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prettygirl-gabi · 2 months ago

Text

Beautifully written.

𝚍𝚘 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞? || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which she forgets but fate doesn't

The hospital lights are always too bright.

Sterile. Cold. Clinical. Nothing like the warmth you used to feel wrapped up in Paige’s arms after a long day, her voice soft against your ear, whispering about dreams and game plans and how lucky she felt to have you.

But now, the only sound that echoes in the room is the beeping of monitors. A rhythm you’ve come to hate because it means she’s alive—but not whole.

She’s been awake for three days.

Three long, agonizing days since the doctors told you the words you never thought you’d hear. Partial retrograde amnesia. A fancy way of saying: She doesn’t remember you.

She remembered basketball. Her coach. Her teammates. Her stats.

But not you.

Not the woman who held her through every injury. Not the woman who kissed her forehead before every game. Not the woman who stood in the stands with her jersey on and tears in her eyes every time she made history.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even seem to want to.

Every time you tried to talk to her, to offer something—anything—to make it come back, she would shrink further into herself. Polite, but distant. Guarded.

You told yourself to be patient. To give her time. Love is supposed to wait, right?

But then her parents pulled you aside.

Her mom couldn’t meet your eyes. Her dad’s voice was gentle but firm.

“Maybe it’s best,” he said, “if you give her some space.”

“She’s overwhelmed,” her mom added. “She’s trying to focus on healing. And you being here… it’s a lot.”

You felt like your heart had been ripped out and handed to you in a sterile hospital hallway.

“But I—” you started, but your voice cracked.

“She doesn’t remember you,” her dad said softly. “Maybe it’s time you start healing too.”

And just like that, you were being erased.

You left UConn a week later.

You couldn’t stay. Not in that gym where you used to shoot around after practice together. Not in that dorm where her laughter used to echo through the halls, tangled up with yours.

You entered the transfer portal.

A week after that, you were headed to UCLA.

New coast. New team. New life.

Except it wasn’t really a life at all.

Because every morning you woke up without her. Every night you fell asleep trying to forget the way she used to whisper I love you against your shoulder.

And Paige?

Paige healed.

She recovered. She rejoined practice. And every now and then, she’d ask her parents, “Hey… that girl that used to sit by my bed. Who was she?”

Her parents would smile too tightly. “Oh, just someone from school,” they’d say. “Don’t worry about it.” “Focus on your future.”

So she tried. She buried the questions. Tried to push past the shadow of a memory she couldn’t reach.

It’s been a year.

Final Four. UConn vs. UCLA.

Of course it comes down to this. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You spot her across the court during warmups.

Paige Bueckers. Back in form. Confident. Deadly. Beautiful in a way that still makes your chest ache.

She doesn’t see you. Or maybe she does and doesn’t know what you mean.

You play your heart out. Every cut, every drive, every shot—there’s fire behind it. But it’s not enough. UConn takes the win.

And then it’s the handshake line.

You don’t know what’s worse—the idea of touching her again, or the idea of not.

She reaches for your hand. Her fingers close around yours.

You look up.

Her eyes meet yours. And something flickers.

A spark. A ghost of recognition. A heartbeat caught in her throat.

“Good game,” she says automatically, her voice hoarse from emotion.

You nod, lips trembling. “You too.”

You try to let go first, but she holds on a second longer. Like maybe she doesn’t want to let go.

Like maybe she knows.

But you pull away with a small smile and walk off.

You don’t look back. You can’t. Because the tears are already falling.

That night, Paige can’t sleep.

She’s tossing and turning in the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, the handshake replaying in her mind on a loop.

Then she starts seeing flashes.

Not highlights. Not plays.

You.

Laughing in the passenger seat of her car, your hand hanging out the window. Falling asleep on her chest after late practices. Sneaking out of hotels for midnight milkshakes before big games. Crying in her arms after your first big loss together. The way she used to kiss the inside of your wrist like it was sacred.

Your voice echoing in her head:

"You make everything feel lighter."

And then— Pain. Sharp and raw. Like her heart’s been waiting all year to remember and now it finally does.

She sits up with a gasp, chest heaving.

And she remembers everything.

The accident. The look on your face when she didn’t know your name. The way you held her hand even when she pulled away. The way you loved her even when she forgot.

And the day you left—eyes red, voice shaking, whispering, “If you ever remember me… I hope it’s the good parts.”

She buries her face in her hands and sobs. Gut-wrenching, soul-breaking sobs.

Because she remembers now. She remembers you. And she let you walk away.

She remembers everything now.

It hits her like a freight train the moment she wakes up, drenched in sweat and tears, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering her to the world.

You.

Your laugh. Your touch. The way you used to whisper “we’ve got this” before every game like you were casting a spell.

She remembers the accident. The way you used to sit by her bedside, silently praying for a miracle.

She remembers the confusion in your eyes every time she said, “Do I know you?” The way your shoulders slumped just a little more each day.

And then— Your goodbye. Your eyes red. Voice cracking. That whisper— "If you ever remember me… I hope it’s the good parts."

She needs to find you.

Now.

She jumps out of bed, heart racing, hands shaking as she fumbles with her phone.

Instagram. Blocked. Twitter. Blocked. TikTok. Blocked. Message. Green bubble. No profile picture. No read receipts. Just a wall where there used to be warmth.

She searches your name again, as if something might’ve changed in the last five seconds.

Nothing. You’re gone.

She stares at the screen like it might apologize.

Like it might undo what her silence, her forgetting, has cost her.

She runs to her parent’s hotel room like she’s being chased, the ache in her chest growing with every mile. The moment she steps through the door, her mom’s face pales.

“You remember,” her mom says softly.

Paige nods, jaw tight. “Everything.”

Her dad shifts uncomfortably. “Paige, we didn’t mean to—”

“You told her to leave, didn’t you?” Her voice is hoarse now. Breaking. “You told the love of my life to walk away from me.”

“You were overwhelmed,” her mom defends gently. “You didn’t recognize her, and she was—”

“She was mine!” Paige snaps, the tears already welling in her eyes. “She waited by my bed every day, and you treated her like she was some stranger trying to mess with me.”

Her mom’s lip trembles. “We thought we were helping—”

“You weren’t. You took her from me.”

She’s crying now. Full-on sobs she can’t control. Her knees buckle and she sinks to the kitchen floor, head in her hands.

Her dad kneels beside her, reaching to touch her shoulder, but she flinches away.

“She left because she loved me,” she chokes out. “And now I’ve lost her for good.”

Championship night.

It’s everything she dreamed of.

Confetti falls from the rafters. Cameras flash. Reporters crowd the court. The trophy’s heavy in her arms, shining under the lights.

But all she feels is empty.

Because you’re not there.

Not in the stands wearing her jersey. Not on the court, jumping into her arms. Not waiting in the tunnel with your arms wide and your smile even wider.

You’re nowhere.

She stands there, holding the championship trophy, and the moment the cameras pull away, she breaks.

Sinks to the hardwood, sobbing so hard her chest shakes.

Azzi and KK rush to her, but there’s nothing they can do. Nothing anyone can do.

Because she won it. The dream you built together. The thing you used to whisper about under blankets and after practice and in quiet corners of the world. “We’ll win one together. Just wait.”

You waited. You believed. And she forgot you.

And now you’re gone.

Later, alone in the locker room, she scrolls through your old messages.

The ones she didn’t delete. The ones she couldn’t.

"I believe in you always." "You’re not alone. Not ever." "We’re going to make it, babe. I promise."

She clutches her phone to her chest and cries again. The trophy sits on the bench beside her, shining quietly.

But it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

Because she won.

But she lost you.

It’s been a week.

Seven days since the championship. Since the confetti. Since Paige collapsed in the locker room clutching a trophy in one hand and her heart in the other.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about you. You, who should’ve been on the court beside her. You, who used to trace plays on her back with your fingers at night, whispering “When we win it all…” like it was gospel.

But you weren’t there.

And the silence is louder than any celebration ever could be.

She’s sitting in the back of a black SUV on the way to the WNBA Draft, staring at the world outside the window, eyes glazed over.

Azzi’s next to her, buzzing with nerves and excitement. Paige should be too. She’s projected to go first. Her dream is about to come true.

But her hands are cold. Her throat’s dry. Because the person she wanted to celebrate with most— Is gone.

And she doesn’t know if she’ll ever see you again.

You told yourself you wouldn’t come. You’d done the whole disappearing act flawlessly—blocked numbers, wiped socials, cut the thread before it could pull you back in.

But then the day arrived, and you couldn’t stay away.

So now you’re here.

Not in the front row. Not on the list. But tucked away in the back of the venue in jeans and a hoodie, hood up like maybe that’ll hide the way your heart is thudding in your chest.

You just wanted to see her one last time.

The lights dim. The commissioner steps up to the mic.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select…”

You hold your breath.

“Paige Bueckers, from University of Connecticut.”

The crowd explodes.

You’re on your feet before you know it, clapping with your whole soul, because God, you’re proud of her.

Because no matter the distance, no matter the heartbreak— You always believed in her.

She walks across the stage, hugs her parents, accepts the jersey, does the interview.

And for a moment, you let yourself imagine an alternate world. One where you're up there with her. Where she never forgot. Where you never left.

But you blink and it’s gone.

You’re halfway to the exit when the commissioner returns to the podium.

You pause.

Probably just the last few names. Filler. Nothing that concerns you.

“…and with the 30th pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…”

You check your phone, already mentally checking out.

“The Dallas Wings select…”

You look up absently.

“…Y/N L/N, from University of California Los Angeles.”

Your heart stops.

You freeze. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

No. That— That has to be a mistake.

You barely played this year. You didn’t go to any pre-draft camps. You only declared because your coaches pushed you to. You didn’t even think you’d get a look.

And now— Now you're drafted?

By Dallas?

The same team as Paige?

The same Paige who’s sitting with the commentators, still soaking up the high of being drafted first overall, smiling through interviews — until your name’s announced.

You see it in real time. Her whole body freezes.

The mic drops a little in her hand. Her head snaps toward the screen behind her, where your face flashes beside your name.

She doesn’t even blink.

Because she heard it. She felt it.

Just like you did.

After taking your picture, you’re pulled into a different room, mind still i overdrive, not being to comprehend much yet. As you walk in, there she was — looking beautiful in her suit.

You don't know what to expect. A handshake? A nod? Maybe just silence?

But as soon as you reach her— She steps forward and pulls you into a hug.

Tight. Shaking. Desperate.

And suddenly you're back in her arms, back in the place you never thought you'd be again.

"I prayed for a second chance," she whispers in your ear. "And you showed up."

You swallow the lump in your throat, gripping the back of her jersey like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

“I didn’t think I’d get drafted,” you murmur. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. There's glassiness there, but also something else—something soft and fierce and real.

“I’m not losing you again,” she says, voice thick with tears.

You can’t trust yourself to speak. So you just nod. Because maybe this time, fate is finally on your side.

#~gabi recs~#paige bueckers x reader #uconn women’s basketball #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige x reader #paige buckets #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh #wnba x reader #~uncuredturkeybacon~#~•gabi gabs moots•~

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prettygirl-gabi · 1 month ago

Text

Umm imma need more!!!!!

𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜

in which you talk trash but she isn't afraid to talk back

warning : sexual content included - minors dni

By the time the buzzer rang to open the Aces vs. Wings game, the entire league had been waiting for this moment.

The reigning MVP versus the new golden girl.

You stood at half court, bouncing on your heels with your signature grin tugging at your mouth. Your braid was pulled tight. Your sneakers already squeaked with heat. The ball hadn’t even tipped, and you were locked in, eyes narrowing across the line at Paige Bueckers.

“Ready to see what the WNBA really feels like, rookie?” you called, voice casual, but loud enough that the nearest camera mic picked it up.

Paige just rolled her eyes. “You done rehearsing that line in the mirror?”

Your smirk widened. “Oh, I’ve got a whole setlist ready for you.”

Paige didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to. Her hands settled on her hips, her expression unreadable beneath the calm ice of competition she wore so well. But you knew the look. That stubborn Bueckers fire was already catching.

First possession, you made a show of it.

Between-the-legs dribble, behind the back, hesitation at the arc. Paige didn’t bite. But the second she leaned the wrong way—barely, just a twitch—you stepped back and drained a three right over her outstretched fingers.

“Welcome to the league,” you called, backpedaling. “First lesson’s free.”

The crowd erupted. Camera flashes. Someone on the Dallas bench whistled. You winked.

It was electric.

Paige came back harder, of course. Her first possession ended in a sharp cut to the elbow and a smooth jumper, her footwork so precise it looked choreographed. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. She just glanced your way as she jogged down court like, your turn.

The game unfolded like a symphony of pettiness and skill. You pushed her. She shoved back. You jab-stepped and faked. She clamped down on your drives. It was basketball in its purest, grittiest form—trash talk over rhythm, mind games wrapped around talent.

You stole a pass from her in the second quarter and went coast to coast, finishing with a spin move layup that sent the Aces’ bench to their feet.

“Gotta protect your lunch, Bueckers,” you said on your way back down. “You’re in the big leagues now.”

She didn’t break stride. “Pretty bold for someone who needs the whole highlight reel just to score.”

“Ouch,” you said. “You rehearse that one too?”

Mid-third quarter, she clipped you on a drive—light, but enough that you stumbled. The whistle didn’t come. You both kept going. Next possession, you bumped her hard on a screen.

“That for the foul or the ego?” she muttered under her breath, eyes locked on you.

“Bit of both,” you said, grinning. “But mostly the ego.”

There was something in the way you danced around each other—tension, sure. But not the hateful kind. The kind that buzzed with familiarity, with too much awareness. The way she stole glances at you when she thought you weren’t looking. The way you always knew exactly where she was on the court without trying.

You were in her head. She was getting in yours too.

By the fourth quarter, it was still tight. 81-80. Your shoulders were damp with sweat, but your eyes were clear. Laser-focused.

A timeout was called with thirty seconds left. You and Paige walked to your benches, but not before you brushed shoulders at mid-court.

“You get extra points for rookie takedowns?” Paige asked, low.

“No,” you said, mouth curling. “But I do count them.”

She huffed a laugh and didn’t look away.

You finished with 24 points, 7 assists, 3 steals. Paige had 18 and 6.

You won the game.

But afterward, when you walked past her in the tunnel and caught her already watching you—arms crossed, sweat still clinging to her hairline—you didn’t throw another jab.

You just slowed.

She raised a brow. “What, no more trash talk?”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to her lips for half a second too long. “I save some for the rematch.”

Paige tilted her head, stepping closer. “I’ll be ready.”

You leaned in, voice a low hum. “Hope so. Would hate to keep schooling you like this.”

And just for a heartbeat—one quiet, pulsing moment—neither of you said anything else.

But everything shifted.

Paige sat between DiJonai and Arike, a towel draped around her neck and a tightly wound rubber band holding back her hair. She had showered, sure, but the flush on her cheeks hadn’t faded—not from the cardio. Not from you.

The press room was hot. Cameras clicked. Reporters raised their hands. Paige tried to focus.

“Tough game out there tonight, Paige. How would you describe going up against the reigning MVP?”

Paige’s lips twitched.

“She’s… a lot,” Paige said, her tone dancing that tightrope between admiration and irritation. “Talks a mile a minute. Doesn’t shut up.” She paused, letting the laughter build. “But she backs it up. You can’t really be mad when someone’s cooking and making it look that easy.”

Nai grinned beside her. “She called you rookie at least six times on the court.”

“Seven,” Paige corrected under her breath.

“Eight,” Arike added, scrolling on her phone. “Twitter’s keeping count.”

Laughter in the room.

Another reporter chimed in, smirking. “Any chance this is the start of a new rivalry?”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Is it a rivalry if she keeps winning?”

“She said she’s saving more talk for the rematch,” the reporter added.

Paige’s smirk deepened before she could stop it. “Then I guess I better be ready for a whole TED Talk next time.”

Cue another wave of chuckles, and Nai glancing over like, “Girl…”

You strolled in like you weren’t fresh off twenty-four points and a nationally televised clinic. One hand in your hoodie pocket, the other holding a Gatorade. Cool, cocky, unreadable—until they asked about her.

“That was your first time going head-to-head with Paige Bueckers in the W. Thoughts?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“She’s solid,” you said, sipping. “Moves well off the ball. Smart with the rock. She’s gonna be a problem once she stops getting cooked by me.”

Laughter erupted.

“She said you talk too much,” another reporter added.

“She said that?” you said, feigning offense. “Damn. Thought we were bonding.”

You leaned back in your chair, gaze unfocused for a beat before landing on the reporter again. “Nah, she’s tough. But I like testing people. See what they’re made of.”

“And?”

“And she didn’t fold,” you admitted. “She took everything I threw at her and came back sharper each quarter. It was fun.”

Someone from the back asked, “Any truth to the rumors that you two were seen talking in the tunnel post-game?”

You cocked your head, slowly grinning. “We talkin’ basketball? Or… talking?”

The room laughed nervously. You just winked. “Next question.”

@/user: Paige: “She’s a lot. Doesn’t shut up. But she backs it up.” Y/N: “Is she talking about basketball or feelings?”

@/user: THE TENSION. THE BANTER. THE RIVALRY. I’M SICK. GIVE ME A 7-GAME SERIES.

@/user: The MVP vs. The Rookie. We need a documentary already. #TrashTalk #WNBArivalries

@/user: Not Paige smiling like that when they asked about the MVP. She’s so cooked. #WNBA #AcesVsWings

Her room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of her phone screen. Paige lay on her side, one arm tucked under her cheek, scrolling through a storm of notifications.

Clips of you calling her “rookie.”

Clips of her face after you hit that step-back three.

Clips of her biting back a smile when the reporters pressed.

And then—your post.

@/yn “Welcome to the league.” [Photo: You, mid-dribble, eyes locked on Paige. Captioned with a single flame emoji.]

The comment section was on fire.

@/user: she’s so disrespectful and yet… correct

@/user: the look she gives Paige at half court… I FELT THAT

@/user: why do I feel like they’re gonna kiss and then fight and then kiss again

Paige stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the Like button.

She didn’t like it. She didn’t comment. She did something worse. She opened your DM.

paige: cute caption. did your media team come up with that or are you just naturally annoying?

She hovered.

Deleted “annoying,” typed “relentless.”

Deleted that too.

paige: cute caption. you always this cocky or do i bring it out of you?

She hit send.

And instantly regretted it.

Until the little typing… bubble popped up.

You replied almost right away.

you: i was gonna ask the same thing you always this flustered or do i bring it out of you?

Paige bit her lip.

Her fingers hovered again.

paige: i’m not flustered

You replied immediately.

you: then why’d you wait till 1:30 am to message me?

She stared at it.

Paused.

paige: had to wait until i cooled off. you ran circles around me all night.

you: oh baby. you have no idea what i plan for the rematch.

might have to start charging rent with how much space i’m taking up in your head

Paige groaned. Tossed her phone face down. Picked it up again thirty seconds later.

paige: cool. i’ll bring the eviction notice. and maybe dinner. idk. depends how the game goes.

You liked the message.

And for the first time all night… Paige smiled.

The Vegas skyline blinked through your window, lights still alive long after the city should’ve slept. You were stretched on your couch, hoodie draped over your chest, fingers absently spinning a basketball on the tips.

Your phone buzzed.

Incoming FaceTime: Paige Bueckers

You didn’t hesitate.

The screen lit up with Paige’s face—soft from the glow of her bedside lamp, one cheek pressed into a pillow, blonde curls mussed, barely holding her eyes open.

She blinked once, smirked. “Did I wake you?”

You arched a brow. “You think I sleep before 2am? Cute.”

She let out a soft laugh. “You looked cozy.”

You stretched, deliberately cracking your neck. “Just waiting on your call, actually.”

She snorted, and you caught the slight flush on her cheeks. “You were not.”

“Was too. Knew you’d cave eventually.”

Paige rolled her eyes and adjusted her grip on the phone, the screen bouncing slightly. “I’m not caving. I’m scouting. Big difference.”

“Oh, so you called to study film?” You grinned. “How’d I look from your angle?”

Paige laughed, tucking the blanket tighter around her. “Like someone who says way too much and doesn’t shut up.”

“You liked it though.”

She hesitated. You caught it—just the smallest pause, the kind that said don’t get cocky but also you’re not wrong.

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I liked beating your screens. Liked catching you off guard with that crossover. Liked that look you gave me when I stripped the ball in the third.”

You stared at her for a moment. “You replay that in your head a lot?”

“More than I should,” she admitted. Quiet. Barely a breath.

Silence stretched between you like a string pulled taut.

“You ever think about how we’d be on the same team?” you asked, voice lower now.

Paige blinked. “You mean if I’d gone first in the draft?”

You nodded. “Could’ve been assists for days. You setting me up for corner threes. I could’ve made your stat sheet look beautiful.”

“I do just fine without you,” she said, but it was softer than usual. Playful. Curious.

“Do you?”

Paige held your gaze. No grin. No smirk.

Just... honesty.

“You got under my skin,” she said.

“I know.”

“And I didn’t hate it.”

Your voice dropped. “Good. Because I’m not done.”

Her smile returned—small, tired, real. “What’s next then?”

“Rematch in three weeks,” you said. “In Dallas.”

“I meant after that.”

Your chest tightened.

You ran a hand through your hair, suddenly aware of how much she was looking at you. Really looking.

“I guess,” you said slowly, “I ask if dinner after the game is still on the table.”

Paige’s lashes fluttered, amused and warm all at once. “Depends. You still planning to talk the entire time?”

“Only if I’m trying to distract you.”

She smiled. “You already do.”

A beat.

Then she yawned, blinking heavy eyes. “Okay. I have to sleep or I’m gonna show up to practice tomorrow thinking about you again.”

“Don’t act like that’s new.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, cheeks pink.

You grinned. “Sleep good, rookie.”

“Night, MVP.”

And when the call ended, neither of you slept for a while.

You both just laid there. Smiling. Thinking.

Plotting.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when Paige texted “Come over. Dinner?” but it definitely wasn’t her answering the door barefoot, in sweats and a tank top, holding a wooden spoon like she’d been born in a kitchen.

She looked… soft.

“Don’t say anything,” she warned as you stepped inside.

You smirked, glancing around the cozy Dallas apartment. “What, no red carpet? No velvet ropes for the MVP?”

She shoved your shoulder lightly. “Keep talking and you’ll be eating cereal.”

You leaned against the doorframe that led to the kitchen, arms crossed. “That’s bold, considering you texted me.”

“I was trying to be nice,” she muttered, turning her attention back to the pot on the stove. “I regret it already.”

You watched her stir something that smelled like garlic, tomato, and whatever softness she wasn’t saying out loud.

“You cook now?”

“I survive,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “You want wine?”

“Paige Bueckers offers wine before a game?” you teased, walking in slowly, deliberately, letting the tension simmer.

“Just one glass,” she said. “Don’t get clingy.”

You stepped up behind her, reaching for the bottle on the counter beside her. “I only get clingy if I win.”

She looked at you from the corner of her eye. “You planning on winning tomorrow?”

You poured two glasses and handed her one. “You planning on stopping me?”

Her fingers brushed yours as she took the glass. Neither of you moved for a second too long.

Paige broke it. “Sit down. Dinner’s almost done.”

You sat, but not before trailing your fingers along the back of one of her kitchen chairs—watching her the whole time.

Pasta. Something with a kick. You hadn’t expected that either.

“You surprise me,” you said between bites.

Paige shrugged. “You think I don’t know how to live alone?”

“I mean you do have a deal with DoorDash.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I like quiet. Cooking helps with that.”

You leaned back in your chair, glass in hand. “You get a lot of quiet now?”

She hesitated. Stirred her pasta. “More than I thought I would.”

You didn’t ask what she meant. Not directly. But she looked up, and you knew she saw the question in your eyes.

“Everyone expects so much,” she said softly. “On the court, off of it. Sometimes I just wanna…” she trailed off.

“Be a person,” you finished.

Paige nodded. “Exactly.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence sit between you.

You asked, “So why me?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You invited me over. Of all people. Loud. Cocky. Trash-talker extraordinaire.” You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes yet. “I thought I’d be the last person you’d want around when you’re looking for quiet.”

She held your gaze.

“Because,” Paige said slowly, “you’re loud, yeah. But you’re honest. And you’re one of the few people who doesn’t expect me to be perfect.”

You leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That why you couldn’t stop looking at me during the last game?”

She smiled, sheepish now. “Part of it.”

Your heart beat a little harder.

“So what is this then?” you asked, quieter now. “Us?”

Paige stood up slowly, collecting your plates. Her back was to you when she answered.

“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly. “But I wanted to see you again. Without cameras. Without noise. Just… this.”

You got up too, coming to stand beside her at the sink. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

“I could’ve,” she said, bumping your hip with hers. “But then I’d owe you another glass of wine.”

You laughed, low and warm. “You owe me that either way.”

You stood there, hoodie back on, keys in hand. Paige leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, hair tucked behind one ear.

Neither of you moved.

“Good luck tomorrow,” she said, eyes softer now.

You leaned in, barely an inch between you. “You mean that?”

She smirked. “No.”

You grinned. “Good. Because I don’t either.”

A beat.

Her voice dropped. “But I’ll be watching you.”

You met her gaze, serious now. “I always do.”

And you left.

But neither of you stopped thinking about the other for the rest of the night.

The arena was already humming before the tip. Dallas fans packed the seats, jerseys and signs waving, anticipation thick in the air. Everyone was here for the rematch.

Aces vs. Wings.

You vs. Paige Bueckers.

Again.

Only this time, it wasn’t just a headline. It was personal.

You were warming up on the sideline, sinking threes like they owed you rent, when you spotted her.

Paige.

Stepping onto the court in navy and white, hair in a high ponytail, face unreadable except for the unmistakable twitch of a smirk when her eyes met yours.

She walked past your half of the court without breaking stride, but she said just loud enough for you to hear. “Hope you stretched. I don’t carry people who cramp up in the third.”

You grinned, spinning the ball in your hand. “You planning on keeping up with me this time, rookie?”

She turned to walk backward, meeting your stare mid-stride. “I’m planning on dropping 20 while shutting you up. Two birds. One game.”

“You flirt like you defend,” you called after her. “Too slow.”

Her laugh echoed behind her as she joined her team.

And just like that, the game was on.

You drew first blood.

Step-back three from the left wing. Nothing but net.

You didn’t even look at the basket.

You looked at her.

She raised a brow and pointed to her chest. “Me?”

You nodded. “All day.”

Paige responded with a mid-range pull-up off a screen that made your rookie guard stumble.

She jogged back past you, leaning in for a split second. “That one was for you. Little love tap.”

You bumped her shoulder. “You flirt like you finish—average.”

She grinned. “I’ll show you finish.”

The trash talk wasn’t the only thing heating up.

You stole the ball, fast break, blew a kiss as you laid it in.

She hit a contested three from deep and winked as she backpedaled. “Try guarding me next time.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet laughing. “You’re cute when you lie.”

“You’re cute when you lose.”

“Wouldn’t know the feeling.”

The arena didn’t know who to root for—every moment between you two was its own show. Cameras didn’t just follow the ball anymore. They followed the glances. The words. The closeness.

You were defending her now, full-body contact, not because you had to—but because you wanted to be that close.

“You always breathe this heavy when I’m on you?” she whispered.

You didn’t blink. “Only when I’m bored.”

She chuckled and faked a step—then leaned in and drew a foul.

“Touchy, aren’t you?” she teased as the whistle blew.

“I could say the same.”

Thirty seconds left. You had the ball.

Paige was guarding you, chest to chest, eyes locked on yours.

“Go on,” she said, breathless. “Show me something.”

You dribbled once. Twice. Crossed over.

“Still haven’t figured it out?” you murmured. “It’s never about the first move. It’s the last one.”

And just like that—spin, pivot, fadeaway from the baseline.

Cash.

The crowd lost it.

Tie game.

Paige just shook her head. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You love it.”

She hesitated.

“...Yeah,” she said. “Kinda do.”

You lost—barely. Paige had hit the game-winning assist in the final second. But as the buzzer rang, neither of you looked at the scoreboard first.

You looked at each other.

She found you at half court, still flushed, still catching her breath.

“Dinner’s on you,” she said, grin wide and triumphant.

You tilted your head. “I drop 28 and lose by one, and you get the prize?”

She stepped closer. “I always get the prize.”

You eyed her. “So what am I?”

She didn’t flinch. “The main course.”

You blinked. Laughing, stunned, heart racing.

“Well damn, Bueckers,” you muttered. “You keep that up and I might actually let you win next time.”

She leaned in, voice barely above the noise. “Or we stop keeping score and just… see where this goes.”

And that?

That stopped everything.

Even the noise in your chest.

The cameras stopped at the court’s edge.

Reporters peeled off toward locker rooms.

But you?

You waited.

Leaning against the cool cinderblock wall deep in the bowels of the Dallas arena tunnel, sweat still drying on your skin, adrenaline still humming in your blood. The beat of the game was gone, but something else—something louder—was still thudding in your chest.

You heard her before you saw her.

Quick footsteps. A laugh. The soft thunk of her water bottle against the wall as she rounded the corner, alone.

Paige froze the second she saw you.

"Stalking me now?" she asked, trying for lightness. Her voice came out breathier than expected.

You pushed off the wall slowly. “Just figured you owed me a goodbye.”

“From the girl who called me a rookie all night?” she teased, stepping closer.

You didn’t smile. Not really. “From the girl who can’t stop thinking about how you looked when you hit that last assist.”

Paige licked her lips, heart in her throat. “That pass?”

You nodded. “The way your face lit up when it went in.”

Her laugh was softer now. “You watched my face?”

“Always.”

She stood just a foot away now.

The tunnel buzzed with overhead fluorescents, but the corner you were in was quiet. Tucked. Yours.

“I like when you talk,” Paige said, eyes sharp and unblinking.

“I like when you listen,” you said, voice lower now. “Even when you pretend you’re not.”

Her hand brushed your forearm.

It was light. Testing. And yet, it landed like gravity.

“I haven’t stopped replaying that dinner,” she whispered. “You didn’t kiss me.”

You looked at her like she’d just stepped into your mind. “Didn’t want to rush it.”

Paige stepped into you, chest brushing yours. “Rush it now.”

You didn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, you reached up slowly—grazed your fingers under her jaw, tilting her chin so she had to look up at you.

“Still want me to shut up?” you asked, voice husky.

She smiled.

“I want you to shut me up.”

And that was it.

You kissed her.

Not like a rivalry.

Like a reward.

Like a promise that tomorrow, and every time after, would be more than just trash talk and triple-doubles. It would be this. Quiet corners. Loud hearts. Something neither of you could defend against.

Her fingers clutched your jersey. Your hand slipped into her hair. Neither of you pulled away for a long, long time.

When you finally did, she didn’t let go. Just whispered, “still calling me rookie after that?”

You grinned. “Only if you keep looking at me like this when I say it.”

The drive was quiet.

Not awkward—just heavy with everything that had already been said without words. You sat beside her, thumb grazing the inside of her wrist as she drove one-handed, the city lights streaking across the windshield. Paige didn’t speak until the car slipped into the garage.

“You want to come in?”

The question was soft. Careful.

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Her apartment was dim, quiet. You’d been here before—dinner, laughter, that lingering stare as you left—but it felt different now.

Now, you weren’t dancing around anything.

Now, it was humming in the air between you.

She dropped her keys on the counter, turned to you, arms still crossed like she was holding something in.

“You really got under my skin tonight,” Paige said.

You stepped closer. “On the court?”

She shook her head. “Everywhere.”

You stood in front of her, barely inches between you. The low kitchen light spilled golden down the side of her neck.

“You gonna let me fix that?” you asked, voice low.

You didn’t let her answer. You just stepped into her space—into her warmth—and kissed her again. This time deeper, slower. Less teasing, more want.

She melted into it, fingers curling into your shirt as you backed her gently toward the couch. She dropped onto it with a soft gasp, legs still between yours. You hovered, foreheads brushing.

“You good?” you asked, your voice soft but firm.

Paige nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. Really good.”

You took your time. Kissed her again. Traced your hands up her sides, lifting the hem of her hoodie slowly. She raised her arms without question. Underneath was just a sports bra. You dragged a finger along the band.

“This okay?”

She nodded again, quieter now. “Please.”

You leaned down and kissed just under her jaw—then lower, slow and reverent. Her breath hitched when your mouth pressed to the top of her chest, still covered, but not for long.

You pulled her bra off gently, eyes locked with hers as you did.

She flushed under your gaze, arms instinctively twitching like she wanted to hide.

“Don’t,” you murmured, kneeling in front of her. “You’re beautiful. Let me see you.”

The blush deepened, but her arms dropped. Her legs parted slightly.

You kissed down her sternum, her stomach, her waistband—letting your mouth worship her inch by inch. When you hooked your fingers into her shorts, she lifted her hips, silently giving permission. You stripped her bare. Slowly. Thoroughly.

She was breathless before you even touched her.

You leaned in between her thighs, spreading them with your palms until her knees fell open completely.

Then you looked up at her, waiting.

Paige met your eyes, voice barely there. “Yes. Please.”

So you did.

You licked her slowly—soft at first, like you were memorizing her. She gasped when you flattened your tongue against her clit. Her hands clutched at the couch cushion beside her thighs. She was trying to stay quiet. Trying and failing.

You hummed gently against her, mouth never letting up, fingers gripping her hips to keep her steady.

“Let go, Paige,” you whispered into her. “You can be loud with me.”

And she was.

You slipped one finger inside her, then another—slow, deliberate, curling in rhythm with your tongue. Her moans were half-breathed whimpers, choked off by the shock of pleasure every time you hit that spot.

She reached down, fingers tangling in your hair, hips grinding against your mouth without shame.

“You feel so good,” she whimpered. “God—you’re…”

You kissed her inner thigh, then went back to work, flicking your tongue, curling your fingers harder now.

She cried out, head tipping back, voice ragged.

“Don’t stop—please, don’t—”

And she came.

Hard.

Body trembling. Back arching. Hands shaking in your hair.

You slowed down, kept your mouth soft against her until she whimpered from oversensitivity. You pulled back and kissed her knee, her hip, her stomach, working your way up as she caught her breath.

When you finally reached her lips again, her arms pulled you down, clinging.

“I’ve never…” she whispered.

You smiled. “You will. As many times as you want.”

And she did.

Sunlight spilled through the sheer curtains like it was trying not to wake anyone too suddenly.

You were already awake.

Not moving. Not thinking too hard. Just… watching her.

Paige lay on her stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, the sheet barely clinging to her waist. Her hair was a gentle mess across her face and shoulders, strands catching the light like gold thread. Her cheek was soft, slack with sleep. She looked younger like this. Softer. Like nothing in the world had ever hurt her.

You didn’t move. Not for a long time.

Just traced slow patterns on the bare skin of her back with your fingertips. Circles between her shoulder blades. Lines down her spine. She shivered slightly but didn’t stir.

Eventually, though, her lashes fluttered. She blinked herself awake slowly, adjusting to the warmth at her side.

“Morning,” she rasped, voice still low and hoarse from sleep—and maybe from the night before.

You leaned in and kissed her shoulder. “Morning.”

She rolled onto her side, tucking the blanket around her chest and nestling closer to you, thigh sliding over yours.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, as if surprised.

You looked at her.

“I wasn’t going to leave before you woke up.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “That’s dangerously sweet.”

“You bring it out of me.”

Paige reached up, fingers brushing your jaw. “You leave today?”

You nodded slowly. “Flight’s in a few hours. Back to Vegas.”

Her smile faded a little—not sad, just reluctant. “Can’t believe you lost and still ended up in my bed.”

You smirked. “Can’t believe I lost and still feel like I won.”

That made her blush, eyes falling for a moment. She tucked her face against your chest.

You wrapped your arm around her, holding her there, like you could stall time with the weight of your body alone.

“I had fun last night,” she said quietly. “Not just the game. Not just the…” She trailed off, shy again.

“I know what you mean,” you murmured. “Me too.”

Neither of you said anything for a while. The air between you was warm. Safe. The kind of stillness you don’t find in most lives lived at full speed.

Paige lifted her head, chin resting on your chest.

“You’ll text me when you land?”

“Of course.”

“You’ll… let this be a thing?”

You looked at her—really looked.

One hand rose to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “Paige. It’s already a thing.”

She nodded once, a soft smile returning. “Okay.”

And that was it. No big goodbye. No grand confessions. Just two athletes caught between cities, schedules, games—and this thing neither of them asked for but weren’t ready to give up.

She walked you to the door an hour later, wearing your hoodie and nothing else, mug in hand.

You kissed her one last time.

It wasn’t rushed.

And when you walked out, her voice followed you.

“Don’t forget I dropped 21 on you.”

You turned over your shoulder. Grinning.

“Don’t forget you begged after.”

Her laughter rang through the hallway as the elevator doors closed.

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