#Muscle and Joint Recovery | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sweettu1ips · 2 months ago

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PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

SYNOPSIS: A fall shattered her future, dreams slipping through trembling fingers—but in the quiet ache of recovery, love reveals itself. Not in grand gestures, but in the steady presence of Paige, who has always been home.

WARNING(S): -ish, angst ⋮ yelling ⋮ argument ⋮ ACL injury ⋮ pain ⋮ crying ⋮ reader feeling lost(ig) ⋮ kissing ⋮ fluffy towards the end ⋮ ACL recovery ⋮ friends to lovers ⋮ emotional ⋮ slow-burn(ish) ⋮ kind of shit writing :/ ⋮ i'm not sure if i'm missing anything...

WORD COUNT: 9.2k [Here's a pretty long one before I start writing the series <3]

| MAIN MASTER LIST |

ONE SECOND, I WAS IN THE AIR—suspended between gravity and glory—the ball in my court, the championship within reach.

The lights above gleamed like stars, burning bright against the cavernous arena, the roar of the crowd swelling like a tidal wave, pushing me higher, willing me forward.

Every muscle in my body coiled with purpose, years of training condensed into this single, breathless moment. This was for us. For my girls, who bled beside me in every grueling practice.

For coach, who shaped me from raw talent into something unstoppable. For every person who had ever screamed my name, believing I could be something more than just a player.

And then the next second, it was as if time twisted, crueling and unrelenting.

Time did not just slow; it fractured. The moment of collision ripped through me like a lightning strike, sudden and merciless.

My body twisted midair, momentum stolen, limbs flailing before the ground rose up to meet me. But it wasn’t just a fall. It was a crash, a brutal, unforgiving descent into agony.

The court was not hardwood beneath me; it was steel, unrelenting, and I crumpled against it like a marionette with its strings cut. Pain detonated through my body—sharp, blinding, all-consuming.

A firestorm in my knee, a searing knife twisting in my hip, a sickening pop I both heard and felt.

The scream ripped from my throat before I even realized I was the one making it, raw and jagged, swallowed by the gasps in the crowd, the shrill of the referee’s whistle, the frantic shouts of my teammates.

But none of it was louder than the relentless pounding in my ears, the deafening rhythm of my own heartbeat, slamming against my ribs like it wanted out. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

Tonight was the night. One of the biggest games of the season–– the Big East Championship. The night we were supposed to take everything we had bled for and make it ours.

And yet—here I was. Not sprinting down the court, not lifting the trophy, not standing.

Just lying there, my fingers digging into the polished wood, as if I could anchor myself against the inevitable.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

The pain wasn’t fading. It was swelling, spreading, sinking into my bones like venom. My knee was twisted at an unnatural angle, the joint already ballooning, throbbing, pulsing with heat. My hip screamed in protest when I tried to move, sending shockwaves of white-hot agony racing up my spine. And then there was the fear—the cold, creeping dread settling in my chest, suffocating, paralyzing.

Because this wasn’t just a fall.

This was something worse.

Something that could rip basketball from my grasp. Forever.

The world around me blurred, colors bleeding together, faces twisting in and out of focus like smudged paint on a canvas.

My chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, my fingers twitching against the slick hardwood as if I could claw my way back to before. Before the fall. Before the pain.

Before the moment my entire world began to slip through my fingers like sand in an unforgiving tide.

A hand pressed against my shoulder—firm, steady, yet trembling at the edges.

Coach.

His voice was a muffled hum against the static in my ears, but I could hear the strain in it, the forced calm he was trying to wield like a shield. I didn’t need to see his face to know.

He was scared.

I blinked hard, my vision swimming in and out of clarity, and through the overhead glare, I saw them. My team. My girls. Their faces frozen in horror, hands clasped over their mouths, eyes wide with something I had never seen in them before—helplessness.

They were warriors, fighters, the kind of players who clawed and scraped and pushed through anything. But now, they stood frozen, as if moving might shatter what little hope remained.

The trainers were there now, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Hands hovered over me, assessing, measuring, calculating the extent of what I already knew was devastating.

“Where does it hurt?” one of them asked, but it felt like a cruel joke.

Everywhere.

The answer sat heavy on my tongue, but I couldn’t force it past my lips. My knee throbbed violently, a deep, bone-deep ache that spread like wildfire, the joint swollen, stiff, unnatural.

My hip burned with a pain that rooted itself into my spine, anchoring me to the floor in agony. But worse than all of it—worse than the physical destruction—was the creeping, soul-crushing certainty that this was it.

This wasn’t just a sprain.

This wasn’t just another injury to ice and shake off.

This was something bigger. Something worse. Something that could take everything from me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the noise, the panic, the sheer, unbearable weight of it all. But I couldn’t ignore the way the stretcher was brought onto the court.

I couldn’t ignore the hush that fell over the crowd, the way thousands of voices had shrunk into silence, waiting, watching, knowing what I wasn’t ready to accept.

The trainers moved carefully, methodically, but even the slightest shift sent a fresh wave of agony rolling through me. I bit down hard, tasting copper, my nails digging into my palms, a futile attempt to ground myself in something other than the pain.

And then—Paige.

I didn’t see her at first. I felt her. The familiar presence before I even heard her voice. Then, suddenly, she was there, pushing past the others, dropping to her knees beside me, her fingers brushing against mine in a whisper of warmth. Her touch, the only thing in this moment that didn’t hurt.

Her eyes locked onto mine, stormy and wild, brimming with something fierce, something unbreakable.

“I’m here,” she breathed, voice tight, shaking. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time since the fall, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, she did.

Her touch was a lifeline, delicate but unwavering, as if her fingers could draw the pain out of me, pull it from my skin like a curse unspoken.

I clung to her, the rhythm of her breath syncing with mine, a soft, fragile beat in the chaos of the world spinning around us.

Her presence was the anchor in a sea of doubt, the only thing keeping me tethered to something solid, something real. But even that wasn't enough to quell the storm raging inside me.

"Hey," Paige whispered, her voice steady, but there was something raw underneath it, something jagged that cut through her carefully controlled words. "Look at me. You’re going to be ok, alright?"

I could see the way her lips trembled, the way her hands were clenched tight around mine, as if she feared that if she let go, I might disappear. And in a way, I understood. Because in that moment, I felt like I was slipping.

Like the very core of me was being pulled apart, thread by thread, until I was nothing but a collection of broken dreams and what-ifs.

The stretcher came, the cold, unyielding metal frame beneath me sending a shiver through my body, and with it came the realization: this wasn’t a bruise I could ice away. This wasn’t a sprained ankle that would heal in a few weeks.

The look in the doctor’s eyes when he glanced at me told me everything I needed to know.

They couldn’t say it yet, not with so many people watching, but I saw the truth there. A diagnosis, a future that wasn’t certain, a career that might slip away in a single, cruel breath.

“You’ll be alright,” I heard Paige say again, her voice barely a whisper, but it wrapped around me like a cloak, warm and tight.

The words burrowed deep inside me, sinking into the wound of my heart, and for a moment, I allowed myself to let go of the panic, of the fear that gnawed at the edges of my mind.

For that fleeting moment, it was just the two of us, her breath mingling with mine, her presence filling the empty spaces where I used to believe in things like certainty and control.

I couldn’t feel my leg anymore, the numbness creeping in like the dark, but the pain in my chest—a hollow, aching emptiness—was enough to consume me whole. I had built my life on this game.

On the rush of the court beneath my feet, on the ball in my hands, on the endless hours of practice, sweat, and sacrifice. And now, as I was lifted away from everything I had ever known, I wondered if I would ever feel whole again.

The stadium lights, once brilliant, now seemed like distant stars, fading and flickering as I was carried away, as if the universe itself were dimming in sympathy with the crushing weight on my soul. The cheering, once deafening, now felt like an echo from a life I could no longer touch.

My dreams, so close they had once seemed within reach, were now drifting further away with every inch the stretcher moved.

But then, I felt her hand again, pressing against mine, warm and steady. Her fingers intertwined with mine, a promise, a tether to something I could still hold onto.

“We’ll figure this out,” she said, her voice strong now, like a steady current cutting through the storm. “You’re not alone in this. I’m right here.”

Her words were a balm to the raw, open wound inside me. But the truth was, no one could take away the fear. The cold, gnawing fear that my future in this game, the one thing I had known for so long, was slipping through my fingers like smoke.

I closed my eyes, my heart beating slow and heavy in my chest, and for the first time, I let myself lean into the warmth of Paige’s presence.

Her hand was the only thing that kept me from shattering, and in that brokenness, I allowed myself to believe—if only for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, I could rebuild.

We would rebuild. Together.

Together.

Togeth-

To-

“Y/N?”

“Y/N.”

Paige’s voice slipped through the static, sharp enough to cut through the fog wrapped around my mind. My head felt heavy, thoughts sluggish and tangled, like a radio caught between frequencies—just white noise and fleeting, incoherent signals.

I barely registered the crease in her brows, the slight part of her lips, the way she hovered, waiting.

“I was asking what you wanted for dinner,” she repeated, her voice softer now, laced with something careful, something that tread lightly.

Her words reached me slow, like sound traveling through water, distant and warped.

My gaze flickered, landing on the deep blue of her eyes, then the soft parting of her lips. I caught the quick flick of her tongue, the way it glossed over her bottom lip before disappearing again.

Something about the motion anchored me, pulling me just enough from the haze to remember I had to answer.

I blinked. Tilted my head slightly.

“Mexican— please.” The word tumbled out, weightless, thoughtless.

Paige lingered, watching me, waiting for something more. I gave her nothing. Just turned back to the window, to the blurred streaks of streetlights smearing gold across the glass.

The world outside moved, but I felt detached from it, like I was watching from behind some invisible barrier.

She sighed. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.

She thought I was tired. Or maybe that’s just what she told herself.

Brent Faiyaz murmured through the speakers, his voice smooth, weaving into the quiet like silk. The hum of the car, the occasional flick of the turn signal—it all blended together, a background score to the silence stretching between us.

Paige broke it first.

“Talked to Macy today.” She kept her voice even, dipping her toes into cold water. Testing. “told me you made some pretty great progress at therapy.”

A quick glance, then a nudge against my arm, something light, something meant to pull me in.

I rolled my eyes instead. Kept them fixed on the moving world outside.

I could feel her waiting. Expecting me to say something.

I did.

“What is this?” My voice came out flat, edged with something bitter. “You keeping tabs on me now? Counting my steps, measuring my progress? Waiting for me to finally catch up?” A dry, humorless laugh.

“Bad news—I haven’t gone anywhere in the past 10 months.”

The air in the car shifted. Grew heavier. Paige’s grip on the wheel tightened.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

I didn’t respond. But my gaze—it drifted.

Down, down, to the brace wrapped around my right knee. The one I had worn like a second skin since the accident.

The one that screamed at me every time I moved wrong. A reminder. A weight. A sentence I hadn’t been given the choice to serve.

My fingers curled into my palm, pressing deep, grounding myself in the sting. Paige noticed. She always noticed.

Her eyes flicked toward me, then to my hands—tense, unmoving. Her right hand left the console, found mine, threading our fingers together with ease. Like it was natural.

It was.

It had been, for a while now.

"Hey," she murmured, softer this time. "Don't let yourself think that just because you hit a bump in the road, you don’t matter. Don’t—don’t ever let that shit get into your head, alright? Because you’re still in this, whether you think so or not."

I swallowed, but it did nothing to loosen the knot in my throat.

She didn’t get it.

10 months. 10 months of feeling trapped in the same aching cycle. Wake up. Pain. PT. More pain. Nothing changed.

I had pushed, forced myself through every damn exercise, through every stretch, through every stair climbed and weight lifted. And still—I was stuck.

It felt like being locked in a room with no doors, no windows. Just walls that kept closing in, pressing tighter, leaving just enough air to exist but never enough to breathe.

And at night, when the world was quiet, when the weight of it all sank into my bones, I could still see it.

The accident.

The moment my body folded wrong, the sickening pop, the way pain swallowed me whole before I even hit the ground.

The way the sky blurred—too bright, too vast—as the sounds of the game faded into white noise. Hands on me. Voices I couldn’t recognize. The panicked rush of the ambulance.

The surgery.

Sterile lights. Cold air against my skin. A mask over my mouth, the slow, creeping pull of anesthesia dragging me under. Then—darkness.

The first day of PT.

The first time I tried to move and failed. The sharp, unforgiving pain that shot through me like a live wire. The way my body refused to listen. The way my therapist had smiled at me, patient and kind, telling me it would take time. That it was a process. That I had to trust it.

But trust was hard when every step felt like a battle I kept losing.

Behind all of it, lurking beneath the surface, was something heavier. The articles. The ones that used to paint my story in bright, bold letters, capturing every slam dunk, every game-winner, every moment that made me feel like I was on top of the world.

But now, they only reminded me of the cracks, the moments where I stumbled, where my body couldn’t keep up with the force of my ambition.

The whispers. The ones that echoed in locker rooms, in hallways, in the stands. They used to ask when I’d get drafted, when I’d make it to the next level.

Now, they barely spoke my name. It was as if I was just a ghost on a paper trail, slowly fading away.

The expectations.The ones that used to drive me, that pushed me harder, faster, until every second of the game felt like life or death.

Now, they were suffocating, bearing down on me, reminding me of what I was supposed to be, not what I had become.

And underneath it all, the weight that felt the heaviest—the fear that I was being left behind. Everyone else was moving forward.Everyone else seemed to be finding their place, their rhythm, their future.

But me? I was stuck in this moment, this place, where I didn’t matter anymore.

I could feel it, like a knot in my chest. The chance to get drafted was no longer just a dream—it was a distant possibility I couldn’t touch. It felt like I was watching from the sidelines, a shadow on a game I used to play in.

I couldn’t shake it. The thought that I was slipping through their fingers, just another name, another headline that would eventually fade into the past.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them all moving forward, without me.

I saw the clock ticking, louder and louder, as if it was counting down to a time when I was no longer relevant.

Paige’s thumb brushed against my knuckles, slow and steady, pulling me back to the present.

“I know it’s been hard,” she murmured, voice threading through the quiet like the first crack of dawn against an endless night. “I know you feel stuck. But you’re not alone in this, Y/N/N. You never have been, and you never will be.”

Her words hung in the air, fragile, like the last leaves of autumn clinging to their branches before the wind came to take them.

I stared down at our joined hands, at the way her fingers curled around mine—gentle, warm, steady. A tether in the storm.

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to.

But belief was a fickle thing, slipping through my fingers like sand, impossible to grasp no matter how tightly I tried to hold on.

“Right,” I muttered, the word slipping past my lips, hollow, weightless. I exhaled slow, deep, as if trying to empty my lungs of something heavier than air—something that had settled deep inside me, thick and unmoving.

My teeth grazed the inside of my cheek, sharp against soft, the dull sting grounding me for just a moment. My jaw clenched, a quiet rebellion against the emotions pressing at the edges of my ribs, waiting to spill over.

Instead of letting them, I turned back toward the window, watching as the world blurred past in streaks of amber and shadow, a silent film playing at a speed I couldn’t match.

And then—her grip.

Slightly tighter. Once. Twice. Three times.

A rhythm. A pattern. A pulse against my skin.

She always did that. And I always wondered why.

"You think this is just about your knee?" Geno’s voice cracked through the air like a gunshot, sharp and unforgiving. "No, kid. This is about you. About that damn wall you keep building between yourself and the game. Between yourself and the people trying to help you."

I sat there frozen, my pulse thrumming in my ears, my arms crossed so tight it felt like I was trying to hold myself together. His words struck like a match against dry wood, igniting something volatile inside me.

My chest was tight, my jaw locked, my breathing uneven. I wanted to fight back, to tell him he didn’t understand, but I knew the second I opened my mouth, the weight of everything I’d been carrying would come spilling out.

"You don’t get it—"

"Oh, I get it just fine." Geno stepped closer, his presence towering, his voice like thunder rolling low in the distance, a storm waiting to break. "You’re pissed. You’re frustrated. You feel like the universe dealt you a bad hand, and now you gotta crawl your way back to where you were. And instead of taking the help, instead of trusting the process, you’re making it harder for yourself."

The air felt thin, my lungs refusing to expand fully. My fingers dug into my arms, nails pressing crescent moons into my skin. I needed to hold on to something, anything, before I shattered.

"You think I want to be like this?" My voice came out sharp, like broken glass, words slicing at the edges of my teeth. "You think I want to wake up every damn day feeling like I’ve lost everything? That I have to fight just to move like I used to? To watch everyone else move forward while I’m stuck in the same place?"

I was unraveling, the seams fraying, every emotion I had buried beneath exhaustion and frustration clawing its way to the surface.

Geno let out a slow breath, measured, but his gaze stayed locked on mine, unyielding. "No one’s saying it isn’t hard, Y/N. But you? You’re the one making it unbearable."

The words slammed into me like a body check. I flinched—barely—but he caught it. He always did.

"You think the weight of all this is yours to carry alone, but it’s not. You have people who want to help you, who believe in you, who see more in you than just this injury. But instead of trusting them, instead of trusting yourself, you’re shutting down. You’re keeping yourself in this prison of doubt and anger, and the only one suffering for it is you."

My vision blurred for a split second—not with tears, but with the sheer force of everything I’d been trying to suppress.

The articles. The scouts. The draft. The future I had spent my entire life chasing, now dangling just out of reach, taunting me.

Because what if I never reached it?

What if I clawed my way through the pain, through the rehab, through every grueling day of physical therapy—only to come up short?

The thought had been haunting me for months, a quiet, insidious whisper in the back of my mind.

What if you never get back to who you were?

What if you’re just… done?

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat thick and immovable. "It’s not that easy."

Geno’s expression softened for a fraction of a second before the steel returned, unwavering. "No. It’s not. But you’re making it impossible."

The silence between us was thick, weighted with everything left unsaid. I could still hear the echoes of that moment—the sharp crack of impact, the way the world had wrenched sideways as I hit the ground.

The crowd’s roar had died in an instant, replaced by a suffocating stillness, a beat of eerie quiet before panic surged through the air.

I could still see the blur of the stretcher, the sterile white of the hospital room, the forced smiles on my parents’ faces—strained, trembling at the edges, unable to mask the fear in their eyes.

I could still feel it.

All of it.

And the worst part? It hadn’t stopped feeling like that moment.

Like I was still on the ground. Still watching everything I had worked for slip through my fingers.

Suddenly the air in Geno’s office felt suffocating, thick with the weight of words I wasn’t ready to hear.

The walls felt closer than they should have, the fluorescent light above casting a harsh glare over the desk between us.

"You don’t understand," I whispered once more, my voice barely there, fragile like glass threatening to shatter under pressure.

Geno tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady, unrelenting. "Then make me." His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. "Or better yet, make yourself get it. Because if you don’t? If you keep fighting the wrong battle, Y/N?"

He shook his head once, slow and deliberate, letting the silence stretch between us like a chasm. "You’ll lose before you even step back on that court."

And that—that—was the part that scared me the most.

Because deep down, I knew he was right.

I could survive the rehab, the pain, the grueling hours of training. I could take the blood, the sweat, the exhaustion. But losing myself? Losing the game—the only thing I had ever truly known, the only thing that had ever made sense?

That was a different kind of pain entirely.

The weight of it sat on my chest, heavy, suffocating, clawing its way up my throat. I couldn’t lose myself. But the fear of losing everything I had worked for—it clung to me, ghosting over my skin like a warning, like a whisper of what could come.

The protection of being the greatest player on the court was no longer in my hands.

The realization was devastating.

My breath was shaky, uneven, as I pushed back from the chair. My legs felt unsteady, my head light, but I stood.

My eyes burned, the tears I had spent weeks—months—trying to hold back brimming at my waterline, desperate to fall. I wouldn’t let them. Not here. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.

I turned on my heel, fingers curling around the doorknob. I needed to get out. I didn’t want to hear any more, didn’t want to face the truth that Geno had shoved in my face like a mirror I couldn’t look away from.

But when I pulled the door open, my stomach dropped.

They were there.

KK. Azzi. Sarah. Ice.

And Paige.

All standing just a few feet away.

The hallway was eerily quiet, but the way their faces fell, the way their eyes flickered with something between concern and hesitation—I knew they had heard everything. Well, more like the yelling.

My breathing stuttered, my chest rising and falling too quickly. Tears I had barely been holding at bay slipped past my lashes, hot against my skin, and I hated it. Hated how exposed I felt. How raw.

I turned my back to Geno, my vision blurring as I wiped at my face roughly, as if scrubbing the emotion away would make it disappear.

But when my gaze met Paige’s—that soft, worried expression, the way her brows knitted together, the way her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but didn’t know how—I felt something snap.

I stood frozen for a second, caught in the weight of her stare, the quiet understanding that sat between us like something unspoken, something fragile.

I shook my head, as if shaking myself out of a trance.

I pulled my hoodie over my head, the fabric swallowing me whole, a pathetic attempt to disappear, to make myself small, to push them all away.

And then, without a word, I walked past them.

Didn’t know where I was going, but I just kept going.

The world around me blurred—faces, voices, the rush of movement all melting into a distant hum.

The neon signs above the storefronts flickered weakly against the night, their glow swallowed by the thick, humid air that clung to my skin. Even at this hour, UConn’s campus still pulsed with life.

Groups of students spilled onto the sidewalks, their laughter and chatter weaving into the distant wail of sirens and the rhythmic hum of cicadas.

No one noticed me.

No one saw the way my shoulders curled inward, the way my breath hitched unevenly in my chest.

The farther I walked, the quieter everything became.

My hands clenched deep inside the pockets of my hoodie, fingers curling into fists.

The fabric was rough against my knuckles, grounding me in something tangible, something real. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, heavy and uneven, drowning out the world around me.

I didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t think.

Then, suddenly, I was here.

The gym.

Its towering structure loomed before me, untouched by time, yet somehow different—colder. The doors groaned on their rusted hinges as I stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of sweat, aged wood, and the faint metallic tang of dust.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, flickering like dying stars, casting long, distorted shadows against the polished floor.

I stood there, still.

The court stretched before me, vast and empty, its boundaries marking the space where I once felt whole—where every movement had purpose, where my body knew exactly what to do before my mind even had to think.

Now, all I felt was the crushing weight of everything I’d lost.

A presence loomed above.

Geno.

Watching. Silent. Measuring.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. I knew that.

But my feet had brought me anyway.

Like they always did.

Like they always would.

My gaze flickered to the sidelines, where a lone basketball rested against the edge of the court. Its once-vibrant orange hue was dulled with time, scuffed and worn, its grooves filled with dust. It looked abandoned. Forgotten. Just like me.

I bent down to pick it up, fingers brushing against the rough surface. The weight of it settled into my palms—familiar, yet foreign. Like holding a memory that no longer fit the shape of who I was.

A past version of myself lingered in this gym, in these walls, in the phantom echoes of sneakers squeaking against polished wood.

I used to belong here. This court had once been my second home, a place where I moved without thinking, where my body knew exactly what to do before my mind had even caught up.

But now?

Now, it felt like a cage.

A cruel joke. A reminder of every second, every minute, every month that had slipped through my fingers while I sat on the sidelines, watching.

Ten months.

Ten months of physical therapy.

Ten months of rehab.

Ten months of stretching, icing, strengthening, pushing—only to feel like I was standing still.

They told me healing wasn’t linear. That progress took time.

But what if I had wasted all this time just to end up exactly where I started.

I swallowed hard, exhaling sharply. Then, I moved.

Dribble. Dribble. Dribble.

The sound cracked through the empty gym like a heartbeat—mine, erratic, desperate. I gripped the ball tighter, fingers pressing into the seams, trying to anchor myself to something real. Something solid.

One step. Two steps. Pull up. Shoot.

The ball clanked off the rim.

My breath stuttered, the sound scraping against the silence.

Again.

One step. Two steps. Pull up. Shoot.

Short.

The sound of failure echoed through the hollow space, wrapping around me, sinking into my skin.

What’s wrong with me?

I used to make this shot in my sleep. I used to move without thinking, without questioning, without this crushing weight of doubt pressing into my lungs.

Now, nothing felt right.

Not in the way I jumped. Not in the way I landed. Not in the way I breathed.

The brace on my knee squeezed like a vice, a silent reminder, a whisper in the dark: You are not the same.

And I knew that. God, I knew that.

But I was so tired of waiting.

Tired of time moving like a glacier, of watching the world spin without me, of clawing at progress only to feel it slip through my fingers like sand.

I wanted to be back.

I needed to be back.

But what if—what if when I finally got there, I wasn’t enough?

What if I had lost her—the version of myself who soared, who dominated, who had no fear of falling?

What if I was chasing something already gone?

I pushed harder.

Faster.

More.

The court blurred beneath me, my body moving on pure defiance, on the raw ache of desperation. My lungs burned, sweat slicking my skin, my vision tunneling to the basket—because if I just made this shot, if I just did this one thing, maybe—just maybe—I could prove to myself that I still belonged.

But then—

I misstepped.

The world tilted.

Gravity seized me in its merciless grip, and before I could catch myself, I was falling. Again.

My body collided with the hardwood, the impact reverberating through my bones, but the sting barely registered. Because the real pain—the kind that burned beneath my ribs—had already settled in.

I wasn’t the same.

And maybe—I never would be.

Footsteps rushed toward me, quick and urgent.

"Y/N!"

Paige.

Her voice cut through the thick silence, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her.

She crouched beside me, her presence warm and unwelcome, hands reaching, hovering, like she didn’t know if I’d let her touch me. "What the hell are you doing?"

I let out a sharp breath, turning my face away. "I’m fine."

"No, you’re not." Her voice was gentle but unyielding. "Seriously, Y/N/N—"

"I’m fine!"

The words came out too sharp, too raw, slicing through the space between us. I shoved her hands off me, a final push, a desperate attempt to keep her at arm’s length.

Paige froze, hurt flashing across her face before she quickly masked it.

I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair, my breath coming too fast, too uneven. "God, Paige!" My voice cracked, splintering under the weight of something I wasn’t ready to name. "Why can’t you just—leave me alone? For one fucking second?"

She didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

And that only made the anger rise higher, hotter, burning through my veins like wildfire.

"All you’ve done these past months is get on my ass!" My voice wavered, but I couldn’t stop. "Tellin’ me what I need to do, how my progress is going, how I should be feeling. Just—just stop!"

"Y/N..." Her voice was quiet, but it held so much weight. "I’m just trying to help."

"Help?" I repeated, sarcasm lacing my words. "Is that what you’re calling it? 'Cause it sure as hell doesn’t feel like help. It feels like... like I’m some fucking project, and you’re the goddamn teacher, making me jump through hoops to prove I’m worth something."

Her brows pulled together, frustration flickering in her eyes. "Because I know you’re trying! I know you’re putting in the effort. But you’re the only one who can’t see that. We want you back, Y/N. We need you back. But you’re so afraid of failing, you don’t even wanna try more."

I let out a hollow laugh, empty and bitter, the sound barely resembling something human.

"What else do you want me to do, Paige?" I snapped, my voice raw, my throat tight. "You think I’m making this harder for myself?" My breath hitched. My vision blurred. "You think I’m not tired? Tired of feeling so useless? Tired of feeling so stuck while all of you are out there, playing, living, moving forward—"

I swallowed thickly, my pulse roaring in my ears.

"I have been fighting." My voice trembled. "But nothing—nothing is fucking working." My shoulders sagged, the exhaustion settling deep in my bones.

"I’ve spent the last ten months working my ass off to get back to who I was. But what if I never do?"

The words hung between us, thick and heavy, raw and real.

Paige opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Silence pressed down on us, suffocating.

Then, suddenly, I was moving––pushing myself up, turning away.

"Where are you going, huh?" Paige’s voice was louder now, tinged with desperation. "Nothin’s gonna do you any good if you’re just gonna go back to your dorm and feel sorry for yourself."

The moment the words left her mouth, regret flashed across her face.

Instantly, everything stopped.

I stood there, my back to her, my fists clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms.

She didn’t mean it.

I knew she didn’t.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady, even as the weight of it all threatened to pull me under.

"I never asked for your help, Paige."

And with that, I walked away.

Again.

It was another Wednesday. Another grey morning that bled into the warmth of the afternoon, stealing a touch of brightness into the dullness of winter.

Late January had no business feeling this warm, yet there it was, a surprise sunshine pushing through the clouded sky.

A slight breeze played with the edges of my jacket, tugging at me in gentle reminders of the world continuing outside my small bubble of frustration.

I hadn’t spoken to Paige since last night… since the words I threw at her like stones, sharp and unwarranted. I could still hear them echoing in my mind.

Practically telling her to fuck off.

It felt like a jagged thing to say, even now. I had no right.

I knew I shouldn’t have said it. I knew that, but the frustration in me boiled over—too much, too fast. She didn’t deserve that.

Especially not after everything she’d done for me.

I couldn’t even count the nights she’d stayed up with me when the pain from my surgery made sleep impossible.

The nights where she curled up on the floor beside my bed, her hand resting lightly on my wrist, grounding me when the discomfort turned unbearable. When I got frustrated—at the limitations, at myself—she never snapped, never told me to get over it.

She just listened.

The endless drives to and from physical therapy, even when I wasn’t able to offer her any thanks, because my knee was a constant reminder of my limits.

When I’d been too bitter to acknowledge her efforts, when I sat in silence, fuming, she never wavered.

She would just let the music play softly through the car speakers, her fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel in time with the beat. Letting me exist in my anger but never letting me sit in it alone.

Paige had been nothing but patient, kind, and steady. She had shown up—again and again.

When I lashed out, when I pulled away, when I made it impossible for anyone to get close—Paige stayed. She pushed when I needed pushing and gave me space when I needed air.

She brought me my favorite snacks, even when I refused to eat, leaving them on the table without a word. She sat with me through the rough nights, playing old movies on her phone when I couldn’t sleep.

She learned how to tape my knee properly when I complained that the physical therapists always did it too tight.

She carried my bag when the weight of it pulled too much at my shoulder. She made jokes, teasing me just enough to make me forget—if only for a moment—how much everything hurt.

And I had the audacity to act like she was the problem. Like she was in my way.

The regret curled up at the edges of my chest, cold and insidious, a reminder of just how unfair I had been. How blind..

But the words… they’d slipped out, a careless storm of resentment, clouding everything. And now, here I was—silent in my guilt, unable to shake the weight of what I had done.

I sighed deeply as I glanced into the vanity mirror, the soft hum of the Bronco’s engine cooling into stillness. The reflection staring back at me was no different than usual.

My hair was simply braided, strands falling loose in a few places, and my UCONN sweatshirt, the one I’d worn so many times, hung comfortably over me like a second skin.

I adjusted the brace on my knee, a reminder of everything I had gone through, and grabbed my bag, my phone, my lifeline.

The parking lot outside the facility was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of other cars coming and going. I could feel my nerves gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. And then, across the lot, to my left, there she was.

Paige.

Leaning casually against her black Jeep, arms crossed, eyes gazing off into the distance, lost in thought or perhaps waiting for me. I stopped. My breath caught. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not now. Not after what had happened.

My heart skipped a beat in a way it never had before. It wasn’t just the sight of her—it was the fact that she was here. Standing in front of me, even after last night. Even after everything.

I furrowed my brows, walking toward her slowly, hesitantly, as if I weren’t sure whether I was moving toward her or away from the uncomfortable mess we’d made.

"You’re here."

I muttered the words under my breath, a small disbelief lingering between us.

Paige looked at me with that soft, half-smile that could always make me feel like everything was going to be okay, even when I didn’t feel like it. "When have I ever missed any day of your PT?"

Her smirk seemed almost like a challenge, but also a quiet comfort. I shifted on my feet, looking anywhere but directly at her.

But, I knew better. Paige wasn’t just here because of that. There was more to it, something unspoken, yet too heavy to ignore.

The words I wanted to say felt too large, too complicated to voice, and the silence settled between us like an unsolvable puzzle.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, barely above a whisper, a soft curiosity edging into my voice.

Paige uncrossed her arms, letting them drop to her sides, and sighed, a long exhale that seemed to carry all the tension she’d been holding onto.

She turned away for a moment, looking toward the distant horizon, her fingers twitching at her sides. When she turned back, she seemed more vulnerable than I had ever seen her, eyes searching mine as if she were weighing something in the space between us.

"Because I realized that you’re right."

She paused, swallowing hard, and I felt the ground shift beneath my feet, the weight of her words settling heavily in my chest. "I have been on your ass..."

Guilt flooded through me, sharp and biting. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, holding back the emotions that were rising too quickly. She didn’t deserve my frustration.

"Paige," I started, but she was quicker, cutting me off with a softness that disarmed every defense I had left.

"But because I care about you," she continued, and the world seemed to stop for a heartbeat, the air thickening with the gravity of her words. "And I love you."

Her hand found mine, delicate and warm as she slid her fingers between mine, grounding me in something familiar, something safe. My heart tripped over itself, a sudden skip that sent a confusing wave of emotion through my chest.

I love you wasn’t new. I had said it a thousand times before—both to Paige and to others. Yet now, with her hand in mine, it felt different. It was a deeper pulse, a deeper truth.

Paige continued, her voice lower now, carrying an apology wrapped in care. "And because I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said that shit to you yesterday."

The weight of her words settled over me, washing away the sharpness of the argument. Sorry.

It was a small word, but it held so much. She didn’t have to say it. She didn’t owe me an apology. But there it was, hanging in the space between us, an offering I didn’t know I needed until now.

I looked at her, and everything inside me stilled. The guilt that had knotted in my chest began to loosen, though it lingered, hanging like the last drops of rain after a storm.

I felt the pulse of her heartbeat against my skin, felt the truth of everything we had shared and everything that was still left to be said.

In the quiet that followed, I squeezed her hand gently, offering something I couldn’t yet say aloud.

My heart still raced, uncertain but softening. And in that moment, everything else—the anger, the argument, the walls we had built—felt like echoes in the distance.

We were here, together, standing in the light of this new, fragile truth.

The world around us seemed to blur, melting away like the early morning fog caught in the sun’s embrace. The faint hum of cars in the distance was a muffled memory, drowned out by the beating of my own heart.

The warmth of her touch seeped into my skin, spreading through me like a slow fire, awakening parts of me that had long been dormant. Every breath I took felt deeper, more intentional, as if we were both waiting for the next breath, the next word to break the silence.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke, our bodies suspended in that fragile space where everything is too big to express and too important to leave unsaid.

The world felt slower, gentler. The sun was still climbing, its rays now stretched wide across the parking lot, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the tension between us, but there was something tender in the way the light fell.

As if the day, too, was waiting for us to choose the next step.

I shifted my weight, my fingers tightening around hers. A small gesture, but it felt like I was offering something I wasn’t sure I had—my trust, my willingness to try again.

The ache in my chest softened just a fraction, though I couldn’t help the flicker of uncertainty that lingered in my stomach.

Was this real? Would we ever be the same after last night?

I opened my mouth, but the words I’d rehearsed in my head for hours felt inadequate, too small for what was swirling inside me. I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t know how to make up for everything. How could I?

“I’m sorry,” I finally said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue, but necessary. I didn’t even know if it was enough.

But I needed her to know—needed to feel like I was trying, like I was reaching for something beyond the anger, beyond the frustration. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that.”

The guilt crept back, cold and insidious, curling up at the edges of my chest. I could feel it there, a constant reminder of how much I had hurt her, even though all she had ever done was try to help me. Try to love me.

Paige’s thumb brushed softly over the back of my hand, grounding me once again. Her gaze softened, the sharpness of earlier giving way to something warmer, something more vulnerable.

She was here, and she was willing to meet me where I stood, even after everything.

“I know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity in it was enough to stop time. “I know, and I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was… like I was smothering you.”

“You weren’t,” I said quickly, shaking my head, hating the way my own words had made her feel. “Paige, you were just—” I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down my face before dropping it. “You were just looking out for me. You always do.”

Paige let out a dry chuckle, her tongue running along her bottom lip. “Yeah, well… maybe I need to chill out a little,” she admitted, and then met my eyes again. “But I just—” She sighed, shaking her head. “I just hate seeing you struggle. I know how hard this has been for you. And I didn’t wanna let you go through it alone.”

I swallowed hard, her words settling deep into my chest.

“I know,” I whispered.

Paige stepped closer, just slightly, but enough for me to notice, enough for my body to respond before my mind could catch up.

“I meant what I said,” she continued, her voice softer now. “I care about you. And I love you.”

My breath hitched. I knew this feeling—it was familiar, something safe, something that had always been there between us, unspoken but present. So why did hearing her say it make my stomach twist?

I forced a small chuckle, trying to lighten the air before it swallowed me whole. “You act like we don’t always say that, P,” I murmured, shrugging. “We say it to Azzi and the girls all the time.”

Paige tilted her head slightly, studying me in that way that always made me feel like she saw more than I was willing to give. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah,” she said, voice almost teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something careful, deliberate. “But do you feel like this when you say it to them?”

I blinked, caught off guard. My breath hitched before I could stop it.

Paige had never said anything like that before—not so directly, not so openly. My mouth opened. Closed. My throat felt tight.

The air between us shifted, something unspoken crackling in the space where our fingers touched. Paige must’ve noticed, because she let out a small, knowing breath, her amusement laced with something softer, something more dangerous.

“Yeah,” she murmured, glancing away for the briefest moment before her eyes found mine again, steady and sure. “That’s what I thought.”

My heart slammed against my ribcage, a sharp, unmistakable rhythm.

Her fingers curled just a little tighter around mine, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I was still breathing.

She sighed, breaking the tension slightly. “Look, I know we fight,” she admitted. “And I know you’re stubborn as hell.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped me, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle of her own.

“But I also know you,” she continued, a little more serious now. “And I know that when you push people away, it’s because you’re hurting. And I don’t care how much you fight me on this, Y/N—I’m not going anywhere.”

I felt my chest constrict, emotion creeping up my throat faster than I could swallow it down.

Paige smiled then, small but warm. “So,” she murmured, nodding towards the building behind me, “are we gonna stand here all day, or are you actually gonna let me walk you in?”

I huffed out a laugh, rolling my eyes. “God, you’re annoying,” I muttered, shaking my head as I turned on my heel, my hand still in hers.

Paige grinned. “Yeah,” she said, tugging me along beside her. “But you love me for it.”

And, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t argue.

The tension between us began to dissolve like mist in the early morning sun, and I could feel the space between us closing, slowly, like the tender stitches of a wound trying to heal.

Paige spoke again, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You’re the best player on this team—maybe even on the same level as Michael Jordan.”

I rolled my eyes despite the smile etching on my face. “Ok, now that’s reaching.” I laughed.

Paige laughed too, her laugh sweet and familiar, but then she shook her head, her expression softening. “Alright, that’s not the point!” She nudged my arm.

She hesitated for a second, as if choosing her words carefully. “Look, I know it doesn’t always feel like you’re getting anywhere. I know how frustrating it is to work your ass off and still feel stuck. But, Y/N, that doesn’t mean you’re not growing. You’re not just a great player—you’re one of the hardest-working people I know. And you know what happens when someone like you keeps pushing, even when it’s tough?”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “Enlighten me.”

Paige smirked. “They don’t just get better. They come back stronger, smarter—more unstoppable than they ever were before. So yeah, maybe you don’t feel like you’re at your peak right now. But that doesn’t mean you won’t be. And when that happens? Michael Jordan better watch his back.”

I let out a breathy chuckle, shaking my head, but the warmth spreading through my chest told me that her words had landed exactly where they needed to.

Something about the way she said it—the quiet certainty in her voice—made my heart clench. She didn’t just say things to make me feel better; she meant them.

And that realization hit me like a wave, pulling me under before I even had the chance to catch my breath.

My gaze drifted from her deep blue eyes to her lips—soft, perfect, slightly parted as if waiting for something, for me.

My heartbeat stuttered, a rapid, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

Before I could overthink it, my hand moved on its own, fingertips grazing the sharp line of her jaw. Her breath hitched, a subtle intake of air that sent warmth rushing through me.

Slowly, I tilted her face down to mine, closing the space between us, and then I kissed her.

The world around us blurred, faded into nothing. There was no noise, no expectation, just the quiet press of her lips against mine—soft, warm, achingly familiar yet entirely new.

It was slow, unhurried, like the moment had always been waiting for us to catch up to it.

I could feel everything in that kiss—the way her lips moved against mine, tender but sure, the way my hands trembled slightly where they held her.

She tasted like something sweet, something comforting, and yet there was a fire beneath it, a spark igniting deep in my chest. The way she melted into me, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly against my waist, sent a shiver down my spine.

By the time we pulled back, I felt lightheaded, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with oxygen. Paige’s eyes searched mine, something unreadable flickering across her face before her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

“I love you,” I murmured, the words tasting different now—deeper, more honest than they had ever been before.

Paige’s smile widened, and she squeezed my hand gently. “I love you, too.” Her voice was steady, but there was something raw in it, something that made my heart flutter. “And I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

I nodded, unable to find the right words to say back. What could I say? She had already given me everything I needed to hear.

I didn’t need grand gestures or promises that we’d be perfect. I just needed her to stay—to show up, like she always had.

She pulled me into a hug, and I let myself fall into it, the warmth of her body pressing against mine, grounding me.

In that moment, I could feel the weight of everything that had been said and unsaid—everything that had hurt and healed—begin to settle in a place where I could finally let go.

I breathed her in, the familiar scent of her hair, her skin, mingling with the cool air around us. The sun, now higher in the sky, warmed my face as I closed my eyes.

The world outside continued, but in this moment, everything felt still, everything felt possible again. The past was never going to be perfect, but we could make the future ours, one step at a time.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was finally ready to move forward, with her by my side.

Paige smiled knowingly. “You’re already incredible, Y/N. And I can’t wait to see the player—the person—you’re becoming.”

My heart fluttered, an unexpected rush of emotion tightening in my throat. I looked away for a moment, trying to play it cool, but Paige caught my chin gently between her fingers, guiding my gaze back to hers.

“And just so we’re clear,” she added, her voice a little softer now, “no matter how good you get, I’m still totally claiming credit for hyping you up first.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t fight the grin spreading across my face. “Obviously.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers imagines #paige bueckers x fem!reader #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x y/n #paige bueckers x you #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers angst

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