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uncuredturkeybacon · 3 days ago

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𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which there are some changes

part one - part two - part three - part four

The apartment is still dark when you wake.

Heavy curtains pulled across the windows, early morning light diffused to a warm gray. The air’s still cool from the night before, and the hum of the AC blends with the occasional rumble of traffic down below. You roll over slowly, your body aching in places you didn’t know could be sore from watching a game.

Paige is still asleep beside you, curled on her side, back to your chest. Her hair’s messy and soft, falling over her cheek and the pillow like tangled silk. One of her arms is tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely over your wrist where it wraps around her waist.

You don’t move.

Not because you’re tired — though you are — but because for the first time in what feels like weeks, the two of you are still. Unbothered. Alone. No press conferences, no game tape, no Chris standing in front of a whiteboard like he’s summoning spirits. Just her. Just you. Just this moment suspended in soft quiet.

She stirs eventually, body shifting just enough to press further into your chest. You feel the sigh before you hear it.

“Are you awake?” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” you say softly, voice rasped from sleep. “You?”

She hums. “Barely.”

You bury your nose against the back of her neck and breathe in — lavender, fabric softener, the familiar salt of her skin. It grounds you. Steadies you. She’s here. You’re here.

You stay like that for a while.

By the time you both drift out of bed, the clock is creeping toward eleven. You make coffee while she sits on the counter in an oversized UConn t-shirt, legs swinging idly. She doesn’t say much, and you don’t push her. Last night is still sitting on both your shoulders. Press room lights. The sound of your own voice cracking across a dozen microphones. The silence that followed.

When you hand her the mug, she takes it with both hands like it’s something precious. Her fingers wrap around yours for a second longer than they need to.

“Do you regret it?” she asks.

You glance at her, mid-sip.

“Saying what I said?”

She nods.

You set your cup down.

“No,” you answer. “Not for a second.”

Paige studies you. Eyes still a little puffy from sleep, but clear in a way that always unnerves you. Like she’s seeing every inch of you.

“I don’t either,” she says.

She hops off the counter and walks over, coffee in one hand, the other finding your waist without thinking. She leans into you, her forehead pressing to your collarbone.

“I just…” she trails off, searching. You wait. “I just hate that it has to be this hard,” she finishes.

You nod. You do too.

“But I don’t hate us,” she adds, quietly.

You pull her closer. “Me neither.”

The hours pass slowly. You sit on the couch with her legs across your lap, watching game footage she insists she doesn’t want to watch but won’t stop watching anyway. You talk about rotations, coverages, what she saw on that last switch. You don’t talk about Chris. You don’t need to — not right now.

At one point, she turns to you and says, “You know, I don’t think I would’ve survived this season if you weren’t here.”

You meet her eyes. “You would’ve. But I’m glad I was.”

She smiles — a small, worn thing — and leans in to kiss you, slow and soft, like she’s reminding herself you’re real.

And when she pulls away, she whispers, “I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

You don’t answer. You just kiss her again.

Because there’s nothing left to prove. Because the only thing that matters right now — in this moment, in this apartment, in this messy, beautiful in-between — is that you’re still standing. Together.

Later in the day, you arrive at the facility first.

That’s not new. You’re always early — clipboard in hand, shoulders squared, hair pulled back tighter than it needs to be. But today feels different, like the walls themselves are waiting to see what happens next.

The locker room lights are already on when you walk through the tunnel. You half expect Chris to be there, whiteboard in hand, going on about “vertical flow states” or some metaphor that makes no sense to anyone but him.

But the seat where he usually stands is empty. Just silence. Cool air. A printed schedule taped to the wall.

You walk into the coach’s office and find the assistant GMs standing there with two WNBA compliance reps. Paige’s name is on a player wellness report sheet. There’s a manila folder on the desk with “CONFIDENTIAL – INVESTIGATION” stamped across the front.

You don’t even have to ask. They tell you.

Chris Koclanes has been suspended indefinitely, pending an internal investigation involving coaching conduct and conflict of interest with Curt Miller, who’s now also under WNBA review.

You’re being promoted to interim head coach — effective immediately.

You stand still for a beat. Not shocked. Not excited. Just… steady.

You thank them quietly. Take the clipboard. Nod once. And walk out.

The team arrives not long after.

Paige’s eyes catch yours first. You shake your head gently — not in warning, but confirmation.

DiJonai walks in with Arike. NaLyssa and Myisha trail behind, laughing quietly until they see the coaching staff cluster. The moment they step onto the court and see you standing at the front — alone — every conversation dies.

Paige walks over, subtle, measured. She leans close.

“You good?”

You nod once. “He’s gone. League took it seriously.”

Her eyes don’t widen. They just soften. Her shoulders drop. She looks around the gym like she’s seeing it new again. The others gather around when they hear.

Nai doesn’t even blink. “What about Curt?”

You meet her gaze. “Also under review.”

A hush moves through the team.

You continue, calm and direct. “I’ve been asked to lead practice today. They’ve made it official.”

Arike exhales hard. “Took long enough.”

And without needing to say anything else, the team slowly moves into warmups. No questions. No tension. Just movement. Trust.

Practice is efficient.

Paige is the first in every drill. Arike is vocal, energized. NaLyssa boxes out like she’s got something to prove. The entire session hums with a different kind of discipline — not fear-based, not rigid, just aligned.

You keep it tight. You run defensive sets first, making adjustments to the switching scheme that the players have been quietly talking about for weeks. You stop drills when they need to be stopped. You let them run when they don’t.

When you diagram out a new end-of-game possession on the board — a wrinkle off a double drag — Paige looks over your shoulder, reads it once, and says, “Yup. That works.”

Nai claps. “Let’s get that in tonight.”

There’s no blow-ups. No eye-rolls. No disconnected speeches about vibrations or geometry. Just basketball.

The kind they want to play.

By the end of the session, you’re walking across the gym toward the locker room when you hear someone call out your name.

You turn.

It’s Arike. She tosses you a water bottle.

“Head coach looks good on you.”

You catch it with one hand. Smirk. “It’s temporary.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You push open the door and hear laughter behind you — not forced, not performative, just real. And for the first time in a long time… you exhale.

In the coaches’ room, the advance scout folders for Golden State Valkyries are stacked neatly. You flip them open. Start reading through their offensive tendencies. Their rotations. Their heavy post usage.

Tomorrow’s another game. But tonight? Tonight you sleep knowing that the team is no longer fractured. And the person at the front of the room? Is someone they chose.

The locker room is quiet.

No music. No yelling. Just sneakers squeaking lightly on tile, tape ripping from pre-wrap rolls, low murmurs between teammates. You stand near the center of the room, not at the whiteboard. You don’t need it. You’ve got something better — them.

You scan the room.

Paige is lacing up, head low but eyes on you. JJ is seated backwards on a chair, nodding quietly to herself. Nai’s got her headphones half-on, arms folded, but she’s tuned in. Arike’s biting her nail — a bad habit, sure, but she only does it when she’s focused.

You take a breath. Not a performative one. Just real. And then you speak.

“I’m not gonna give you some speech about proving something tonight,” you say. “I’m not gonna talk about redemption arcs or silencing critics or what the league thinks of us. That’s not what tonight is.”

You pause. Step closer into the circle.

“Tonight is about remembering who the hell you are.”

A few eyes lift. A few backs straighten.

“Because this team — this group right here — you’ve been building something in spite of everything. In spite of confusion. In spite of silence. In spite of not being listened to. You’ve built a system of trust and intelligence and care, even when the person in charge didn’t believe in any of that.”

You nod toward the door — not at anyone in particular, but at the shadow that’s no longer there.

“Well now that person’s gone. And it’s just us.”

You move closer again. Now they’re all watching.

“Paige,” you say, locking eyes with her. “You’re the brain of this team. You see everything before it happens. I trust your eyes more than any camera feed. So if you see something — say it. Adjust it. Own it.”

She nods, calm and certain.

“Nai. You’re our edge. Our protector. You anchor the defense not just with effort, but with pride. I want that vocal. Loud. You’ve got the green light to hold everyone accountable, including me.”

Nai’s already smirking. “Copy that.”

“Arike.” You tilt your head. “You know what I’m gonna say.”

She chuckles. “Let the game come to me.”

“Exactly. We don’t need 30. We need presence. We need pressure. Play your pace.”

She gives you a small nod. Eyes glinting.

“JJ, ZaZa, Kaila, Myisha — all of you? You’ve been the heart of this locker room since day one. You grind. You show up. You say the hard things when it’s time. I’m asking you to keep doing that. Not for me. For each other.”

You turn, facing the whole room now.

“I’m not going to yell at you tonight. I’m not gonna bark from the sideline like someone trying to prove they’re in charge. I don’t need to prove anything. Because you’re already enough. And when we play connected — when we play together— there’s not a team in this league that wants to see us in the fourth quarter.”

The silence is alive now. It’s not tension. It’s fire.

You breathe in once more.

“One more thing.”

You point to the logo on the center of the locker room floor.

“You don’t play for that name. Not tonight. Tonight, you play for the person sitting next to you. For the woman who ran suicides beside you in training camp. For the one who guarded your ass in practice. For the one who said ‘I got you’ and meant it.”

You let that land.

“Golden State is flashy. They’re loud. They’ve got shooters. They’ve got length. But they don’t have this.”

You press a hand to your chest.

“They don’t have each other the way you do.”

You step back. Voice low now.

“So you go out there tonight, and you remind them. You remind every single person watching what happens when this team is allowed to be itself. You play free. You play smart. You play like you already know the outcome.”

You glance at Paige.

She meets your eyes. Nods once.

“Now let’s go take our fucking game back.”

The gym smells like fresh wax and adrenaline.

The lights are still low overhead, just the warm gold of the early setup bouncing off polished hardwood. No crowd yet. No cameras rolling. Just the sound of shoes brushing the court, the echo of dribbles, the rhythmic thud of leather meeting wood.

Paige is already in a groove — gliding through midrange pull-ups, brushing past you like gravity doesn’t quite apply to her. You’re feeding her passes off a tight angle, barely a breath between catches. She doesn’t miss. Not once.

You don’t speak much during warmups. You never have. Everything between you happens in glances, in timing, in the tilt of her head and the way her wrist flicks just before a cut.

The arena is calm but humming. Like a storm is waiting behind the bleachers.

And that’s when you hear it.

That voice. Half-gravel, half-smirk.

“Well, well. Look at this little operation.”

You freeze. Paige stops in her tracks. You both turn at the same time. And there he is.

Geno Auriemma.

Paige’s eyes go wide. “Coach.”

You beat her to him, crossing the distance and pulling him into a hug that he accepts with that quiet, solid kind of affection only Geno knows how to give. He claps your back twice before pulling back.

“I had to come see it for myself,” he says. “You — the clipboard. Her — still doing everything except missing.”

Paige grins and hugs him too. She’s still sweaty from her warmup but he doesn’t care. He wraps her in both arms and squeezes her tight.

“You look good, kid.”

“Feel good,” she says. “Better than good.”

He turns back to you.

“I saw the press conference,” he says.

You stiffen.

He smiles. “About damn time someone said it.”

You breathe out a little laugh.

“I didn’t think it’d go that far.”

“Please,” he says. “You’ve always gone that far. I used to have to talk you out of going further.”

Paige laughs, grabbing a ball and spinning it in her hands.

“You always knew how to pick us,” she says.

Geno looks between the two of you. There’s something almost emotional in his eyes — not quite tears, but pride pressing against the edges.

“You two were always more than players,” he says. “And now… look at you. Running a damn team.”

You glance at Paige. She’s beaming.

Before you can say anything else, there’s the sound of sneakers behind you — quick, soft, a little uncertain.

You turn.

It’s Kaitlyn Chen.

She’s in her Valkyries warmup, hair in a tight braid, cheeks a little flushed like she just came off court. She’s walking with a kind of tentative excitement — like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to interrupt. Her eyes catch yours, and then Paige’s, and then Geno’s — and she slows to a stop, smiling.

“Hi.”

It’s soft. Hopeful.

“Kaitlyn!” Paige says, stepping forward and wrapping her into a hug before Chen can even blink.

You’re right behind her.

“Oh my god,” you say, grinning as you pull her in. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” she says. “They signed me again.”

You pull back, hands still on her arms. “You deserve it. You’ve always deserved it.”

She looks overwhelmed but happy. “I didn’t think I’d get another shot so soon.”

Geno steps in now, beaming like a dad at graduation.

“You think talent stays hidden forever?” he asks. “Please. You were born for this.”

Chen flushes a little.

Paige drapes an arm over her shoulder. “You’re gonna kill it. Just don’t kill us.”

They all laugh.

The moment stretches long and warm — the four of you standing near center court like time folded back in on itself. UConn stripes under new lights. Old roots, new soil. A reunion in the truest sense.

You reach up and brush Chen’s shoulder lightly.

“Second chances aren’t about making up for lost time,” you say. “They’re about rewriting the next chapter. You belong here.”

Chen nods, eyes shining just a little.

“I’m ready.”

Geno glances between all three of you. “You better be. I’ve got dinner riding on this.”

Paige raises a brow. “What kind of dinner?”

“The kind where I order appetizers and wine and pretend I don’t know how expensive the bill’s gonna be.”

You all laugh again.

And for a moment — just one — it feels like nothing’s changed. And everything has. And somehow, that’s exactly how it should be.

“Welcome to Dallas, folks — and welcome to what might just be the start of a whole new era for the Wings.”

The game clock is still ticking through warmups, the last minute before tip-off winding down. Paige is jogging back to the huddle with Arike and Nai, energy already high.

You stand on the sideline near mid-court, eyes scanning the Valkyries’ starters, already adjusting your mental playbook.

The broadcast cuts in again.

“And of course, all eyes tonight are not just on the floor, but on the sideline — where Y/N L/N, former assistant and longtime player development specialist, is making history tonight as the youngest interim head coach in WNBA history.”

The other commentator chimes in, voice sharp with excitement. “Let’s not forget — this appointment didn’t come quietly. After weeks of visible tension with now-suspended head coach Chris Koclanes, and a bombshell postgame press conference in Vegas, L/N is stepping into this role with the backing of the entire locker room. Including franchise centerpiece Paige Bueckers.”

The camera cuts to you for a moment as you motion for My and ZaZa to drop back into your modified matchup zone on the opening possession.

No clipboard. Just your voice, and they respond instantly.

Tip-off goes to Dallas.

ZaZa grabs the ball on a lucky deflection and kicks it wide to Paige. You’re already yelling, “Flat 3! Flat 3! Let it flow!”

Paige flashes the call, dribbles once to her left, and suddenly Arike’s slicing across the top of the arc, curling off Nalyssa’s screen and catching in perfect stride for a pull-up elbow jumper.

Splash. 2–0.

You nod once. Set jaw. Step back.

The Valkyries try to push in transition but Nai picks off the pass, flips it behind her to Myisha. Fast break. One dribble. Bounce to Lyss. Right-handed layup, clean off the glass. “And that’s the thing with this new look Wings squad — they’re playing fast, but they’re disciplined. Look at how L/N is pulling the strings already. Every possession, she’s calling adjustments. There’s structure, but it’s not robotic.”

Golden State’s next possession ends in a rushed floater from Veronica Burton — who looks sharp, but Lyss swats it off the glass. Paige’s voice echoes as she crashes for the board, “Run! Run!”

You point mid-transition, already calling, “Elbow flash — flip it!”

Arike flashes to the high post. Paige fakes the pass, spins baseline, and somehow squeezes between two Valkyries for the left-handed finish.

Timeout, Golden State.

6–0, Dallas.

The arena crowd’s on their feet. The bench is buzzing. Your players jog back to you — confident, in rhythm, like they can breathe again.

“I’ve been covering the W for years,” one of them says, “and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a team this energized after losing their head coach. Whatever’s happening behind the scenes — it’s working.”

“It’s trust,” the other commentator says. “And it’s not just Paige — look at Arike, look at Kaila, look at the way the bench is locked in. They’re playing like they’re finally being heard.”

Back on court, the next few minutes unfold like something out of a training video.

NaLyssa anchors the paint, swatting a second shot. Kaila jumps a passing lane for a steal. Paige hits a no-dribble step-back three with the shot clock winding down, and you just nod from the sideline.

You don’t over coach. You guide. You direct. And they move like water around you.

Golden State claws back a bit near the five-minute mark — Thornton hits a pretty scoop layup, and Myisha gets beat on a backdoor cut — but even then, you’re composed.

You clap once, motion to Myisha. “Get under, not over. Eyes on the second pass!”

She nods, resetting her feet on the next set.

On offense, you call for a different play — Paige runs the double screen, curls left, and instead of finishing herself, finds a slashing Kaila for the soft reverse.

It’s basketball poetry.

24 -14 Dallas, end of the first quarter.

The camera pans to you.

Standing steady, arms folded, voice low as you talk to Kaila and NaLyssa about timing on help-side rotations.

“That’s Y/N L/N on your screen — not even twenty-four, never played in the league, but every player on that team is looking to her like she’s been doing this for a decade.”

“She’s not screaming. She’s not performing. She’s just coaching. And right now? She’s winning.”

“And the man who helped her be the coach she is today is right there in the front row. Geno Auriemma.”

“What a legend.”

Golden State opens the second with a tighter zone look, and for a moment, the pace slows.

You watch Paige scan the defense from the wing, her hand out, bouncing low on the balls of her feet. You don’t have to say anything — you see the flicker in her eyes when she recognizes the drop coverage rotating late.

“Corner flare!” she calls.

Before the words finish echoing, Arike darts to the short corner, Nai seals high, and Paige whips a behind-the-back pass around her defender — laser-precise — right into Arike’s pocket.

Swish.

“Bueckers is playing with surgical precision tonight. That pass wasn’t just instinct — that was preparation. That’s tape study. That’s trust in the system.”

“And let’s give some credit to Y/N L/N here. These sets they’re running? These are player-empowering schemes. She’s giving her guards freedom and ownership.”

Back on defense, Paige presses up against Burton, and you can see the little smile on her face. Not cocky — just confident. A quiet “I studied your footwork” grin.

Burton tries to cross left — Paige strips her clean.

Fast break. Paige pushes the ball hard up the left sideline, eyes up, pacing the floor. Maddy sprints middle. Arike trails wide right.

Golden State commits to Arike — mistake.

Paige fakes the pass, stops on a dime, hesi-hops, and floats a teardrop over the collapsing big.

It’s textbook. It’s classic. It’s so her.

You don’t celebrate. You don’t need to.

You just lift two fingers, signal the transition press package, and Paige nods. Instant buy-in.

Golden State breaks it once — barely — and then Paige reads the skip pass, tips it out of bounds. She claps her hands, high-fives Arike on the switch, resets.

Midway through the quarter, she gets subbed out for a quick breather. You walk over, kneel in front of her as she towels off.

You keep your voice low.

“You’re forcing rotation off second movement. They’re biting on the first cut too hard — sell the fake and hit the backside.”

She nods, breathing heavy.

“You see it too?”

“I see it,” she says. She suggests a play.

You nod.

“Let’s run it next trip.”

She’s back in two minutes later.

First play back. Myisha sets the ghost screen and leaks inside. Paige sells the shot, whips it around her back, bounce pass between two defenders.

Layup. Easy. The crowd roars.

You just smile to yourself and check the play sheet.

Last possession of the half. Score tied at 36.

You call it from the sideline. “ISO two. Drag.”

Paige walks it up. Clock winding down. She waves everyone off.

The crowd’s getting louder.

10 seconds.

She pulls the ball high. Crosses left. Crosses again. The big steps up and she freezes her with a hard right jab — then hits a step-back three from the top of the key like it was scripted in a movie.

Buzzer. Splash.

39 - 36.

The team mob her near half-court.

You stay back. Let her have that moment. But when she jogs past you on the way to the tunnel, she holds up three fingers, tucks them against her chest, and gives you that grin.

You shake your head.

“God, I love your game,” you say.

She doesn’t even slow down. “I know.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft echo. The room is already alive with low chatter — players pulling at jerseys, toweling off sweat, water bottles being passed hand to hand. Paige leans forward with her elbows on her knees, catching her breath. JJ is untying and retying her shoes like she always does when she’s locked in. Arike is leaning against the lockers, talking through a last possession with Nai and Lyss, palms up in explanation.

You walk to the center of the room. Not the whiteboard — not yet. You don’t need diagrams to say what needs to be said first.

“All right,” you start, calm but loud enough for every head to lift. “I’m not starting with adjustments.”

Everyone quiets. Paige sits up straighter. You take a slow look around the room. Every pair of eyes finds you. Waiting.

“I’m starting with this. You are doing a hell of a job. Every single one of you.”

There’s a pause. Not quite disbelief — more like everyone’s not used to hearing praise come without a ‘but’ attached.

You continue.

“I don’t care what anyone outside this locker room expected from you tonight. I don’t care what the betting line was or what the commentators predicted. You came in here and you playedconnected. You played intelligent. You played like a team that knows exactly who the hell they are.”

Paige nods slowly, wiping her forehead. You press forward.

“We talked before the game about playing for each other — about not letting anything outside this room define us. And what I’m seeing out there? That’s not just good basketball. That’s intentional basketball. That’s trust. That’s chemistry. That’s earned.”

You give it a second to sink in.

“Nalyssa, your rebounds has changed the flow of their offense completely. You’ve got complete control over them.”

Nalyssa’s eyes widen a little, like she wasn’t expecting to be mentioned by name. She nods once, chin lifting.

“Nai, you’re anchoring every switch like it’s second nature. Keep quarterbacking the backside. Everyone’s feeding off your voice.”

“Arike, you’re not forcing. You’re letting the game come to you. That last flare set? That was exactly the read we wanted.”

She nods. You can tell she’s proud. Not cocky — just seen.

“Kaila, you’re playing one hell of a game. I am so glad they resigned you just days after waiving you. You are proving why they made that mistake of letting you go in the first place.”

She blushes, the first time she’s heard praise like that this year.

“And Paige—” You pause, watching her meet your eyes. “You��re running this like you were born for it. Keep reading, keep adapting, and keep trusting that every set we built is built for you to thrive.”

Paige doesn’t smile, but the way she exhales tells you she needed to hear it.

You shift slightly now. Tone grounded, focused.

“That being said — they’re going to make adjustments.”

The team nods, collectively.

“They’re going to blitz the high screens now that Paige has found the rhythm. They might shift into a 1–3–1 zone if we keep killing them off the ghost screens. And on defense, I need backside help earlier — especially on baseline drives. If they collapse the weak side, you’ve got to communicate it loud and fast.”

You walk to the board, drawing quick rotations.

“Help comes early. Don’t get caught ball-watching. Leite’s quick — she’ll slice through if we freeze for half a second.”

You tap the chalk against the diagram.

“Offensively, we keep their bigs moving. We wear them down. Third quarter is when you break their legs. I want constant motion, even off ball. Don’t rest. Don’t relax.”

You step back, hands at your sides again.

“But understand this — we’re not in here adjusting because we’re chasing. We’re in here adjusting because we’re dictating. That’s what great teams do. That’s what you are. Right now. Today.”

The room is still. Focused. You meet their eyes again, slowly, one by one.

“This game isn’t about proving people wrong anymore. You’ve already done that. It’s about proving yourselves right.”

Silence.

And then Arike slaps her knee and says, “Let’s go.”

Nai’s already on her feet. Paige stands last, walking past you toward the door, gently bumping your shoulder with hers. You smile. Just a little. And follow them out.

The third quarter starts fast.

Golden State opens with a drag screen for Thornton, who threads a perfect bounce pass under Myisha’s outstretched arm. Easy layup.

You’re already yelling, clipboard tight under your arm. “Talk the switch! Don’t die on the drag!”

Paige jogs it up the floor, scanning. You raise two fingers and swipe — she nods.

Set play. High horns action. Arike cuts corner, Kaila flares weak side.

The Valkyries trap Paige hard — but she slips right through the double with a quick spin, then steps back and drills a fading two from the right elbow. It’s surgical.

“And just like that, Paige Bueckers calms it down. She’s the metronome for this team — she never speeds up, even when the defense does.”

“But watch how Coach L/N reacts — she’s already calling the next two sets ahead. That kind of rhythm between a coach and star guard doesn’t happen by accident. That’s years of work.”

You don’t even smile. Just pivot to your next call.

“Swing double! Make them work!”

And they do.

Golden State counters with a corner three from Hayes. Good shot. Clean look. It falls.

Dallas answers right back — Paige runs a modified floppy into a ghost screen with Luisa, who seals her defender just long enough for Paige to bury a stop-and-pop three.

She backpedals. You’re already clapping once, signaling Nai to prep early help on the next trip.

The energy on both benches is rising.

The Valkyries press higher now — doubling early, trying to rattle Dallas. It works once. Lyss fumbles a short-corner jumper, leading to a transition bucket the other way.

Dallas 50 – Golden State 42.

The crowd is buzzing. The air shifts. Timeout.

“You good?” you ask Paige quietly, handing her a towel.

“Yup,” she says. She’s not winded. She’s just pacing herself.

You kneel briefly in front of the players.

“They’re speeding the ball side. That means the backside’s soft. We attack it next time down.”

Kaila nods. “Slip early?”

You nod. “Before the second shift hits.”

Back from timeout. Paige takes the inbound.

She hesitates just enough to bait the trap again — and immediately skips it to Arike, who ball-fakes, drives baseline, and whips it across to Nai for a wide-open corner three.

Splash.

You call it the second she releases. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Coach L/N is coaching every frame right now. You see that? She called the make before the shot dropped.”

“She knows what’s coming — and more importantly, so do her players.”

Golden State doesn’t back down. They hit again. Billings hits a step-back two. Amihere finishes a put back on the break.

It’s a knife-fight now. Every play matters.

That’s when it happens.

Carla Leite drives hard into the lane. DiJonai steps up — chest out, feet planted — and Leite flails sideways. The whistle’s instant.

Offensive foul? No.

Blocking. On Nai.

She slaps her hands down once, tight. Eyes wide.

You can hear her shout — not at the ref, but to you. “Coach! I was set! I swear!”

And you believe her.

Without hesitation, you motion to the lead ref. Fingers twirling.

“Challenge that.”

The buzzer sounds.

Your players immediately gather around. Paige’s hand rests lightly on Nai’s back. Arike and Lyss crowd close. You keep your voice low but steady.

“If we win the challenge, we switch to 2–3 zone on their inbound. Trap the high corners. Force baseline.”

Paige nods. “Send me to the back corner?”

“Exactly.”

“And if we don’t win it?” Arike asks.

“We go back man, but no switches on weak side. Stay home and force the shot. Rebound hard.”

They all nod. Nai’s still tense. You place a hand on her shoulder.

“I trust your feet,” you say. “You were set? Let’s prove it.”

On the big screen, the arena plays the challenge angle.

Leite leans in hard. Nai’s chest is square. She’s outside the restricted area. No lean. No slide. The footage plays twice. The crowd’s reacting.

“Oooh… I don’t know about that call. Carrington looked solid there. And you have to love how quickly L/N called for the review.”

“That’s real-time trust. Most coaches hesitate — she didn’t even blink.”

The official walks to the center court.

“After review… the call is overturned. Offensive foul. Dallas retains possession. Gains another challenge and keeps their timeout.”

The arena explodes.

Your bench is on its feet. Nai claps her hands twice and exhales — a heavy, quiet relief. Paige grins and bumps her chest on the way back to the line.

You meet Nai’s eyes. “Next time, they won’t even try you.”

She grins. “Damn right they won’t.”

Last few minutes of the third are scrappy. The Valkyries press. Paige takes a hard bump on a drive and gets no call. You’re halfway onto the court yelling before she waves you off.

“I’m good,” she mouths. “I got this.”

And she does.

She ends the quarter with a filthy behind-the-back step-through floater in traffic, giving her 24 points on the night.

“Bueckers is running the show, but let’s give credit where it’s due — L/N has unlocked her game in ways we haven’t seen since UConn. This is the Bueckers we knew was in there.”

They’ve cut the lead down, but you’re still ahead. And the locker room knows exactly who’s in charge.

You don’t sit once.

The fourth quarter opens with a miscommunication on a switch. Thornton buries another three from the wing. The lead cuts to two.

The crowd groans. You don’t flinch.

Paige jogs up the court, sweat dripping from her chin, eyes locked on yours.

“Clear side?” she asks, reading the Valkyries’ spacing.

You nod once. “Yours. Eat.”

She waves everyone off and isolates on Burton. One crossover. Two hard pounds. The help slides late and Paige floats it soft off the glass with her left.

Back on defense, Lyss gets caught on a backdoor. Golden State scores.

They press full court. Paige is doubled.

You call it from the sideline. “Slice motion!”

She spins through the trap, whips it crosscourt to Nai. Nai drives, kicks to Arike. Short corner jumper. Good.

“Dallas refusing to break. Bueckers is bending everything around her. And you can tell — she’s playing with absolute clarity. That’s coaching. That’s trust.”

The next five minutes are war.

Golden State runs three straight successful backdoor cuts. You adjust your defense into a hybrid 1–2–2 zone. Paige organizes it on the fly, calling assignments with just her eyes and a tilt of her head.

You sub Kaila back in. You whisper in her ear. “No hedge. Just wall. Make them float it.”

She nods.

They test it. Leite drives — Kaila absorbs the hit, hands high. Miss.

Fast break. Paige grabs the board. One dribble. Two. She sees Arike leaking and throws a no-look bounce pass through two defenders that somehow finds her in stride.

Layup.

Golden State comes right back. Thornton drills another corner three. Valkyries take the lead for the first time all night.

The air in the arena stiffens. You feel it — every part of it. It’s like the crowd is holding a single collective breath.

You call timeout.

The huddle tightens around you. Sweat. Hands on knees. Heartbeats.

You kneel.

“We are not giving this away,” you say, low and sharp. “We’ve been the better team. They’re chasing. You keep playing smart, we finish this.”

You look at Paige.

“You ready?”

She nods once. “Let’s go win it.”

Four minutes left. Paige goes full lockdown on defense — face-guarding Burton, cutting off every drive. She fights over a screen and still contests the shot without fouling.

Miss.

Rebound to DiJonai. Kick to Paige.

You raise three fingers and shout, “Firework! Now!”

She recognizes it instantly.

Myisha sets a screen high. Paige uses it but doesn’t finish. Instead, she spins back, rejects the second screen, and hits a sidestep three over the scrambling defender.

Crowd erupts.

“That’s a superstar bucket. That’s a ‘give me the ball and get out the way’ bucket.”

“And credit L/N again — calling a play at exactly the right time. They knew that screen reject was going to be there.”

Two minutes left. Tied at 71.

Golden State hits a tough floater over Lyss. Dallas gets the ball. Paige walks it up. Calm. Ice.

You whisper from the sideline. “High iso, clear weak.”

She glances at you. Nods. You already know what she’s going to do. You trained her for this moment. She dances. She waits. Crossover. Jab. Pull-back. The defender jumps. Paige steps forward and drills a mid-range dagger.

Dallas up 76-71.

Golden State runs iso for Burton. She pulls up from deep — off. Rebound Dallas.

You don’t call timeout. Paige waves you off, just once. You let her go.

Shot clock’s two seconds off from the game clock. 18 seconds.

She walks it up.

Kaila clears. Arike clears. She’s at the top. Right wing. Burton’s on her again.

12 seconds.

She dribbles low. Calm. So, so calm.

7 seconds.

She fakes left, drives right. The big slides up — late.

She steps back and hits a rainbow three from beyond the arc.

Soft. Clean. Perfect. Whistle. And one.

79–71.

2.3 left.

Timeout Golden State.

The bench explodes. You don’t. You’re focused. Locked in. But there’s a ghost of a smirk that forms on your face.

Paige hits the free-throw.

Valkyries run their final play. Burton catches on the wing. She fires.

It rims out.

Buzzer.

Wings win.

You don’t celebrate like you just won a championship. You walk to Paige as the rest of the team swarms the floor. She’s breathing hard. Smiling. Glowing. She bumps your fist.

You say, softly, “You did that.”

She grins wider. “We did.”

“That’s the moment. That’s your star player. That’s your interim head coach. This is a team.”

“Paige Bueckers scores twenty with four rebounds and four steals. Y/N L/N wins their first official game as interim head coach. And this team, this Dallas Wings team, may have just found their heartbeat.”

The postgame presser room is hot with flashes. Reporters already buzzing before you even sit down. The last shot’s been replayed a dozen times. Paige’s twenty points are headlining national coverage. And every tweet, clip, and camera has caught the subtle — or not-so-subtle — chemistry between you and her.

You walk in with Paige to your left and Nai to your right. Paige’s hair is pulled into a bun, sweat still glistening under the fluorescent lights. Nai sits with her legs bouncing, still keyed up from the finish.

You sit, smooth the front of your Dallas Wings quarter-zip, and nod to the moderator.

“Coach L/N, Paige, DiJonai — congratulations. We’ll take questions.”

Hands shoot up.

A reporter from ESPN gets the first one.

“Coach L/N, walk us through that last play. Was it drawn up for Paige, or did she take the reins?”

You lean into the mic.

“She took the reins. And I trusted her to do so. Paige sees the floor like no one else. We’ve been building that kind of trust since high school. So when she waved me off, I didn’t hesitate.” You glance at her. Paige’s mouth twitches, holding back a grin. “She knew what the moment needed. She’s built for that.”

Another hand. A WNBA.com writer.

“Paige — twenty points, a shot to seal the win and clearly playing with freedom. What’s different now with Coach L/N on the sideline?”

Paige doesn’t answer right away. She leans into the mic slowly, voice calm but sure.

“I’m trusted,” she says simply. “I know I can make mistakes, take risks. I know my reads won’t be second-guessed from the sideline. That kind of space, it’s everything.”

You feel that land. Hard. A few pens scratch harder. Everyone in the room hears the not-so-subtle dig at Chris. Another hand.

“Coach, this win puts the Wings at 2–10. There’s obviously been turmoil. Do you feel like tonight changes the trajectory of the season?”

You fold your hands. Speak clearly.

“Tonight was about showing what we’re capable of when there’s clarity, structure, and trust. Our record is what it is. But tonight wasn’t about erasing the past, it was about setting a standard for the future.” You pause. “We’re not chasing wins anymore. We’re building an identity.”

Another question — this time for Nai.

“DiJonai, that third-quarter challenge you asked for changed momentum. Can you talk about what it meant to have your coach trust you like that?”

Nai exhales slowly, nodding.

“I knew I was set. I knew it. I just looked over and didn’t even have to say anything. Coach didn’t blink. She believed me. That kind of support in a high-stakes game? That’s different. It means something.” She glances at you, adds softer, “I’ve played a long time. That level of trust? Rare.”

A younger reporter, maybe from a digital outlet, finally goes for it.

“Coach, there’s been a lot of attention on your dynamic with Paige — during games, in practice footage, and even in interviews. Some are calling it unusually close. How would you describe your relationship with her from a professional standpoint?”

You don’t flinch. You expected this. You meet the reporter’s eyes, then glance briefly at Paige — just a flicker — before answering.

“I’ve been working with Paige since we were teenagers. I’ve studied her game for a years. That familiarity, that trust, allows me to coach her with a precision that’s earned, not given.” You let that sit. “As for what people call it? They’re free to speculate. My job is to elevate this team. Her job is to lead it. And tonight, we both did that.”

You can hear cameras clicking faster. The subtext is clear. But your tone never wavers.

“So you’re not denying there’s more there?”

Paige clears her throat. Her voice is quieter but no less sure.

“Everything that matters? You just saw it on the court.”

The room freezes. The tension rises. And you? You lean forward.

“We’re done here,” you say smoothly.

And you stand. Paige follows. DiJonai too.

The press room erupts behind you, questions shouted, cameras going wild — but the three of you walk out as a wall. And as you disappear behind the door, Paige brushes your fingers with hers, just once, in the hallway where no one’s watching.

“I got you,” she says under her breath.

You nod.

“I know.”

The last of the fans were gone. The arena lights had dimmed to their overnight settings — still on, but muted, soft like a curtain being drawn halfway across the sky. The jumbotron ran a silent highlight loop above center court, flickering between still frames of the last shot and the postgame celebration.

Down on the court, you sat on the scorer’s table, legs swinging lightly. Paige stood to your left, sweat-damp hair tucked into a loose bun, jersey half-untucked. She was quiet now, coming down from the adrenaline, hands on her hips, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

Across the baseline, Kaitlyn Chen walked out from the tunnel. Still in her Valkyries gear. Her hair was slicked back, eyes alert, but tired. She looked like she hadn’t broken a sweat. Because she hadn’t.

Paige noticed her first.

“Kait,” she called, a smile pulling slow across her face.

Kaitlyn raised a hand in greeting but didn’t speak. She walked the length of the court, sneakers whispering against the hardwood.

You watched her — the way her steps slowed as she reached mid-court. She wasn’t sulking. But there was a quiet weight to the way her eyes stayed low.

Paige hopped off the table and met her halfway.

“You looked good in warmups,” she said gently.

Kaitlyn cracked a small smile, then sighed. “Warmups were the peak of my night.”

You joined them at mid-court, hands in your pockets. “Geno’s still here. Thought we all might want to see him.”

“Yeah,” Kaitlyn said quickly. “I mean—yeah.”

As if on cue, Geno Auriemma stepped out from the opposite tunnel. He walked slower than usual. No entourage. Just Geno — in his typical blue blazer. His voice rang softly across the court.

“Well,” he said, “if this isn’t the most dramatic group of Huskies I’ve ever coached.”

Paige grinned and walked to him first, embracing him with one arm. He pulled her in tighter, kissed the top of her head like it was instinct.

“Twenty points, four rebounds and four steals?” he muttered. “You never did that for me.”

“I’m thriving in a different tax bracket now,” she joked.

Geno turned to Kaitlyn next. And for a second, you saw the composure on her face falter. She stepped in and hugged him without hesitation.

“You look good, kid,” he said.

“I feel... grateful,” she replied. “Even if I’m not seeing the floor.”

He didn’t brush it off. Didn’t rush to say ‘your time will come.’ He just squeezed her shoulder and said, “You belong. Don’t forget that.”

You stayed back for a moment, watching the three of them. Paige and Kaitlyn, standing side by side in two very different uniforms, two very different seasons of their life. Geno between them, like the pillar that tied it all together.

Finally, Geno turned to you.

“Interim head coach,” he said, a smirk curling his lip. “I should’ve known you’d end up here.”

You shrugged. “I’ve been lucky.”

“No,” Geno said, stepping closer. “You’ve been relentless. There’s a difference.”

That humbled you more than you let show. The four of you stood there in a quiet circle. Kaitlyn leaned lightly into Paige’s shoulder, just for a second. Paige didn’t move.

Geno looked up at the rafters. He didn’t speak for a long moment.

“I used to think the most important thing I gave players was structure,” he finally said. “Systems. Offense. Legacy.” He looked at the three of you. “But maybe it was each other.”

None of you had anything to add to that. Not yet. The jumbotron looped one last time, this time pausing on Paige’s rainbow three. You all looked up at once.

Kaitlyn smiled faintly. “It’s a good picture.”

Paige nudged her lightly. “Next time it’ll be you.”

Kaitlyn didn’t answer. Just nodded, quiet.

You didn’t make promises. You didn’t say what every player gets told — that the moment will come, that patience pays. Because sometimes it didn’t. And sometimes it didn’t pay fast enough.

But you looked her in the eyes and said, “We’ll be watching.”

She smiled. “I know.”

You barely shut the door before Paige’s shoes are off.

They land with two soft thuds by the entryway, one halfway on top of the other. She walks straight into the kitchen and opens the fridge, standing there in her practice shorts and the oversized Wings hoodie she always steals from your side of the closet.

You lock the door behind you and lean against it for a second, watching her.

The fridge casts a faint white glow over her cheekbones, her nose, the slight furrow in her brow as she debates sparkling water or Gatorade like it’s a late-game decision.

“You still hungry for real food?” you ask, your voice low.

She shrugs one shoulder. “I had three protein bars after the game.”

You arch a brow. “You call that dinner?”

“I call it fuel,” she mumbles, cracking open a lemon water and shutting the fridge with her hip.

She leans on the counter. and looks at you. Really looks.

You haven’t changed yet either. Your shoes are still on. Game pass still clipped around your neck. There’s dried sweat on the back of your neck and your shoulder's stiff from pacing all game.

“You good?” she asks softly.

You nod.

“High’s wearing off,” you admit.

She takes a sip, sets the bottle down, and walks over, slow, until she’s standing right in front of you. Close enough that the leftover arena on her skin — the faint tang of Gatorade, sweat, fabric softener — hits your nose.

She reaches up and peels the lanyard off your neck. Tosses it somewhere behind you. It lands with a soft thwack.

“Still can’t believe it,” she says quietly. “The game. You. That whole fourth quarter.”

You smile, just barely. “You’re not surprised.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “But it still hits different.”

Her hand finds yours. You let your fingers lace without thinking. Her palm is warm and damp. Her thumb grazes the back of your knuckles like it’s checking for something — pulse, maybe.

“You were so calm out there,” she says.

You exhale through your nose. “I was holding on by a thread.”

She laughs. Leans her forehead to your chest. You feel her shoulders finally drop. For a while, neither of you speak. It’s like you’re both waiting to come down together. Eventually, she looks up again.

“Was it weird?” she asks. “Coaching me in front of... everyone?”

You shake your head.

“No,” you answer honestly. “That part felt natural.”

She studies you. “Even with the way they look at us now?”

You pause. Then lift your other hand and tuck her hair behind her ear, gently. She leans into your palm like a reflex.

“They can look all they want,” you say. “What we’ve got isn’t for them.”

She smiles, slow and tired. “Good answer.”

Later, you both sit on the couch — legs tangled, two bowls of cereal between you, game highlights playing muted on the TV. Your laptop’s open on the coffee table, half-full of notes from tonight, still unsaved.

Paige points at the screen when her last shot flashes.

“Why do I look like I was falling over?”

“You were falling over.”

She mock shoves you with her foot. A beat passes.

“You saved me tonight,” she says suddenly.

You glance over, eyebrows raised. She meets your eyes. Not joking now.

“You didn’t have to let me wave you off. You didn’t have to trust me with the last shot. But you did.”

You set your bowl down and shift closer.

“I didn’t save you,” you say. “I just gave you the floor. You did everything else.”

Her fingers find yours again. That quiet touch. The one that’s never loud, never rushed, always just there. She leans her head on your shoulder.

“Still,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

The night stretches quietly around you. Just the two of you.