, energy,” Cam answers immediately, not having to think too hard about it. Rickea nods, listening. “I think this is a class that will surprise many people and will form the core of a lot of teams. Everyone jokes about their first ‘welcome to the league’ moment from a vet but I wouldn’t be surprised to see any of these rookies getting scrappy and giving that energy right back.”

Rickea’s grin is a little mischievous as she asks, “Any rookie in particular who might give you a run for your money?”

Camille smiles innocently, knowing exactly what Rickea means by this question, but she plays coy. “If I do my job right, then the league should be very scared of my rookies.”

Rickea thanks her, giving her a quick hug before she greets Georgia Amoore. Cam wanders around the orange carpet for a brief minute to say hello to some of the other rookies – Saniya Rivers, Hailey van Lith, and even Kiki again, who makes a joke about Stanford baddies that Cam can’t help but laugh at.

Cam doesn’t see the one rookie she’d spent the better part of the night looking for, which doesn’t shock her. She’s sure that Paige is somewhere outside getting hounded by photographers and reporters. Making her way through the room in which the draft is being held, glancing minutely at the crowd assembled and the families located at the center, Cam finds the backstage area set up for rookies to do media in.

Camille greets the workers warmly, accepting a Dallas Wings hat from one of them, and fits it snugly over her head. She gets dragged into a few media segments, answering more or less different variations of the same questions – What are you most excited for this upcoming season? Can you comment on the offseason trades? She even gets asked a less than subtle, Paige Bueckers is projected to be the number one pick tonight. What elements of her game set her apart from the rest of her peers? Cam answers that one with a response she’s sure she hand-selected from the Communication 101: Mastering the Art of Dodging the Question textbook, but everyone moves on when the draft officially starts.

Cam watches from a television set up in the back. The camera pans across a few of the draftees – Paige Bueckers herself, then Dominique Malonga, then further back to the audience where the entirety of the UConn women’s basketball team sits with their phones raised and wide grins on their faces. The sight makes Cam crack a smile, too, reminding her of her own draft where her Stanford teammates filled the audience to support her.

The commissioner, Cathy Engelbert, leaves the stage to await the Wings’ first pick, which amuses Cam because she knew they knew who they were drafting as soon as the draft lottery results were announced. While she waits, her phone buzzes, distracting her from the analysts’ commentary, and she glances down to find the team group chat alive with commotion.

Rike: Thank you God!!! 🙏🙏🙏

Maddy: Arike 😭

Nai: where’s the rookie welcome party

Already knowing that DiJonai is referring to her, Cam rolls her eyes, but angles her body towards the television to snap a quick selfie of her, Wings hat pulled low over her brow and the analysts discussing Paige’s game mechanics in great detail. She sends the selfie in chat, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Cam: I can’t wait for us to draft 2025 Rookie of the Year Sonia Citron

Lyss: girl

Lyss: be so fucking for real

Nai: oh i am so sick of ur ass

Cam grins to herself, not having the time to respond back. She slides her phone into her pocket and refocuses on the television screen as the commissioner returns to the podium. A hush falls over the crowd. Cam knows who they’re drafting. Cam knows that she knows she’s being drafted. Despite that, she can’t help but feel a flicker of nerves coiling low in her belly.

Draft night is always a monumental moment. One rookie can change the future of a franchise forever. Just a few syllables spoken into a microphone and a jersey held up for the entire world to see can change a rookie’s life in seconds.

Cam is anxious – it’s a simmering, bubbling excitement that makes her want to hit the gym as soon as the last pick is called. The idea of playing with such an elite player — the idea of playing with Paige — makes her almost giddy, and Cam knows that she isn’t the only one on the Wings who thinks that.

They’d never had much of an opportunity to meet outside of the rare occasion in which Paige showed up to a WNBA game, or the summer she showed up to All-Star weekend. Cam was drafted the spring before Paige’s sophomore year so they’d just barely missed each other collegiately.

But now, Paige is about to be drafted by Cam’s team. Cam isn’t stupid. She knows Paige is a once in a lifetime generational player. She’d go as far to say that she’s their missing piece. Between Paige, Arike, Cam, NaLyssa or DiJonai or Maddy, and Myisha or Teaira or Luisa, they compose a roster that, under the right leadership, could genuinely go so far. And as much as Cam wants to win, she would love to do it with these girls right here.

Cam isn’t anxious just because she can taste the beginning of something new. Something promising – something that might turn this franchise around for the better. The anxiety reminds her of how she’d felt when she was moments away from being called number one, too; when the Wings had thought she was their franchise piece. And, sure, they had some success under her, but there was always just something missing.

Cam was a leader. She was the glue, but as good as she was at keeping things together, she could only stretch so far. She was consistent – maybe devastatingly so.

The thing about entropy is that chaos has to increase or remain consistent. The thing about Camille is that she’s not chaos. The thing about Paige Bueckers is that Cam knows she’s probably the perfect amount of chaos that will simultaneously set the league ablaze, stabilize it all at once, and make things just dangerous enough to fill their mouths with the addicting taste of adrenaline.

That is terrifying because the one emotion that burns a little brighter than the anxiousness is a fierce protectiveness. Paige is made for this, for the league, for the noise, for everything. She’s grounded in her faith and her mentality. She’s probably the most league-ready rookie in the entire draft class and that’s what makes Cam so fearful – because Cam was once hailed as the most-league ready rookie, too, and trying to pretend that she was almost killed her. Cam has lived it. Learned it. Grew from it. And as much as she knows that Paige is capable and can handle herself, Cam also knows that the stakes are so much higher now.

She’s not a stranger to it – the feeling of everyone constantly wanting more from you. Praising you when you have amazing games, downplaying your talent when you have decent games (yet uplifting other players and calling them generational for putting up the same numbers), wondering if your team had scouted wrong or made a mistake when you have an off-game.

In the league, it’s difficult to discern what is real – or who is real – when everyone wants something a little different from you, if you’re truly trusting the right people, if you’re truly trusting yourself.

Cam doesn’t want Paige to get lost in that. Not in the way she had when she was a rookie. She doesn’t fully believe that she’s ready for this narrative because no one ever is. There’s no amount of prayer, or media training, or support that ever truly makes you ready for it.

Being on top of the world is complicated because it’s so easy to forget who you used to be before you clawed your way to the peak. Before your fingers bled and scabbed over from the calloused rocks. Before every bone in your body ached, not because of the constant exertion it takes to stay up here, but because of a sort of exhaustion that calcifies in between your tendons and ligaments and buries itself in the soft tissue between your joints.

Being great is hard. Being great and being true is even harder, and all Cam ever wanted was for someone to tell her that she didn��t have to dive into the deep end just to prove that she could swim.

So when Cathy finally says the words, “With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select…Paige Bueckers, University of Connecticut,” there is only one thing that Cam knows for sure:

This season is going to change her life. That thought doesn’t scare her as much as it should.

In retrospect, maybe that thought should have scared her.

Cam likes to think of herself as sensible. Level-headed. She’s always the voice of reason on the court when one of her teammates gets a little too heated trying to argue a foul call with a ref. Cam enjoys a good time, but she’s not reckless. She knows better. Her parents were both Olympians – she had eyes on her long before she picked up a basketball and the attention only grew when both she and Coley started getting recognized for their proficiency at their respective sports.

That’s all to say she was responsible. She knew how to play the game, how to divert the media, and what she reasonably should not be doing so she didn’t draw any unnecessary attention to her or her family.

Now, she’s realizing there might be some flaw in her otherwise immaculate decision making, because everything just goes downhill after the draft.

Paige Bueckers, the rookie of the hour, makes her way backstage, Wings hat tucked pristinely over her head. Cam can’t help but soften at the sight, unmistakable pride swelling in her chest – Paige’s smile is tender, a little loose, but her eyes are wide and excited. She almost looks like a kid on a sugar rush and it’s an expression that Cam knows well. It’s that expression that makes flying out to the draft every year so worth it.

Cam takes in Paige’s draft fit with a raised brow. She’s wearing an all black suit that sparkles in the light, and she bites back a smile at the exposed skin at her chest. “Number one pick in the draft and you can’t afford a shirt?” she asks teasingly.

Paige huffs, sounding more like a breathless laugh, and her eyes sparkle. “NIL ain’t what it used to be,” she jokes.

Cam laughs, too, holding her arms out, and Paige wraps her up in a hug. “Welcome to the Wings, rook,” she says softly, meaning every word, and she feels Paige’s entire body relax. When they break apart, Cam stuffs her hands in her pockets, bouncing on her heels, and Paige stares at her with something that might be an overwhelmed wonder. “Just so you know, I’ve been working on my rookie hazing rituals. Maddy said the tar and feathers were a hard no, but we all agreed that the first round of drinks are on you.”

“Oh, so I was just drafted for my Amex, huh?” Paige says unseriously.

“Sorry you had to find out this way,” Cam responds, feigning sadness and trying not to grin. “I don’t know if we’ll have room for you on the roster, but maybe you could put those TikTok dances to good use and figure something out for halftime.” Paige stares at her unbelievingly before eventually, the corner of Cam’s lips twitch from the effort of keeping her face neutral.

The blonde’s expression melts, her shoulders relaxing with something like relief – like the Wings aren’t so unfamiliar after all. They’re already bantering like they’ve been friends for years. Paige is one of those basketball players that has a good working relationship with everyone, but the fact that friendship can come so quickly undoubtedly makes this transition easier for her.

“You’re not gonna take it easy on me, are you?” Paige asks, amused.

Cam gives her a gentle nudge with her elbow, her smile softening. “C’mon,” she says knowingly. “You’re a Husky. Something tells me you wouldn’t like easy, anyways.”

Something in Paige’s expression flickers, almost as though she hadn’t been expecting that response, almost as though she’s seeing Cam in a different light now. “I wouldn’t,” she agrees. Her tone is a little quieter, but her eyes still sparkle with that post-draft high, an excitement that doesn’t quite go away.

It’s at that moment that one of the media coordinators waves Paige over, wanting to run a couple segments and get some shots and interviews for the league page. Before the blonde can go, Cam rests a tentative hand over her wrist, stopping her, and when they meet eyes again, it’s like she loses all of her confidence.

She clears her throat, trying to find the words. She has a million statements at the tip of her tongue, but the one that comes out is, “I’m happy you’re here.”

Fuck. Even though Paige’s cheeks flush and her smile turns tender, Cam winces and sighs, because that was not supposed to be her opening line. “We all are,” she’s quick to correct. “You’re not gonna find a better group of girls anywhere else in the league. We’ve got your back, always. And…I know that you’re capable. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But trust me when I say this transition can be difficult.” Cam bounces on her heels again, a nervous smile lighting up her face, her voice softening. “Just…don’t hesitate to reach out. Or ask for help. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all me.”

The both of them are silent for a moment. Paige studies her carefully, as if searching her features for something. Cam isn’t sure what she’s looking for, but she hopes her rookie can see the earnestness, the assurance that no matter what, she’s ten toes down behind her.

Then, Paige’s smile grows, unrestrained if not a little bashful. “Thanks, Camille,” she says, the use of her full name causing a matching smile of Cam’s own to appear on her face. “I really appreciate that.”

Simply, she nods, extending her arms again, and she and Paige fall into one last hug. The media coordinators are getting impatient now. They break away quickly and Paige starts to follow one of them further backstage, but she spins on her heel, a palm reaching up to stabilize the lapels of her blazer as she calls out to Cam. “Nike’s throwing an after party for me later,” she says. “You should come by. First round’s on me, right?”

Huffing in amusement, Cam stuffs her hands in her pockets again if only to give them something to do. She cocks her head a little, thinking it over – she has an early flight back to Dallas in the morning to speak at UTA, then she has an afternoon workout with a trainer. She knew she would be a problem if she stayed up too late partying, but when she takes in Paige’s expression, the slight confidence mixed with a strong look of hope, she finds that she’d never truly had a backbone to begin with.

“I’ll see you there, rook,” she confirms, trying not to feel too proud of herself when Paige’s grin brightens. Finally, she disappears around the corner, and Cam exhales sharply as she redirects her attention back to the TV.

Cathy’s just now returning with the selection from Seattle, stepping up to the microphone again, but all Cam can think about is her rookie. Paige had said that Cam wasn’t going to make it easy for her. Part of Cam wonders if Paige was aware of the fact that Paige wasn’t going to make it easy for Cam, either. All it took was one look, one hopefully asked question for Cam to change her plans entirely.

The scary part? Cam wasn’t even sure if she minded all too much.

The subsequent afterparty smells like spilled liquor, the heady undertone of weed, and the musk of sweat. Cam has to dodge a few dancing bodies when she finally walks in, tucking her jacket closer to herself so as to not soak in any of the sloshing alcohol, and she presses herself up to the tips of her toes to try to look for the woman of the hour. The lighting is dim, strobe lights flashing, and the music courses through every inch of her veins. She’s confident that she’ll wake up tomorrow morning with the sound of the bass still reverberating through her ears.

People in various stages of inebriation are packed tightly together, which makes it difficult for Cam to squeeze her way to the front, but she manages to make it through the most contested sections. When she reaches the front of the room, she finds Paige at the center of a large circle, holding a huge tray of shots in her hand, and she has a grin on her lips as she passes them out.

Her wings cap is tucked over her head – some things never change, Cam thinks – although she’s redressed in an oversized, white button down and sparkling gray dress pants. Cam looks her up and down, figuring out pretty quickly that the ensemble is a full Nike get up, which makes sense considering the sponsor of her afterparty.

Paige catches sight of her, her grin widening, and the circle of people surrounding her join in on cheering for Cam as she’s gently pulled to the middle, towards Paige. Cam flushes under the attention and rolls her eyes – although she’s secretly pleased by the reception. “You made it!” Paige calls over the bass, offering her a shot glass. Her expression is soft, not wanting to make an assumption about whether or not Cam drinks, but she accepts the shot glass anyways, clinking it against Paige’s with a teasing smile.

“Not sure if it beats staying in and binging whatever’s on the hotel TV, but I figured I should make sure my rookie doesn’t get too plastered,” Cam jokes.

“Your rookie, huh?” Paige hums, eyes wide and mischievous. “Didn’t know I was already claimed like that.”

“You need someone responsible,” Cam retorts. “Rike and Lyss are bad influences. Nai would dress you up like a Labubu.”

Paige laughs, and she and Cam throw back their first shot of the night – well, Cam can’t be too sure if it’s Paige’s first, but that’s neither here nor there. Paige takes her empty glass, sets it on the tray, then wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her flush against her body. Yeah, Cam thinks, definitely not Paige’s first shot, but she’s smiling in amusement as Paige calls for the attention of their little circle.

“Everyone, this is Camille,” she states. Then, glancing once at Cam, the hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “My vet. Her drinks are on me, aight? No funny shit.”

“I think the drinks are on Nike–” someone attempts to say, but Paige raises her hand, cutting them off, and everyone around them laughs.

“Drinks on me,” Paige says again, just so there’s no confusion. She squeezes Cam’s shoulder as everyone dissipates. Her hand drops to the small of her back, guiding her through the room to the bar. “What you drinkin’?”

“Surprise me,” Cam responds. “I trust you. No whiskey or I’m gonna make your ass run suicides at camp.”

Paige grins, something like you think so little of me. She calls the bartender over and orders two Dirty Shirleys. Cam huffs under her breath, amused, and Paige nudges her with her elbow. “What happened to allat trust?”

Cam raises her hands in surrender. “No judgement here. I just respect the fact that you can stare a bartender in the eye and ask for juice.”

“Wow,” Paige drawls. “I see how it is. You buy a girl a drink and this is how she repays you.”

“You bought me a Capri Sun.”

Paige sniffs dramatically. “I always imagined I’d get my welcome to the league moment by running face first into an Alyssa Thomas screen. Never thought it’d come from being bullied by my own teammate.”

Cam laughs as the bartender slides their drinks over. “Are you always this much of a drama queen?” she asks playfully, tapping the sides of their glasses together.

Paige takes a long sip before she responds, her eyes slipping shut like this is the best thing she’s ever tasted. A smirk appears on her face as she says, with a shrug of her shoulder, “If the crown fits.”

Cam rolls her eyes, taking a tentative sip of her drink, too. And – okay. Maybe Paige was onto something, because it’s not that bad. Cam’s never been one for strong drinks, more of a lightweight than anything else. But these? They’re dangerous. Cam could easily see herself downing five of them without thinking about the alcohol content.

“Good, right?” Paige asks, not even bothering to hide her knowing grin.

“I don’t think you should worry about getting hit by an AT screen,” Cam states, which causes Paige’s brows to raise, unsure of where she’s going with that. “That big ass head of yours would just cushion the fall.”

Paige gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like Cam’s words have genuinely wounded her. “I’mma let that slide, Cam, just ‘cause I know you like me. I’m growing on you–”

“–like a fungus–”

“– and I’m your rookie,” she finishes. Cam can’t help but smile at that. “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me?”

Cam tilts her hat backwards, and Paige swats her hand away as it messes up her hair. “I’m toughening you up for the real world,” she teases. “Veteran duty.”

Paige raises a lazy brow, something reminiscent of a challenge in her eyes. “So this is business?”

“Isn’t it always?” Cam retorts.

A slow smile spreads across Paige’s lips. “Aight.” Paige has a determined look in her eyes, one that Cam’s not quite sure she’s familiar with. But she doesn’t have the time to question it before Paige’s hand finds the small of her back again, leading her through a crowd that parts easily for the both of them. “First song of the night’s all yours. Figure it out, then we’re dancing.”

“Bossy,” Cam mutters under her breath, not expecting Paige to catch it, but she does.

“I know what I want.”

Cam huffs, biting back a laugh. She leans in closer to the DJ, yelling over the music already playing, and he flashes her a sharp grin as he works on transitioning into the next song. She lets Paige guide her back towards the dance floor, but when the opening lines of “pushing P” reverberate throughout the room, the blonde turns to her with an amused look on her face.

“You think you’re funny?” Paige asks, but her smile is loose, welcoming Cam into her space. Her eyes are dark under the lighting in the room and the low brim of her hat. “Or you tryna tell me somethin’?”

“Can’t tell you anything if you keep running your mouth, right?” Cam says.

Paige only nods, taking another sip from her drink, and the look in her eye makes Cam think that she’s just started something that she’s not sure how to finish. Between the atmosphere in the room, the taste of the drink on her lips, and the way Paige is embracing the party, Cam doesn’t think that she does want to finish it.

It’s easy to get lost in the music, in the heady scent of adrenaline, liquor, and victory in the air, in the way Paige leaves just enough space in between their bodies to make it look like she doesn’t want this. But Cam knows. It should be enough to make her back away, to make her remember that she’s the veteran and Paige just got drafted to her team less than three hours ago.

Cam has spent so long restraining herself, trying to be perfect in so many senses of the word. The perfect daughter, the perfect teammate, someone who maintains order instead of welcoming chaos. That lifestyle was safe. Comfortable. Secure. Stale. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a party. Nothing wrong with celebrating a rookie who’s worked so hard to even be here in the first place.

For the first night in a long, long time, Camille isn’t really thinking, certainly not about things like the consequences of her own actions. She’s thinking about how much fun she’s having, even if it means accidentally monopolizing Paige’s attention. She’s thinking about how good her drink tastes, and when she goes back for her fourth of the night, she orders a second one, too, bringing it back to Paige, who’s sporting a pretty flush under the dim lighting in the room. She’s thinking about how promising this next season is, about the fact that they could genuinely go so far.

One dance turns into multiple. The drinks are flowing, the vibes are high, and she can feel the music in her veins. She can feel Paige’s eyes on her when she gets overheated, shrugging out of her bomber jacket.

Cam is loose, the liquor flowing pleasantly through her body, and when the night begins to wind down and Paige’s hand is settling over her back again, murmuring something about heading back to her room, Cam agrees – because why wouldn’t she? She’s warm all over, not from the alcohol, and she’s drunk and giggly when she slips her hand into Paige’s, their thighs pressed tightly together in the Uber.

It feels good – that’s really all she’s thinking about right now. And when Paige leads her into her room, her palm burning hot over her waist, Cam lets her pull her in, her lips dragging across her skin.

Things like consequences or repercussions are a tomorrow morning thing. Right now – all Cam is concerned about is whether or not her rookie is as good with her mouth as she is at running it.

Cam wakes to her alarm. She doesn’t need to see the time to know it’s freakishly early in the morning. She can feel it in her bones, in the way the exhaustion sticks to her like glue, the way she feels as though she’s only had her eyes closed for twenty minutes rather than the full eight hours of sleep she’s accustomed to. Her hand reaches out to where she’s sure her nightstand is, but she meets air. She fumbles through the sheets, sure that her phone is simply lost somewhere, but she comes up empty, there, too.

It’s not until she registers the warmth of a body against hers that she realizes how badly she’s just fucked up.

Paige Bueckers, eyes shut peacefully, flush on her neck, arm slung lazily across Cam’s bare waist – bare waist! – groans into her shoulder. “Turn it off,” she grumbles, breath fanning across skin. Cam freezes, feeling her heart begin to race and her mind spin.

She’s so overstimulated that she could probably scream. Paige’s legs are tangled with hers, the warmth of body lulling her into a sense of peace, but anxiety swirls in her gut and her alarm is still fucking ringing.

“Fuck,” she whimpers out loud, pushing both of her palms to her eyes.

This was not how the draft was supposed to go. She was supposed to be there to say hello to Paige and Aziaha and Madison and JJ. She was going to do some media segments, solidify her title as the Rookie Welcome Officer, and then she was going to take her ass back to her hotel room, take a hot shower and unwind.

Camille was not supposed to get herself invited to Paige’s afterparty, let alone go to it in the first place. She wasn’t supposed to take shots with her, drink with her, dance with her (although as the previous night’s memories come back to her, she’s certain there was some dancing on her – okay, yeah, not the time or the place to get caught up in that).

Most importantly, Camille wasn’t supposed to fall into bed with her either. That’s kind of the reason why alarm bells are ringing in her brain, and it has nothing to do with the 5am alarm she’d actually set on her phone so she can catch a flight.

She just slept with Paige Bueckers. Number one overall draft pick, twenty-three year old rookie to Cam’s twenty-six year old senior, Paige Bueckers. The Wings’ newest starting point guard. Her rookie, who she’d claimed the moment Cathy Engelbert spoke her name into the microphone. Cam was supposed to mentor her, guide her, help her adjust to professional life so soon after the end of her college season. Camille was not supposed to let her stick her hand down her pants.

She’s so unbelievably fucked. Sure, she resigned, but she could still get waived. This could have detrimental effects on the locker room. Detrimental effects on whatever beginnings of a friendship that she and Paige were supposed to be forming in the middle of sticking their tongues down each other’s throat. Cam was so excited for the beginning of the season, but now, all she can think about is the fact that she’s probably ruined it before Paige even put her jersey on for the first time.

Paige murmurs something under her breath again. Cam, already in full panic mode, pushes the blonde off of her, sending her sprawling onto the other side of the bed as she rises to her feet. “The fuck?” Paige mutters, undoubtedly bothered as she fights for consciousness.

Cam has to fight a wave of vertigo as she scans the floor for her pants, where her alarm is still ringing. Finally locating them, she rips her phone out of her pocket and silences her phone. Slowly, she turns back to the bed, where Paige is staring at her with wide eyes, the blanket pulled up to her chest. “Oh,” she whispers, some sort of clarity returning to her expression.

Oh is right. Because both she and Paige just did something that Cam isn’t entirely sure they can come back from, and they have no one to blame but themselves.

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lupinqs · 7 days ago

Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ━━ Unsteady

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 3.8K

❀ ━ warnings: hella angst

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: this was actually gonna be a much longer chapter but i decided to split it so i think there's gonna be two more left unless i fit everything into the next one

IT'S LATE IN DALLAS, and everything feels heavy with anticipation—the Final Four is tomorrow. They're playing LSU, Angel Reese and company, and the hotel corridors are hushed except for the carpet underfoot and the faint hum of air conditioning. They should be in bed, resting. They should be tucked in with their minds on recovery and game plans and the weight of a million expectations.

Instead, Jo and Paige have slipped out into a secluded hallway, hidden from prying eyes. They left their respective hotel rooms a little bit ago for ice cream—just a scoop each from the lobby bar, cold sweetness to try to settle the nerves before bed.

Jo's back is pressed up against the wall, Paige pressed up against her. Her hands are resting low on Jo's hips, her mouth pressing lingering kisses to Jo's neck. Jo's chest tightens with warmth and buzz—the kind you get when someone is both your safe place and the spark that sets the whole thing aflame.

Jo giggles, a little breathless. "We really should go to bed now."

Paige groans like a teenager told to get up for school. "I know," she mutters, but it's muffled because she's already kissing Jo again, slow and insistent. Her hands slip under the hem of Jo's sweatshirt like muscle memory.

Jo's smiling even as their mouths press together. She really tries to keep a serious face, she does, but Paige always knows how to ruin that—how to unravel her. "Seriously, P," she says against her lips, hands finding Paige's t-shirt and tugging gently.

"Yeah, yeah," Paige mumbles, finally pulling back with a sigh. But she's grinning, too, and it makes Jo's chest go warm and soft. Paige's hands lift to her face now, thumbs brushing under Jo's jaw, cupping her cheeks so gently it's almost like she believes Jo might break if she doesn't. She leans in for one more kiss, quick and sweet, and then leans her forehead against Jo's.

They just look at each other, eyes tracing faces. They don't really need words sometimes. They've always been like that, even before this—before they were kissing in hidden hallways and sneaking out for ice cream far too late at night before Final Four games. But then Paige breaks the silence, her voice low and sincere.

"You ready for tomorrow?" she asks.

Jo nods slowly, her fingers curling in the hem of Paige's t-shirt. "Yeah," she replies. And she means it. She's had since Monday night, when they beat Virginia Tech, to prepare for this. The nerves are there, of course, but she's been dealing with them, and she's ready to use them.

The pair just stand there for another moment, soaking each other in, and Jo watches that look filter into Paige's eyes. That soft, glimmery blue glint that usually comes when she's about to say something important. Jo knows her well by now. She braces herself.

"I just—" Paige starts, voice hushed. "I want you to know how proud I am of you, Joey. Really."

Jo swallows hard, blinking. She wasn't expecting that right now. Still, she pulls Paige in a little closer, so that their chests are pressed together too.

Paige takes a breath like she's building up to something else. "And I want you to know something else."

Jo's heart flutters once—just once—and she knows. Her whole body knows what Paige is about to say. It's been hanging there between them for weeks now, maybe longer. All those soft glances. All those nights in the same bed. All the things they don't say because the season has to come first.

Paige opens her mouth again. "I want you to know that I'm in—"

Jo lifts a finger and presses it gently to Paige's lips. "Wait," she interrupts, voice barely above a whisper. Her heart's pounding now, but she's still smiling. "Tell me after the game."

Paige blinks, and Jo watches her process it. For a second, Jo thinks maybe she's disappointed, but then Paige's face breaks into that gummy grin she always gets when she's pretending not to be soft. "Yeah?" she asks.

Jo nods, her cheeks heating slightly. "Yeah."

And just like that, it's understood. No pressure. Not tonight. Not with the biggest game of their season ahead of them. But the promise is still there, waiting for the buzzer to sound—no matter the outcome.

Paige shakes her head a little, still smiling, and loops an arm around Jo's shoulders, steering them back toward the elevator. "Let's go to bed."

The ride up is quiet, the good kind. Jo leans into Paige's side, lets herself rest there for a minute, like she's charging up for tomorrow. Paige taps her fingertips against Jo's lower back once, then leaves her hand there. She always finds some way to touch her.

When they get to their floor, they step out together and walk down the hallway. It's dim, the only light coming from the red glow of exit signs and wall sconces. Jo stops in front of the room she shares with Caroline, pulling her keycard out of her sweatshirt pocket. Paige stops beside her, not moving toward her own room down the hall just yet.

Jo hesitates.

And then, without thinking much about it, she reaches for the necklace around her own neck—the one meant to be hers, that Paige wears more often than not. The good-luck charm intended to slow nerves, calm jaws, steady breaths. Jo's fingers close around it. She unclasps it, careful, and then slips it around Paige's neck. Her fingers brush Paige's skin, and it's still warm from the hallway earlier.

"For tomorrow," she murmurs.

Paige grins down at her, and Jo can feel it. She doesn't need to look up to know how Paige's whole face lights up when she smiles. "Goodnight," Paige says softly.

Jo smiles back. "Night."

They kiss again, soft and slow, before Jo slips her key card in and opens the door.

Paige turns and starts walking down the hallway—but instead of taking a right to her room, she heads left. Jo watches, puzzled for a moment, but even as the corridor stretches, Paige doesn't look back. There's something resolute in the way she walks away, quiet confidence in her steps. There always is.

Jo closes the door behind her, ready for tomorrow.

TURNS OUT, maybe she wasn't ready for today.

The morning is stressful and rushed, despite the fact that their game against LSU isn't until the evening. It's the Final Four, which means everything is heightened—security, schedules, media obligations, nerves. There's a vibrating pressure humming under Jo's skin, vibrating through her like low-level static. She's used to it by now.

Still, the energy in the hotel room is chaotic. She and Caroline are moving around each other in this awkward half-dance, trying to get ready and pack what they'll need for the long day ahead. Jo's braiding her hair back in the bathroom mirror, the sound of zippers and rustling clothes behind her. Her fingers are quick, practiced, but her mind's already racing forward—to shootaround, to the press gauntlet, to what it's going to feel like stepping onto the court under those lights with everything on the line.

Caroline zips up her backpack with a little sigh, and comes up behind Jo, checking her reflection over Jo's shoulder. "Do you want me to stay here and wait or just go down?" she asks, already slinging the strap of her bag over one shoulder. Downstairs is team breakfast.

Jo's got a bobby pin between her teeth. She waves her hand vaguely. "Go on, I won't be long."

Caroline nods, tapping Jo's butt teasingly before leaving the room, the door shutting behind her.

Jo finishes the second braids and starts to pin the flyaways, zoning out a little. She's finally found her rhythm again after being so sick last week—like she's back in her body, back in her breath.

Then comes the knock.

It's quick, firm, and unexpected. Not a Paige knock. Not a Caroline knock either.

"One sec!" Jo calls, dropping the last pin into place and stepping out of the bathroom. She pads to the door in her socks, warm-up hoodie and sweatpants. She opens it without thinking.

She freezes.

It's Celeste.

Jo blinks, surprised. The redhead stands in the hallway like she's debating turning around and walking away. She's dressed for the day—UConn apparel, her ID lanyard already around her neck—but her expression is completely out of place. Her face is tight, eyes red-rimmed like she's either been crying or is about to. Her nose is a little raw like she's been wiping it. She looks... vulnerable, which is not a word Jo has ever once associated with Celeste Sinclair.

"Oh—hi," Jo says slowly, sounding just as surprised as she feels.

Celeste swallows, blinking hard. "Hi, Jo," she replies, voice cracking already.

Jo's still holding the door. Her fingers tighten slightly against it. "Are... you okay?" she asks unsurely.

Celeste swipes a knuckle under her nose and tries for a smile, but it's a little warped at the edges. "Um. I'm fine. I just—God, Jo, I'm really fucking sorry."

That makes Jo's stomach drop, body stilling. She stares at the redhead, eyebrows pulling together, heart immediately ramping up. She doesn't even know what Celeste is apologizing for yet and still, her mind begins to work a little faster. She has no idea what this is about.

"For what?" she asks, cautious. She shifts her weight slightly, bracing herself without even realizing it. Something about this feels like it's bad. Her hand grips the edge of the door even tighter, like maybe it'll keep her steady.

Celeste sniffles and shakes her head like she can't even believe she's here. She's not looking at Jo—it seems more like she can't. Her voice is low and uncertain. "I don't even—I don't even know how to say it."

Jo doesn't reply, she just waits. Her throat's gone a little dry. Her whole body is tense now, like she's caught in that moment right before a game tips off, not sure which direction it's gonna go.

"Do you mind if I come in for a second?" Celeste asks, voice small.

Jo hesitates.

It's not an easy ask. Not with their history. Not with how weird things have been since Celeste walked in on her and Paige making out in the locker room. But, in the last week, she's been polite. Nice, even. Genuine since the Elite Eight. And, right now, she looks like she might fall apart in the hallway.

And Jo, at her very core, is kind. She always has been. Especially when someone looks like they need it.

She nods, slowly. Wordless. Just steps back and opens the door a little wider, letting Celeste walk in.

Jo closes the door behind her, heartbeat echoing in her ears. Her hands are tucked into the sleeves of her warm-up jacket as she watches Celeste, trying to make sense of whatever the redhead seems to be bringing in with her.

Jo clears her throat. "What's going on?"

Celeste's eyes are glassy when she looks up. Her mouth opens, closes, like she's sorting through her words. And then—without saying anything—she reaches into her pocket and pulls out something shiny.

Jo tilts her head, furrowing her brows.

Celeste steps forward and places it into Jo's hand.

The moment Jo feels the weight of it, the chain sliding into her palm, her stomach drops.

Her heart stops dead.

It's her necklace.

The silver clover charm with the word steady etched into one leaf. The necklace Paige gave her for Christmas. The same one Jo had clipped around Paige's neck just last night, standing in the hotel hallway, right after they kissed goodnight and right before Paige walked the wrong direction down the hall.

Jo stares at it, frozen. Her pulse picks up. She closes her fingers slowly around the charm and lifts her eyes to meet Celeste's.

Her voice comes out clipped. "Where did you get this?"

Celeste looks down, like she's guilty of something, then back at her. "She gave it to me."

Jo's throat tightens, constricting.

"She gave it to you?" she repeats, a little louder this time, but somehow her voice is still small. The necklace feels heavier than it should in her palm. There's a pressure in her brain that starts to build.

Celeste nods. "Let me explain."

Jo doesn't say anything. She waits. She doesn't know if she's giving Celeste permission or just doesn't have the energy to argue. Her head is spinning. Her fingers tighten around the necklace as Celeste continues.

"She came to my room last night. Around maybe 12:30," Celeste says slowly, shaking her head. "I was confused. I mean, she made it clear to me that she didn't want anything to do with me outside of media obligations. And I was a little... immature about it, yeah, but I got over it. I accepted that she didn't want me."

Jo still doesn't say anything. Her jaw is clenched now, aching. The time Celeste said—12:30. That's right when they said goodnight.

"But then she showed up," Celeste goes on. "Told me you two had broken things off. That it was mutual. That you guys had just been friends who were... fucking. And that you decided to stop for the good of the team."

Jo doesn't want to believe her. Not in the slightest. But she starts to feel something in her chest pull. Like a fraying rope, one thread at a time. She doesn't react outwardly. Her face stays still. Blank. But she's not sure how long she can keep it like that.

Celeste pauses, probably expecting her to say something. Jo doesn't. So, she continues.

"She told me she was sorry. For how she treated me. That she wanted to make it up to me." Celeste's voice gets quieter. "And I was stupid. I fell for it. I don't know why. I mean—it's Paige. There's just... something about her. I'm sure you understand."

Jo does. There's something magnetic about Paige, that draws people in.

"She gave me that necklace," Celeste says, nodding toward Jo's fist. "Said the word 'steady' was about us. That she finally wanted us to be steady. I slept with her. I'm not proud of it."

Jo looks away for the first time, eyes burning. She bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. The silence in the room stretches thin and taut.

Celeste's voice breaks a little. "This morning, I saw her texts with you. I saw how she talked to you. How recent the messages were. I realized she lied to me. And, clearly, she never ended things with you." Her words start to come quicker now, anger seeping into her tone. "And then, as I was thinking about things, I realized that the necklace looked familiar. And I remembered why. I've seen you both wearing it, multiple times. It shouldn't have been just—given to me like that."

Jo stares at the girl for a long moment. Her vision starts to blur slightly. She blinks hard.

The necklace digs into her skin. Still, she doesn't let go.

"How do I know I can believe you?" she asks quietly. It's a genuine question—Celeste could have many reasons to lie about this, to try to break apart what Jo and Paige have.

The redhead's voice is soft but firm. "You don't have to. I just... I don't know what other reason I would have that necklace if she hadn't given it to me. You wear it all the time. She wears it when you're not. That's not something she would let me just take. And I know I was a bit of a bitch after I found out about you two, but I don't actually care enough to lie about something like this."

Jo's mind is racing.

She's remembering last night, clearly now—Paige going left down the hallway when her room is to the right. Jo hadn't thought anything of it. Not really. She figured maybe she forgot something, maybe she wanted to talk to Azzi or Nika or just needed a walk.

But the media team is staying to the left. And Celeste said Paige showed up around 12:30. Jo remembers looking at her phone when she got into bed and plugged it in—it was 12:32. That lines up too perfectly.

And the fucking necklace. They don't just... hand it over to anyone. It's a them thing. It's sacred. Intimate. She can't imagine Paige just—giving it away. Using that word and saying it was for someone else.

Unless she meant it. Unless she's not who Jo thought she was.

Jo feels something twist in her chest—betrayal, maybe. Embarrassment. Rage. Hurt.

Maybe all of it at once.

She swallows thickly. "Thank you for telling me," she says. Her voice doesn't sound like hers.

Celeste nods, eyes glassy. "I'm really sorry, Jo. You're sweet. You're good. You deserve better than her."

Jo can't even respond to that. She just stares at the floor, breath shallow. She thinks if she says anything else, her voice will break.

Celeste gives her one last look, full of something like pity, and then turns, walking to the door. She opens it, steps into the hallway.

She pauses only to say, "I hope you kill it tonight," before gently closing the door behind her.

The moment it shuts, Jo sinks to the floor slowly, like her bones have stopped working. She doesn't even register that she's sitting—her legs just fold, her back finds the wall, and she's there, on the carpet of the hotel room, the necklace still balled tight in her hand. She's staring at nothing. Her heartbeat is loud and dull in her ears, a thick thudding that doesn't slow down even though she's not moving anymore.

The room is too quiet. The kind that makes everything inside her louder.

It takes a minute for her to actually look at the necklace. When she finally opens her fingers, the chain spills into her palm like it's alive, like it knows.

That little clover charm—steady. The word meant to help Jo stay grounded when she got too anxious. A couple weeks ago, Paige gave it another meaning—said something about how Jo was the only thing in her life that ever made sense when everything else didn't.

Now it's just a sick fucking joke.

Her chest caves. Her throat pulls tight. She blinks once, and then her eyes blur again. And this time, she doesn't stop the tears.

She starts crying—quiet at first. No noise. Just hot tears sliding down fast and heavy, her jaw clenching like that'll somehow stop her from crumbling entirely. But then her breath shudders, breaks, and it's over. It's not quiet anymore.

A sob slips out. Her first clenches the necklace again and she brings her hands up to her face, tries to hide from the reality of it—like if she just presses her palms hard enough against her eyes, the day will reverse and she'll be back in that hallway, grinning with Paige, still believing this was something good.

But it won't.

Because Paige chose that.

She chose to go to Celeste's room. After everything. After that almost-confession. After the goddamn necklace exchange. After Jo told her to wait—tell me after the game. Not never. Just after.

Jo had meant it. She'd been ready. She wasn't just in this for fun or the sneaking around. She wasn't scared anymore. Paige made her not scared.

Or maybe—maybe Paige just made her stupid.

God. She's so fucking stupid.

She hiccups into her hands and pulls her knees to her chest like she's trying to make herself disappear. The necklace dangles from her fingers now, cold and sharp when it brushes against her arm.

The worst part is that she really believed this was different.

She should've known better.

She thought they were building something solid. Something that wasn't just physical or fleeting. She thought this—whatever it was—had roots. Deep ones. Real ones.

She remembers last night too clearly. Paige laughing against her mouth, fingers curled at Jo's waist. The way she'd looked at her in that quiet moment after the kiss, like Jo hung the stars. That shiny-eyed kind of softness Paige got when she wasn't teasing. When she was just… herself. When she’d said, I just—I want you to know how proud I am of you, Joey. Really.

And then she’d said, I want you to know something else. And Jo had stopped her. Said, tell me after the game. She wanted that moment to be perfect, untainted. She’d thought that was romantic. That it would give them something to look forward to. That the timing would make it mean more.

She’s so glad she didn’t let Paige say it. Because if she had—if she’d heard I love you come out of Paige’s mouth only to find out this the next day—she doesn’t know if she would’ve recovered. She barely knows if she can now.

Jo wipes her nose on her sleeve and leans her head back against the wall, still shaking a little. Her chest is tight and her skin feels too hot and too cold all at once.

And, God, it’s not just the Paige thing. It’s everything it brings back.

This… betrayal. This ache. It feels too familiar. Like December all over again. Like him.

Asher.

Her first boyfriend. First kiss. First everything. The boy next door, the one she went to every school dance with, the one she thought she’d marry for years.

Until he cheated.

And Paige—Paige—had held her through it. Had wiped off her running mascara, had cuddled her, had combed her fingers through her hair, had looked her in the eyes and said that she deserved better.

And Jo had believed her.

She thought that was what they were building. Something better. Something honest.

But apparently not.

Because Paige had turned around and done the exact same thing.

And now? Now Jo’s just a stop on the same fucking merry-go-round. Another thing Paige can pick up and put down when it’s convenient. Another girl dumb enough to trust her.

She sits there until her ribs stop shaking. Until the tears slow. Her head aches and her nose is stuffed and she still hasn’t gotten ready for breakfast.

She wipes her face with her sleeve again, breathes in deep.

She stands. She stares at the necklace.

It doesn't mean anything anymore. Just like how she and Paige don't mean anything anymore.

She drops it into the hotel trash can.

She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to play a Final Four game tonight.

But she’s gonna have to. Because apparently, love is a mistake.

And she’s never making it again.

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