paigesluver

[paigesluver]

this is so reneé rapp coded (especially with the picture) signing the bouquet was everything😩

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you decided to shoot your shot

Azzi Fudd hadn’t planned to be in the front row of a sold-out concert two nights after dropping a career-high for UConn. She hadn’t expected to be recognized by so many fans in the crowd either or did she expect the surreal way her heart pounded as the lights went dim, the stage lit up, and the person she’d quietly crushed on for the better part of a year stepped into the spotlight.

You.

You in baggy jeans, unbuttoned shirt, diamond studs catching the light as you adjusted your mic. The stadium was already screaming your name before you even sang a note. And yet somehow, the moment your eyes scanned the crowd and found hers, Azzi swore you paused, just for half a second longer than you should have, her lungs folded in on themselves. She couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t control it. She just smiled back, small and shaky, the way someone smiles at the sun from too close.

She knew who you were, of course. Everyone did. The Grammy buzz, the chart-dominating singles, the way your voice had a million girls swearing you were singing just to them. But Azzi had heard you talk once on a podcast, off-guard and laughing and she couldn’t stop thinking about how shy you were in contrast to your stage presence. She liked that. Liked you, in a way that was dangerous because you probably didn’t even know she existed. Or so she thought.

The band played a soft intro behind you, an unmistakable melody. Azzi blinked.

Justin Bieber’s “One Less Lonely Girl.”

A cover?

Your band started playing and your voice fell into the first verse.

“There’s gonna be one less lonely girl… One less lonely girl…”

The crowd swayed. Phones lit up like stars. But you… you kept your eyes trained near the front row. On her.

Azzi sat frozen. Paige had leaned over to whisper something teasing, but Azzi didn’t hear it. Didn’t process anything beyond the echo of your voice and the way you tilted your head, gentle, charming, grinning like a secret.

“How many I told you’s and start overs… How many tears you let hit the floor?”

You didn’t rush it. Each lyric was smooth and soulful, softer than the original, richer in its delivery. The way you walked slowly across the stage, sneakers squeaking lightly against the floor, had the crowd watching every step, but Azzi’s heart started hammering harder when you paused at the edge of the stage, mic still in hand, and made a beeline for the stairs.

The arena screamed.

Azzi didn’t move.

You stepped down, security gently parting the crowd. Your eyes found hers, warm, certain, so direct it almost felt unfair and she could barely breathe when you held your hand out and said, just loud enough for her to hear, “Come with me?”

Paige’s hand clamped down on her shoulder like ‘go’, and Azzi stumbled to her feet, laughing in disbelief as she took your hand. The moment your fingers wrapped around hers, her skin turned electric. Her knees nearly gave out.

You didn’t let go.

You led her up the stairs of the stage like you’d planned this all along, like this moment had been written into the setlist. The band looped the chorus as you reached center stage. A single wooden stool sat beneath a soft spotlight.

Azzi blinked. You smiled, pressing a bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath into her hands as you whispered, “Sit down.”

She did. Awkward, flushed, barely able to look at you as the crowd lost their minds.

You returned to your mic. Took a breath. And began again, this time, all for her.

“Saw so many pretty faces… Now all I see is you…”

You circled the stool with ease, your voice wrapped in velvet now. You touched her shoulder, briefly, like grounding her was necessary. You were still singing, still moving, dancing just a little, playful and teasing, but you didn’t take your eyes off her for long. Every time you hit a soft note, you smiled like she was the only one in the room.

Azzi tried to keep it together. She really did. But you were leaning into the bridge now, singing about how no one else’s arms would ever need to hold this “lonely girl” again and she couldn’t stop her grin from breaking. Her cheeks burned so bad she covered half her face with the bouquet. You reached out and tugged the roses down gently, just to see her again.

“Christmas wasn’t merry, 14th of February Not one of them spent with you…”

She melted.

The moment you dropped to one knee beside her and crooned that “Don’t need these other pretty faces like I need you,” she nearly lost all motor function. You leaned in, almost close enough to kiss her cheek, but you didn’t, not yet. Just a brush of your breath. A whisper of presence.

And then the chorus kicked again, joyous, loud, and you took her hand and spun once with it before returning to the mic. The whole arena danced with you. The song ended with a flourish, your vocals pristine, strong.

“I can fix up your broken heart… I can make you believe…”

You looked directly at Azzi.

“There’s gonna be one less lonely girl.”

The crowd exploded. Azzi sat frozen, the bouquet in her lap, stunned and spinning and floored. You walked over, reached for her again.

This time, she didn’t hesitate.

As you walked her back down the stairs and into the crowd, security parting a path again, Azzi could only hear the pounding of her heart in her ears. She didn’t care that everyone was filming. Didn’t care that Paige and KK were laughing themselves breathless behind her.

You’d sung to her.

Only her.

And it was going to take a hell of a long time to recover from that.

Azzi could still hear the echoes of the song as she was gently guided offstage by a member of your crew, bouquet still in hand, heart practically thudding out of her chest, every nerve in her body still lit up like the arena behind her hadn’t stopped screaming your name. Her steps were slow, uncertain, like she wasn’t entirely sure the floor under her was real.

KK and Paige were waiting in the wings.

Actually… they were waiting in the wings, phone in hand, recording Azzi as they try not to collapse from laughter.

“Yooo, someone check her pulse!” KK shouted the moment she saw her, cackling.

“I’m good,” Azzi mumbled, voice high, breathless, eyes darting everywhere except their faces.

“You’re not good,” Paige said, slapping a hand over her chest in fake concern. “You look like you ‘bout to pass out.”

“I didn’t know what to do! What was I supposed to do?”

“Breathe, maybe?” KK deadpanned.

Azzi glared at them, but it lacked heat. She still hadn’t really caught up to the moment. Her mouth was dry. Her fingers were sore from holding the bouquet so tightly. Her legs felt weirdly heavy, like they weren’t totally hers.

She didn’t even notice you coming backstage until the hallway crowd parted and someone said, “Coming through.”

And there you were.

Not just the voice. Not just the stage presence. But you, in all your off-stage softness, gliding down the corridor with your shirt sticking to your collarbone from the lights, water bottle in one hand, towel around your neck. You stopped in front of Azzi like you’d done it a hundred times.

“Hey,” you said.

Azzi blinked. “...Hey.”

You smiled, gentle and warm, with just a hint of nerves peeking behind your lashes. “You okay? You looked a little… stunned.”

KK snorted in the background.

Azzi took a shaky breath. “I’m… I’m okay. Yeah. Just—um.” She looked down at the roses again like they might give her an answer. “No one’s ever done anything like that before.”

You stepped closer. “Good. I’m glad I was the first.” That sentence alone knocked the breath out of her lungs. “And hopefully the last.”

She made a sound, part laugh, part soft panic, then shifted awkwardly on her feet. “I didn’t even know you knew who I was.”

“Are you serious?” Your eyebrows rose. “I’m a UConn fan. I’ve been watching you play since freshman year. Went to one of your games.”

Azzi’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what—”

“I was in the third row. You dropped thirty-four, and I turned to my manager and said, ‘She plays like she doesn’t know she’s hot.’”

Azzi covered her face with the bouquet again.

You leaned in slightly. “Also, I may or may not have asked my manager to let me know if you ever came to one of my shows.”

Azzi’s hand dropped slowly. “You what?”

You nodded, smile smaller now. “She texted me your name during soundcheck. And I thought… if I didn’t at least try something, I’d regret it.”

Azzi stared at you, speechless, dazed in the most beautiful way.

Then you reached into your pocket, pulled out a sharpie, and uncapped it with your teeth before tugging on her bouquet just enough to sign the paper wrapping.

“There,” you said, handing it back. “Now it’s official.”

“What is?”

“My number.” You grinned. “You can text me whenever you want now.”

Paige gasped like she’d just witnessed a marriage proposal.

Azzi could only nod, cheeks blazing, smile tugging at the corners of her lips like she didn’t know whether to laugh or combust. Her voice finally returned in the form of a breathy, “Okay.”

You tilted your head. “Okay as in you’ll text me?”

“Okay as in I can’t believe this is real and I’m going to replay this night for the next twenty years.”

You smiled so wide it softened every feature on your face.

“Good,” you said again. “I was hoping you would.”

With one last glance and a wink that almost knocked her over, you walked down the corridor toward the green room, crew trailing behind.

Azzi turned around in slow motion, clutching the signed bouquet like it was a newborn.

Paige was grinning like a proud aunt. “Soooo… dinner plans?”

KK leaned in. “Nah. She’s skipping straight to the wedding plans.”

Azzi groaned. But she didn’t stop smiling.

Not even for a second.

[paigesluver]

matching rings and now matching initial necklaces, they’re so cute🥹💗

[paigesluver]

the maddie to paige pipeline is so real🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which maybe they're not so different

You always said your first love wore the number five.

It was a throwaway line, a little joke you’d make when someone asked about your type. You’d smirk, maybe take a sip of your drink, and say, “I guess I’ve always been into girls who wore five.” You never thought too hard about it. It was silly, nostalgic. A leftover from your Disney Channel days, when you’d watch Liv and Maddie after school with your hair in a messy ponytail and your homework half done, heart fluttering every time Maddie Rooney stepped on screen in her Ridgewood jersey, all blonde confidence and goofy charm.

You didn’t know it then, but something about that character stuck with you. The competitive edge. The unshakeable loyalty. The way she always wore her heart on her sleeve, even when she pretended she didn’t.

It was harmless. A memory from your childhood. A cute thing you’d share with friends, never knowing that somewhere along the line, the universe would double down on the bit.

Because now, years later, you’re standing in a Dallas apartment, the Texas sun bleeding in through half draped windows as Paige Bueckers, your Paige, tapes a moving box and tosses you a stack of bubble wrap like it’s a game.

And there it is.

A DVD box set, buried beneath a stack of old notebooks and framed photos, the corners worn from being packed and repacked over the years.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, crouching to pull it out. “Liv and Maddie.”

Paige looks up from the kitchen, cradling two mugs of coffee in her hands. “Throwback.”

You snort, flipping the case over to the back. “This show raised me. Literally.”

“Oh, you were one of those kids.”

“Obsessed,” you say, standing again and tossing the box set toward her gently. “Funny, you actually kind of remind me of Maddie.”

She catches it with one hand and raises a brow. “Maddie?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, a grin playing at your lips. “Blonde. Athletic. Wore number five. Loud. Dorky. Kind of a golden retriever in human form…”

Your words taper off, your grin fading just a little as your eyes lock with hers.

Because now you’re really looking at her. Paige in her blue UConn shirt, the one that still smells faintly like laundry detergent and gym air. Her hair’s a mess from unpacking. She’s barefoot and there’s a faint bruise on her hip from where she tripped over a shoebox earlier. She’s flushed from the heat and smiling like she knows something you don’t.

And suddenly, the coincidence doesn’t feel so silly anymore.

Because of course it makes sense. Of course your childhood crush was just a placeholder, a prototype. Some subconscious prelude to the girl who would actually steal your heart.

Paige tilts her head and sets the DVD down on the counter. She walks over slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“So,” she murmurs, sliding her arms around your waist, “you’ve been simping for me way before UConn, huh?”

You groan, burying your face in her shoulder. “Don’t say simping. You just ruined it.”

She laughs, hands warm against your back. “No, no. Let’s unpack that.”

“Let’s not?”

“C’mon.”

You pull back slightly, resting your chin on her shoulder. “It’s kind of insane, isn’t it?”

“That I’m your real life Disney crush?” she teases, but her voice is soft, almost fond.

“That I somehow found you,” you say honestly. “I mean… you. Number five. Paige freaking Bueckers. And I didn’t even realize until now.”

Her smile falters just enough for vulnerability to peek through. “You didn’t fall in love with me because of a jersey number, right?”

You frown, cupping her cheek. “No. I fell in love with you because you’re you. The number’s just coincidence.”

She leans into your palm, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Okay, good. Because I was about to start accusing you of trapping me for your disney fantasies.”

You burst out laughing. “God, shut up.”

Paige kisses you. Soft and slow. The kind of kiss that makes you forget you're in the middle of a barely unpacked living room surrounded by cardboard and the faint smell of dust. The kind of kiss that reminds you why you moved across the country in the first place, why Dallas, why her, why this life.

She pulls back just enough to whisper, “You know my middle name is Madison, right?”

You blink. “Yeah.”

“Another coincidence?”

“No. Shut up. Shut up.”

“Paige Madison Bueckers.”

You stare at her like you’re trying to crack a conspiracy theory. “You’re telling me my childhood dream girl… blonde, dorky, competitive, wore number five, named Maddie… was just you in disguise?”

She grins. “Guess I’ve been in your head longer than you thought.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, stepping away from her just to pace. “This is messed up. Like, this is crazy.”

Paige flops onto the couch and stretches her arms over the back. “So what you’re saying is… you manifested me.”

“I must have. And I was so specific, too.”

“Down to the jersey number. Impressive.”

You laugh again, loud and gleeful as you walk over and straddle her lap, holding her face in both hands. “I didn’t know I had that kind of power.”

She looks up at you, eyes warm. “Well, now that you do… what are you gonna wish for next?”

You brush your thumb across her cheek. “That you never leave.”

Her expression softens. “Not going anywhere.”

You lean forward and press your forehead to hers. “Number five really did mean something.”

She smiles against your mouth. “Yeah. Me.”

Later that night, you watch an old episode of Liv and Maddie together.

It’s the one where Maddie scores the game winner and celebrates with that dorky little jump and grin, arms flailing and voice cracking. You laugh and turn to Paige, who’s curled up beside you, hoodie pulled over her mouth like she’s trying to hide how invested she is.

You nudge her. “You do look like her, you know.”

She groans. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do. Especially when you get all competitive and dramatic during games.”

“Okay, that I’ll own.”

You smirk. “And you both wear five.”

She glances sideways. “Still hung up on the number?”

You shake your head, smile growing tender. “No. Just grateful it led me to you.”

Paige kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then finally your lips. Slow, steady, like she’s sealing something sacred.

And later, when the apartment is quiet and the moonlight filters in through the windows, you fall asleep with her arm wrapped around your waist and the faint sound of a Disney laugh track playing in the background.

And maybe, just maybe, your first love and your last love were never different at all.

[paigesluver]

for me? | chapter_3

paige bueckers x fem reader

synopsis; you and paige share unspoken feelings for each other, resulting in an escalating tension that complicates your friendship and challenges your emotions

warnings; some angst, tiny injury (bloody nose), fluff towards the middle/end, tension as always

hi hi! y'all this was supposed to be out a month ago... i just kept getting busy but here it is! we're met with some angst after the previous chapter; it doesn't really last long though lol. any who i hope you all enjoy this and please feel free to let me know what you think about it in the replies or in my inbox! enjoy!

read chapter 2!

The kitchen was quiet, save for the occasional click of the stove and the low sizzle of batter meeting a hot pan. You stood barefoot in the middle of it all, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. Paige leaned against the counter behind you, arms crossed, eyes following your every move—not in a flirtatious way this time, but thoughtful. Observing. Like she was watching more than just breakfast.

You were still in her hoodie, sleeves hanging past your hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh. It felt like wearing her shadow—warm and heavy with meaning.

She hadn’t said much since you started cooking. That alone felt strange. Paige was rarely quiet for long.

“You always make breakfast for your guests?” she asked, voice casual.

“Only the ones who show up at 2 a.m. with ice cream,” you replied without turning around.

She chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. When you finally turned with a plate of pancakes, she took it with a quiet “thanks” and sat at the table.

You sat across from her, nibbling at your pancakes while sipping your iced matcha. The cold, slightly bitter drink was a comforting contrast to the warmth of the food in front of you. It grounded you as the silence stretched on. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… loaded. Like both of you were waiting for the other to say something first.

Eventually, it was Paige who broke the quiet.

“So…” she said, dragging her fork through the syrup without lifting her gaze. “Were you with Kaia last night?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Why?”

She finally looked at you, eyes unreadable. “Azzi sent me a post this morning. From the gallery. You were in the background of one of Kaia’s pics.”

You hesitated, processing her words. “Oh. Yeah, she invited me. It was nice. Quiet.”

Paige nodded slowly, like that was the answer she expected—but not the one she wanted.

“Sounds like a date.”

“It wasn’t.”

“But it could’ve been,” she said, not accusing, just honest.

You swallowed. “I don’t know.”

There was a beat of silence.

You looked at her then. Really looked. At her messy bun, her oversized tee, her long legs tucked under the table. At the guarded openness in her eyes — like she wanted your answer but wasn’t sure she’d like it.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” you admitted, choosing truth over comfort. “Kaia makes things feel easy. Like I don’t have to try so hard. But with you…”

Paige tilted her head. “But with me?”

“With you, everything feels… intense. Alive. Like I can’t look away, even when I probably should.”

A smile tugged at her lips. Not smug—just soft. “That sounds like a compliment.”

“It’s dangerous,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re dangerous.”

“And Kaia isn’t?”

You didn’t answer.

She stood, walked over to the sink, and rinsed off her plate. She moved slowly, deliberately. You watched her, unsure where this was headed or what came next.

When she turned back around, she looked more serious than you’d seen her in weeks.

“I’m not asking you to pick,” she said. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t care, either.”

You nodded, throat tight.

She walked back over to you and gently touched the sleeve of her hoodie still draped over your arm.

“You can keep this,” she said softly. “But don’t wear it just because it’s comfortable. Wear it because you want to remember what this feels like.”

You looked down at the hoodie, suddenly aware of the weight of it again. The meaning is stitched into its seams.

“Paige…”

She gave you a small, bittersweet smile. Then, before you could say anything else, she leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering.

When she pulled back, her eyes searched yours for something unspoken.

“I’m gonna go,” she murmured. “But I’ll see you around.”

You followed her to the door, your heart thudding.

She paused, one hand on the frame, then turned to face you.

“Figure it out,” she said — not unkindly. “Whatever it is. I’ll be around… but I’m not gonna wait forever.”

She pulled you into a brief hug. Warm. Familiar. And then she stepped back, gave you one last lingering look, and left.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything she’d said.

You stood there for a while, the hoodie still wrapped around your shoulders. A reminder of everything unsaid.

───── ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ─────

Two weeks later, you found yourself walking through the familiar halls of the UConn basketball arena, your work shoes echoing on the polished floors as you made your way to the media suite. It was game day, and there was no room for distractions. You had a job to do—coordinating interviews, managing the broadcast feed, and overseeing the production crew. The buzz of the arena, the mounting excitement from the crowd—it was all part of the job. There was no space for your mind to wander, not with everything running so smoothly in the lead-up to tip-off.

On your way to the media suite, you mentally ran through your to-do list: interviews to coordinate, cameras to check, broadcasts to monitor—all the usual tasks. As you walked past the locker room, you caught a brief glimpse of Paige. She was adjusting her warm-up gear, the focus in her eyes sharp, her presence commanding as she prepared for the game.

It was impossible not to feel something in your chest, seeing her so immersed in the moment, so strong and determined. Even though everything between you remained unresolved, she was captivating. For a second, you let yourself watch her. But then, shaking the feeling off, you forced yourself to turn away. There was no time for distractions. You had a job to do, and the game needed to go smoothly.

You pushed the lingering thoughts aside as you entered the media suite, refocusing on the task at hand. There was no time to lose. The game was about to begin, and you couldn’t afford to let anything interfere with your responsibilities.

After making sure everything was in place—assigning people to their tasks, checking camera positions, and ensuring the broadcast feed was stable—you headed toward the court. You showed security your badge, walking past the barricades and onto the court, the energy of the crowd building as the teams warmed up.

As you adjusted your earpiece, you caught sight of Kaia from the student section. She waved, her face lighting up when she saw you. Smiling, you made your way over to her.

“Hey!” you greeted, leaning slightly over the railing. 

“Hey!” She grins back. “Can’t wait to see how this goes. The energy’s electric!”

You chuckle, nodding. “I know, right? It’s going to be a good one.”

After a few more words, you head back to your spot on the sideline, ready to oversee the final preparations.

Some players spotted you and made their way over, KK, as always, was first.

"Look who it is, Ms. Director," she teased, flashing you a grin.

"Hi, KK," you replied, pulling her into a quick hug.

“Feeling important, huh, Ms. Director?” she teased again, and you chuckled.

“Always, always,” you said with a wink.

Then, you moved to hug the rest of the team. You wrapped your arms around Azzi next, feeling her laugh as she gave you a quick squeeze.

“Alright, alright,” Azzi said with a grin, “Glad you didn’t forget us down here in the trenches.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled. “How could I forget you guys?”

You turned next to Jana, who pulled you into a tight hug. “Big day, huh?” she said, her voice always carrying that infectious energy.

“You know it. Gotta make sure everything goes smoothly,” you replied.

Finally, you hugged Aubrey, who was always one for jokes. “Still don’t know how you handle all this stress, but you’re killing it,” she said, her playful tone always lightening the mood.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” you said, laughing softly as you let go.

They all smiled at you, and for a moment, the weight of the day lightened just a little. Despite the chaos ahead, it was nice to feel grounded in this moment, surrounded by the people who had your back. But as your gaze drifted to the court again, your mind couldn't help but wander to one person in particular.

Just then, Azzi gave you a teasing look. “So… you’re ignoring Paige now?” she asked her voice light but pointed.

Your heart sank, and you quickly glanced away, trying to brush it off. “I’m not ignoring anyone,” you said, though the words didn’t quite carry the same conviction as before.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Sure you’re not,” she said with a smirk, before giving you a playful shove. “Just don’t let her catch you ignoring her, okay?”

You didn’t respond, but the words stung a little more than they should have. You knew Azzi wasn’t wrong. You were avoiding Paige, and it had been weighing on you. The lingering tension from your last conversation hadn’t disappeared, and every time you thought about her, your chest tightened. You hadn’t even been able to bring yourself to say hello, to acknowledge her presence.

And there she was, just a few feet away, focused on the game, just like she always was. It was a professional distance, but the emotional one was harder to shake.

The game was about to start, and you couldn’t afford to lose focus, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something needed to give, one way or another.

You took a deep breath, shaking off the nagging feeling that lingered after Azzi’s words. It was game day, and there was no time for distractions. You still had a job to do.

As the teams lined up for warm-ups, you moved back toward the media area to oversee the setup. Your mind wasn’t fully on the work, though, even if you tried to focus. Every time you looked over at Paige, she seemed completely absorbed in the game. It was hard not to admire her—how she moved with purpose, how she held her presence on the court. She was everything you remembered from when you first met her: fierce, confident, and so very much in control of everything around her.

You glanced down at your watch. Game time was almost here.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that you didn’t know how to. What would you say? How could you make things right when everything still felt so... unresolved? Your chest tightened at the thought.

“Focus,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head. No time for this right now. Not when you had to make sure every camera was in place, every angle covered, and every interview scheduled.

You glanced toward the court again and saw Paige shoot a glance in your direction. For just a second, your eyes met. You felt a flutter in your chest—a brief moment of connection before she turned her attention back to her team.

It was impossible to ignore that pull.

But you couldn’t let yourself be distracted by it. Not now.

The game started, and everything else seemed to fall into place. The broadcast crew was in sync, the cameras caught every pivotal moment, and you monitored the feed, ensuring the smoothest broadcast possible. It was just like any other game day, but it felt different. You couldn’t help but feel the tension in your chest every time you caught a glimpse of Paige on the court, even as she played with the same intensity she always did.

Then, at halftime, you found yourself standing in the hallway near the locker rooms, ready to check in with the crew. You heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Paige walking toward you, a towel draped over her shoulders as she wiped the sweat from her face.

You felt a surge of nerves, but you pushed it down quickly, focusing on the work at hand.

“Hey,” she said, her voice calm but with an underlying energy that was impossible to miss.

“Hey,” you replied, your heart suddenly beating faster.

She stopped in front of you, a small, teasing smile on her face. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are you just gonna keep ignoring me?”

You blinked, taken off guard by her bluntness. "I haven't been ignoring you," you said, though the words didn’t quite feel true.

Paige raised an eyebrow, her gaze softening, but there was still something guarded in it. “Don’t play dumb,” she said, her voice carrying a playful edge. “I’m not that out of the loop.”

The words stung, but in a way, you deserved it. You had been avoiding her, consciously or not, and the tension between you two had been building up for weeks. It was hard not to feel the weight of everything—your feelings, her presence, the unresolved conversation hanging over you both.

“I’m just trying to focus on work,” you said, your voice quieter, as you fought to keep your emotions in check.

She nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she understood, but something in her expression told you she didn’t completely buy it. “I get it. But, you know, I’m here, if you want to talk.”

You bit your lip, feeling the truth of her words settle into your chest. You did want to talk. But how could you?

Paige took a step back, the intensity of her gaze still lingering. “I should probably get back to the locker room anyway. But, don’t avoid me forever, okay?” she said lightly, her voice almost teasing.

You nodded, forcing a smile. “I won’t. I promise.”

She gave you one last look, a brief flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, before turning to walk back toward the locker room.

As she disappeared down the hall, you felt the weight of the moment, the pull of her presence, and the quiet space between you that was still so full of unspoken words. The game was still going on, but now, it felt like something else entirely. Something unresolved, something that could only be fixed if you were brave enough to face it.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the emotions swirling inside you. One step at a time. For now, the game needed your focus, and you had to finish what you started. But after that… maybe you’d finally have the nerve to cross the distance between you. One step at a time.

The game was fast-paced, and the energy in the arena was electric. You were on the sidelines now, just behind the baseline cameras, coordinating with the media crew through your earpiece and watching the court through your peripheral vision. Everything had been smooth—up until the third quarter.

It happened fast.

One of the opposing players swung too wide on a drive to the basket, and Paige—ever fearless, ever in the thick of it—caught an elbow square to the face. She staggered, one hand instantly going to her nose, the other reaching out to steady herself.

The whistle blew. Time-out.

You saw the flash of red on her fingers before she turned away from the court. The athletic trainer rushed to her immediately, guiding her off the floor, already pressing a wad of gauze into her hand. Blood. And Paige was pissed. She was muttering something as they disappeared down the tunnel—annoyed, frustrated, hurting.

A beat later, your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey,” a voice said. “Paige is asking for you. She doesn’t want anyone else back there.”

Your stomach dropped, your pulse skipping a beat — but your feet were already moving before you could think twice. You flashed your badge to security at the tunnel entrance, cutting through the controlled chaos of game-day logistics.

The training room smelled like antiseptic and sweat. Paige was sitting on the edge of the table, gauze still pressed to her nose, brows furrowed in irritation. The trainer was giving her a quick once-over, checking for any obvious breaks, and when he noticed you come in, he nodded toward you.

“She’s stable. Keep her sitting, keep it clean,” he said, then stepped out to grab a clipboard and supplies, giving you both a little space.

When Paige saw you, something in her expression softened—just for a second.

“Finally,” she mumbled through the gauze. “Took you long enough.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, stepping closer. “I came as fast as I could. You okay?”

She gave you a look. “What do you think?”

There was blood on her jersey. Her cheeks were flushed, more from frustration than pain. But underneath the tough exterior, you could tell—she just needed you there.

And despite everything hanging between you, you were.

You moved in closer, your voice lowering instinctively. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Paige dropped the gauze and tilted her head back slightly. Her nose was red and a little swollen, but thankfully not broken. Still, the sight of blood crusted under her nostrils and along her upper lip made your stomach twist.

You grabbed a clean cloth from the counter and dampened it, carefully wiping the dried blood away. She winced but didn’t pull back.

“You’re lucky,” you murmured. “Could’ve been worse.”

“I’ve had worse,” she muttered. “It still sucks.”

You gave her a look, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile. “Always so dramatic.”

She smirked, eyes meeting yours. “I get elbowed in the face, and I’m dramatic?”

You rolled your eyes, but it was fond. Familiar.

For a moment, it was just the two of you. The noise of the game, the pressure of your job, the uncertainty hanging between you—none of it mattered right then. Just her, sitting in front of you, and the way her eyes searched yours like they were still asking something you hadn’t answered yet.

She spoke first.

“You didn’t come say hi before the game.”

You blinked. “I was working.”

“So was I.” Her voice was quieter now. “Didn’t stop me from noticing.”

You paused, cloth still in your hand, heart beating a little too loud in your ears.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” you admitted.

Paige shrugged, looking down at her jersey. “I don’t know what I want either. But I wanted to know you were still there.”

You swallowed hard, something catching in your chest.

“I’m here now.”

She looked back up at you, and this time, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

You stayed beside her, sitting close as the minutes passed. Paige didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

Eventually, the door creaked open again, and the athletic trainer returned, clipboard in hand.

“Alright,” he said, offering a small smile. “She’s good to go. Keep it clean, monitor for swelling. I’ll check on it post-game.”

He gave a reassuring nod before heading back out.

Paige stood, adjusting her jersey and running a hand through her hair, the strands damp against her forehead. She glanced at you, eyes softer than before.

“You coming?” she asked, her voice steady but carrying an edge of vulnerability like she wasn’t just talking about the tunnel.

You nodded, the answer easy. “Yeah. Always.”

And you followed her out, back toward the noise, the lights, and the game waiting to pull you both under again.

The arena hits you like a wave — the roar of the crowd, the sharp scent of sweat and popcorn, the echo of sneakers squeaking against polished hardwood. It’s alive in a way only a packed gym can be, sound bouncing off the walls, adrenaline hanging thick in the air. The noise crawls under your skin, thrumming in your bones, a reminder of every game you’ve ever watched, every moment that ever meant something.

Paige walks a step ahead of you, her back straight, chin tilted in that familiar way she does when she’s trying to convince the world she’s fine. But there’s a quiet tension in her movements, a subtle hesitation in her steps. You notice how she occasionally touches her nose as if testing whether the pain is still there or if the memory of the hit will fade with time. You follow her, close enough to feel the pull between you but far enough to give her space—space you both need.

She pauses just before the entrance back to the court, half in shadow, half bathed in the glow of the overhead lights. The crowd can’t see her yet. She glances over her shoulder and something unreadable flickers in her expression.

“You sure you’re okay to be out here?” you ask, your voice low and careful. It’s a stupid question. You know what she'll say. Paige Bueckers was born for this—pressure, pain, impossible expectations. She’s lived her whole life balancing on that knife’s edge. But still, you have to ask.

She huffs a quiet laugh, the corner of her mouth lifting in a more familiar smirk, less like the girl from ten minutes ago. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I’ve played through worse.”

And you don’t doubt it. You’ve seen it—the sprained ankles, the jammed fingers, the bruises she pretends not to notice. You’ve seen what this game has taken from her, and what she’s still willing to give.

There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t feel as suffocating as before. It feels… tentative. Like standing on the edge of something you’re not quite brave enough to name. The weight between you hasn’t disappeared, but it’s shifted. Cracked in places. Like showing up in that training room cracked open something neither of you planned for.

She tips her chin toward the court. “Go handle your business, Director.”

You roll your eyes, but a grin tugs at your lips before you can stop it. “You too, Superstar.”

Then she hesitates. Just for a second. But you catch it—the flicker in her eyes, the way her shoulders drop a fraction like the weight’s gotten a little heavier. Like there’s something she wants to say, but no good way to say it. Not here. Not now.

“Hey,” she says, voice low enough that you have to lean in to catch it. “After this… can we talk?”

Your stomach drops again — the same sickening swoop as before, your pulse jumping in your throat. You’ve been dodging this conversation for weeks, burying yourself in game schedules and press passes and whatever excuse you could find. Because you know what she wants to talk about. You know what’s been hanging in the air between you, thick as humidity before a storm.

But right now—with the crowd rumbling like thunder and Paige standing there, fierce, raw, and a little bruised—it feels like a moment you can’t duck.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Yeah. After.”

She holds your gaze a second longer like she’s making sure you mean it. Then, with a crooked, tired smile that punches straight through your chest, she turns and jogs back onto the court. The crowd erupts the second they see her, chanting her name. The blood’s cleaned up, but the fire’s still in her eyes.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, pulse thrumming in your ears.

Azzi materializes beside you, bumping your shoulder with a teasing grin. “Told you she was waiting on you.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t start.”

But it’s lighter now. Whatever knot has been lodged in your chest loosens a little. There’s still a conversation waiting after the game, one you don’t have the words for yet. But for the first time in weeks, you’re not running from it.

You slip your earpiece back in, signaling to the media crew that you’re shifting to the scorers’ table, weaving between staff and sideline security.

The fourth quarter’s a knife fight now — frantic, physical, momentum swinging on every possession. A pass sails out of bounds. A player crashes to the floor. A three-pointer rattles out. The air is thick with adrenaline and the sharp tang of desperation. Every whistle sounds like a gunshot, every cheer a tidal wave.

And through it all, you watch Paige. And this time, you don’t look away.

You settle beside the scorers’ table, bracing one hand against the edge, eyes flicking between the court and the monitors displaying your camera feeds. The game’s tight, the crowd roaring with every drive, and your voice snaps over the comm line.

“Lena, lock in on baseline shots when Paige’s got the ball. No wide angles.”

“Maya, stay on bench reactions — if anyone pops off, I want it.”

“Cam, track the scoreboard after every possession. Don’t miss a damn thing.”

They respond quickly, without hesitation. You’ve worked with these people long enough to know every instruction will be executed flawlessly.

Beside you, Geno’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and commanding. “Sarah! Stay active on D — don’t get caught ball-watching!”

You don’t even need a headset to hear him; he’s right there, standing near the edge of the table, voice carrying that clipped edge he always has in tight games. Sarah barely glances his way, already locked in, hounding her matchup at the top of the key.

The crowd pulses like a living thing, rising every time Paige touches the ball. You catch yourself watching her too long—her movements sharp, the fire back in her eyes, like she never left. You force your gaze back to the feeds.

Your comm crackles. “Bench shot’s clean. The crowd’s losing it every time she drives. You want that?”

“Yeah,” you reply, already tracking the next play. “Grab the crowd on the next make.”

The quarter barrels forward, the clock bleeding down possession by possession. Geno barks out subs and defensive coverages beside you, and your crew moves like clockwork through your orders. 

Your eyes stay glued to the monitors as the game rockets into the final minute — UConn clinging to a three-point lead, 74-71. Every possession feels like it could tip the world off its axis. Paige has the ball at the top of the key, defenders draped all over her, the crowd on their feet like one breath held tight.

You press your comm button again. “Cam, Maya — final stretch. Be ready to track reactions at the buzzer. Lena, stay tight on Paige. If we win, I want her face first. Get that shot.”

“Copy,” Lena answers immediately, voice tight but steady.

The ball swings to Sarah in the corner — she fakes, drives baseline, and kicks it back out. Azzi catches it in stride, shakes her defender with a crossover so clean it draws an audible gasp from the crowd, and buries a jumper from the elbow.

76-71.

The arena erupts.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the other team bricks a desperate three, and UConn snags the rebound. Geno’s already motioning to pull it out, run the clock.

Twenty seconds.

Your comm crackles. “Interviews?”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping toward the edge of the scorers’ table. “Get ‘em set. Press line on the court in two. Paige, Sarah, and—check with Coach—probably KK. Make sure those mics are hot.”

“Got it,” Cam answers. You hear them moving in your earpiece, already setting up the baseline press area.

On the court, the final buzzer sounds.

78-71.

The place explodes.

The team rushes midcourt in a tangle of arms and shouts. Paige’s smile is crooked, exhausted, blood-cleaned, fire still burning behind her eyes. You feel it land somewhere deep in your chest and allow yourself a small grin.

“Baseline cameras, now,” you order through the comm, moving with the current of bodies onto the court.

Your crew’s on it. Maya’s at the logo with a shoulder rig, Lena’s tight on Paige, and Cam waving a boom toward the cluster of players. Geno heads to the handshake line, and you give a nod to one of the ops guys signaling media clearance.

You weave through the celebration, catching flashes of joy in players’ eyes, the press huddled in anticipation, the low hum of the crowd’s adrenaline still pulsing in the air. Your focus sharpens, but there’s a weight at the back of your mind, a quiet hum that lingers even as your feet move on autopilot. Paige is front and center now, her smile softer, energy more contained, but you still catch the flicker of something unspoken behind her eyes.

The press conference room hums with energy, the weight of victory still thick in the air. Paige, Sarah, and Azzi sit at the front, exhaustion tempered by adrenaline. You stand near the cameras at the back, adjusting microphones, watching the room with practiced focus.

Questions flow in the usual postgame buzz. A reporter raises a hand.

“Azzi, you were unstoppable tonight. How did you keep that rhythm through the second half?”

Azzi grins, a soft laugh escaping. “Just staying locked in. I knew we needed to keep pushing, keep that energy for the team.”

Another reporter turns to Sarah. “Sarah, your defense was key tonight. What’s your mindset when guarding the opposing team’s best player?”

Sarah smiles, brushing a stray lock of hair back. “You just focus. Defense is about being relentless, not giving up, reading their every move. It’s as much mental as physical.”

Then, attention shifts to Paige. “Paige, you took a hard hit earlier. How’s your nose feeling now?”

Paige answers with a slight smile, voice clipped. “It’s sore, but nothing new. I’ve played through worse. I’ll be fine.”

The reporter gestures toward you. “Paige, we saw Y/N run off the court after the injury—was there any connection between that and what happened on the court?”

Your eyes lock on the reporter. They make it clear who they mean, and your heart skips a beat. Paige catches your gaze for a split second, then turns back with a calm, deliberate expression.

“I asked for Y/N. I didn’t want anyone else. It wasn’t just about the injury—it was the whole thing, the frustration, the rush. She’s someone I trust. She knows me better than anyone here, and when I needed someone to just be there for me, she was the one I called.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, the weight of her words settling in. Your stomach tightens, but you don’t flinch. The tension between you and Paige hangs thick in the air.

The reporter nods and moves on, but the unspoken understanding between you and Paige lingers, unacknowledged yet undeniable.

The press conference winds down, the questions fading as reporters pack up. You finish securing your gear, making sure everything’s in place. The familiar routine feels automatic, but tonight the air feels heavier.

Footsteps fade behind you as you walk the hallways, the weight of the press conference lingering. Once in the media suite, you take a moment to organize your gear, arranging it with calm precision that’s become second nature.

The suite buzzes with chatter as colleagues pack up. Cameras dismantled, mics wrapped, notes shuffled.

“Hey, everyone,” you say, getting their attention. “I just want to thank you all for your hard work tonight. Seriously, every camera, every mic, every angle—everything went off without a hitch. It’s not easy keeping up with the speed and energy of a game like this, but you nailed it. I couldn’t have asked for a better team.”

Smiles and thanks ripple through the room.

“You all make my job easier,” you add with a grin. “Great job, everyone.”

You post a quick thank-you to the media team, reflecting on how smooth everything went—because tonight, it wasn’t just the players who made it happen. Everyone behind the scenes did.

A soft voice interrupts your thoughts. “Y/N?”

You turn to find Paige standing just outside the door of the suite, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, posture stiff, like she’s been standing there for a while, waiting for the right moment. Her gaze catches yours, soft and nervous all at once.

“Can we talk?” Her voice is quiet, hesitant — uncertainty, but something more.

The noise of the room fades as you nod, your pulse quickening. You gather your things faster than usual. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You follow her down the hallway, the faint echo of your footsteps the only sound between you. The hum of the arena fades as you exit into quieter corridors, away from flashing lights. Paige leads you to a side room, away from the staff, away from everyone.

Inside, the door clicks shut, and the world shrinks. Paige stands there, arms crossed, her posture tight. “I’ve been thinking about what happened a few weeks ago,” she says slowly, “about you and Kaia.”

Her words make your heart tighten. There’s that flicker in her eyes — unreadable. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Paige, I—”

She interrupts, exhaling sharply, eyes dropping before locking on yours again. “I don’t want to hear it from anyone else, Y/N. I need to hear it from you. What’s going on with you two?”

Your pulse quickens, words lodged somewhere between the space you’ve been avoiding and the one you’re trying to hold together. The weight of it presses down hard.

“Paige,” you begin, voice trembling despite your best effort, “it’s complicated.”

She huffs—a short, frustrated sound without anger, just confusion and maybe a little hurt. She steps closer, the space shrinking. “I don’t want to complicate it, Y/N. I just want the truth. I’m not asking for the whole damn backstory—just what’s happening. With her. With you. With... me.”

Her last word is barely a whisper, but it lands heavy.

Silence stretches between you, thick and fragile. You want to reach for her, but the distance feels impossible. Too much left unsaid.

Finally, you speak, steady but quiet, the weight of a long decision in your voice. “I’m not... I’m not going to keep doing this with Kaia,” you say, throat tight. “I’ve been holding onto something I shouldn’t have. Letting the past keep me from what’s right in front of me.”

You breathe deeper, clarity settling in. “It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to Kaia. It’s not fair to me.”

The air shifts.

When Paige speaks again, her voice is soft, tentative — testing the ground. “So... you’re saying it’s me, now?”

The words are uncertain, but beneath them is a plea for something real.

You step closer, the space closing, heat radiating from her presence, vulnerability shining in her eyes. “Yeah,” you answer, firm. “It’s you. I want it to be you, Paige. No more second-guessing. No more wondering what if.”

Her expression softens, tension melting. A flicker of relief lights her eyes. You hold her gaze, feeling the shift beneath the surface.

She pauses, then smiles—small but real. “Okay,” she says, voice steady. “Then let’s figure this out.”

Your chest feels lighter than it has in days. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not afraid of the next step. Whatever happens, you’re choosing her. And for now, that’s enough.

The air thickens, charged with something more than words. Paige looks at you differently—darker, more focused—as if she’s feeling your words as much as hearing them.

Every inch of her draws you in, the subtle tension between you building.

You can’t stop yourself from stepping closer, pulse quickening again. The distance that once felt comfortable is now unbearable. Her breath hitches when you near. Her lips part, ready to speak, but no words come. She just watches you, chest rising and falling, eyes searching yours, waiting.

You can’t deny it anymore. Something magnetic pulses between you, undeniable. You’re so close now, feeling the heat from her skin, the faint scent of her perfume blending with the air. It’s intoxicating.

Your mind races, body moving on its own.

Paige shifts just slightly, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the touch is electric. The soft contact lingers—a subtle invitation, a question without words.

Her hand comes up to rest on your waist, her fingers just grazing the fabric of your shirt, as if she’s testing the waters, unsure but longing. Then she leans in just slightly, her voice a soft, breathy whisper. “Are you sure?”

The words barely leave her mouth before you close the space between you, your lips meeting hers in a kiss—desperate, raw, all the emotions of the last few weeks pouring out without a single word.

The kiss is slow at first, tentative as if you’re both testing the waters, feeling each other out. But then it deepens—a flood of want, the connection undeniable as your hands slide to her back, pulling her closer.

Paige’s hand slides to your neck, pulling you in even tighter, the kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding. Every inch of space between you disappears, the heat of her body making everything else feel distant, irrelevant.

Your heart races as you break the kiss for a brief moment, only enough to catch your breath before you kiss her again, this time with more intensity, and more certainty. It’s as if all the tension that’s been building, all the confusion and hesitation, melts away with every touch, every kiss.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. The decision, the choice—it’s no longer just about words. It’s about this. About now. About her. 

You ease away just enough to rest your forehead against hers, breaths mingling in the tiny space between you. Paige’s eyes hold yours—unfiltered, vulnerable, and fierce in their honesty. No pretenses, no walls. Just two people finally letting the truth breathe.

Her fingers curl softly around your waist, steady and grounding, pulling you back to the present. Outside, the noise of the arena dims to a distant echo, irrelevant in this quiet bubble where only you and Paige exist. The space between you that felt endless now feels like it’s finally closing.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispers, voice raw and low, trembling with everything she’s held back.

A slow smile blooms on your lips, a release of the tension knotted tight in your chest. “Me too,” you confess, your voice barely audible but packed with meaning.

Time seems to pause, thick and weighty with the significance of what you’ve just shared. Then Paige leans in again, her lips brushing yours with a softness that feels like a vow—gentle, certain, full of hope.

When you pull back, the energy hasn’t vanished—it’s shifted. Warmth replaces tension, steady and promising, like the calm after a storm.

“We’ll figure it out,” you say, fingers lacing through hers. “Step by step.”

She nods, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth. “Step by step.”

You both linger there for a heartbeat longer before the quiet urgency of reality pulls you back. Paige squeezes your hand, a silent promise hanging between you.

“We should probably get back before anyone notices we disappeared,” she says, voice light but steady.

You nod, still riding the wave of that moment, though the familiar weight of the arena waiting outside settles gently on your shoulders. Together, you move toward the hallway, fingers still intertwined like a lifeline.

Back in the corridor, the buzz of voices and footsteps returns, but it no longer feels overwhelming. You catch Paige’s eye, and there’s a spark there—an unspoken understanding that you’re no longer alone in this.

As you walk side by side, your mind races through everything that still needs to be said and done, but for now, words can wait. This step, this choice—it’s enough.

Paige glances at you, a small, knowing smile curling at her lips. “So… dinner tomorrow? To celebrate the start of whatever this is?”

You grin, the knot in your chest loosening even more. “It’s a date.”

And as you part ways in the lobby, the noise and chaos of the arena swirling around you, something inside feels different. Lighter. Like some invisible knot you didn’t realize you’d been carrying finally came undone.

The noise hums around you, but it doesn’t press in the way it used to. It’s just there now—background static to something that finally makes sense.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your chest a little less tight, your head a little clearer. It’s not perfect, not clean or simple—but it’s real.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. A message from Paige lights up the screen:

tomorrow. just us. :) 

A grin tugs at your lips before you can stop it. You type back:

wouldn’t miss it. ;)

And for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s good to be here—in the mess, in the uncertainty, in the quiet, stubborn promise of what’s next.

[paigesluver]

mommy? mamacita?

[paigesluver]

this was sooooooo good

𝚖𝚒𝚌’𝚍 𝚞𝚙 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it’s just you, paige and a camera you forget is there

You’ve done this a hundred times—more, probably—but today feels different.

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of LED panels and the occasional creak of your chair as you adjust your posture for the fifth time in ten minutes. Your assistant, Em, is in the editing bay making last-minute tweaks to the intro roll, but you can still feel her watching you through the glass with that knowing grin. She’s already teased you enough this morning.

“You’re fixing your hair again,” she says into your earpiece, voice crackling through the comm. “It looks fine. You look fine. Stop.”

You roll your eyes and shoot a sarcastic thumbs-up at the one-way glass, ignoring the slight heat in your cheeks.

Fine isn’t good enough today.

Because today, your guest isn’t just a guest. She’s the guest.

Paige Bueckers.

And yeah, sure, you’ve interviewed top tier athletes before—Megan Rapinoe, Candace Parker, even Serena Williams via video call once—but something about Paige is different. Maybe it’s the way she plays like poetry in motion. Maybe it’s how she carries herself—quiet, thoughtful, deadly on the court and disarmingly soft off of it. Maybe it’s just the damn smile you’ve seen in a hundred slow motion TikToks that fans lovingly post after every Dallas Wings game.

Or maybe, more realistically, it’s that you’ve had a crush on her since UConn, and you’re two hours away from sharing a couch and a mic with her for an hour straight.

“She Scores” has always been your passion project. What started as a niche podcast in your college dorm now pulls millions of listeners every week. You’re known for being sharp, knowledgeable, casually flirty without being pushy, and for asking questions no one else thinks to ask. But beneath all the polish and prep, you’re still just a massive women’s sports nerd who gets giddy when you get to sit down with the athletes who shaped the game.

You run through your notes again—childhood, UConn, transition to the W, off-day hobbies, rapid fire—but you already know you won’t stick to them perfectly. You never do. The best conversations happen when you let things drift. You’re just hoping you don’t drift too far into Oh my god she’s so pretty, stay normal territory.

Em buzzes back in.

“Just got word—she’s on her way up.”

You freeze for a beat, then rise from your chair and take a deep breath, brushing invisible dust off your vintage Lisa Leslie hoodie. You’re wearing sneakers that cost too much and jeans that hug just right, and your hair has been sitting at an intentional degree of messy for the past hour. Cool. Collected. Professional. Mostly.

The knock at the door is soft. You turn as your producer opens it, and there she is.

Paige Bueckers.

And she’s early.

You didn’t expect that.

She’s dressed in a simple grey zip-up and black sweatpants, no makeup, hair pulled back into a loose bun. Effortlessly beautiful. A little taller than you imagined—though that might be the sneakers. Her eyes meet yours, blue and steady, and she smiles.

“Hey,” she says, voice quieter than you thought it’d be. “I’m Paige.”

As if you didn’t know.

You step forward, trying not to radiate pure gay panic. “Hey! Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. And you’re early, which automatically makes you my favorite guest.”

She laughs, short and real. “I was scared of LA traffic. Got lucky, I guess.”

You offer her water. She takes it. Her fingers brush yours for a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

“You good to hang out in the green room for a bit?” you ask. “We don’t record for another half hour, but I figured it might be nice to talk first. Get comfortable.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and your heart taps out a Morse code you hope doesn’t show on your face.

You lead her to the smaller side room off the main studio, a cozy space with a worn leather couch, some plants that are somehow still alive, and shelves lined with sports memorabilia—signed basketballs, framed jerseys, candid photos with former guests. She walks past the wall and pauses when she sees the signed Sue Bird jersey.

“You’ve had Sue on here?” she asks, blinking.

You grin. “Yeah. She wore that jersey the first time we talked. She signed it after I beat her in a game of HORSE.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “You beat Sue Bird in HORSE?”

“Well, technically, I distracted her by asking about her some dumbass question, but a win is a win.”

She smiles again—wider this time—and sinks into the couch, folding one leg under herself.

“So, do I get the same treatment?” she asks. “You gonna ambush me with personal questions?”

“Nope,” you reply, sitting across from her. “I already know pretty much a lot. Twitter’s been over that since the UConn days.”

She groans softly, tipping her head back. “God. Twitter knows too much.”

You watch her for a moment, just… existing. Relaxed. Present. And you realize she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys small talk for its own sake. But you also don’t want to jump right into deep questions.

“You nervous?” you ask instead. Simple. Honest.

She shrugs. “A little. I’ve seen your podcast before. You don’t really let people off the hook.”

You smirk. “That’s true. But you’re in good hands.”

She looks at you, and something flickers between you. Not full-blown tension yet, but something.

You glance down at your phone, pretending to check the time. You’re stalling, which is dumb. You never stall.

“You wanna run through the outline real quick?” you offer. “Just to know what’s coming.”

She tilts her head. “Or… we could wing it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Winging it with a podcaster is dangerous, Bueckers.”

“I like dangerous,” she says, then blinks like she didn’t mean to say it quite like that.

You catch it. You catch everything.

“Well,” you say, standing, “let’s give the people what they want.”

She follows you back into the studio, her presence magnetic even in silence. Your team starts final checks—lighting, mic levels, camera angles. You settle onto the couch next to her, not too close, not too far. You adjust your notes, but your hands aren’t shaking.

Not anymore.

She turns to you, just before you go live.

“You good?” she asks.

It’s simple, but the way she says it—grounded, like she sees you—settles something in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting her eyes. “You?”

She nods once. “Let’s do it.”

The red light is on, the music fades out, and you smile into the mic.

“Welcome back to She Scores, the podcast that unapologetically talks all things women’s sports—from buzzer beaters to backdoor cuts and everything in between. I’m your host, and today… listen. You already know. I don’t even need to hype this up but I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You turn your body slightly, just enough to face her.

“Joining me in the studio is a certified bucket. UConn royalty. NCAA Player of the Year, ESPY winner, national champion, and now… Dallas Wings rookie and all-around media mystery—Paige Bueckers. Paige, hi.”

She’s already smiling, eyes wide and slightly amused. She leans forward, adjusting the mic with practiced ease.

“Hey. Wow. That was… a lot.”

You smirk. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, laughing. “Just… you made me sound way cooler than I feel.”

“That’s kind of my thing,” you tease. “Making legends sound approachable.”

She lets out a little breath, like she’s trying not to smile harder than she should. Already, the chemistry crackles—not obvious to the untrained eye, but fans at home are going to pick up on this. Especially the ones with compilation and edit accounts.

“So how does it feel?” you ask. “The WNBA. First season. First media tour. Sitting across from me. Try not to be overwhelmed.”

She laughs again, easing into her seat. “It’s surreal. All of it. Some days I wake up and still feel like I’m on a college schedule. Like I’m supposed to be running sprints at 6AM.”

“Trauma.”

“Literal trauma,” she confirms, mock serious.

You nod. “We’ll get into UConn trauma in a second. But first, let’s take it back. Way, way back. Minnesota. Hopkins. Little Paigey. What’s your first basketball memory?”

She pauses thoughtfully. “I think I was maybe three? My dad had this mini hoop in our living room. The kind that’s too low for anyone over four feet tall.”

“Unfair advantage,” you interject.

“Exactly. But I remember shooting on that every day. He taught me how to pass. We’d play these one on one games—he’d let me score just enough to keep me hooked. And then when I finally beat him for real, I cried.”

“Wait, you cried?”

“Yeah,” she says, almost sheepish. “Like ugly cried. I didn’t know what to do with the win.”

“That’s deeply poetic,” you say. “Beating the person who taught you. The origin story of a future number one overall pick.”

She shrugs, but she’s glowing a little. “I just liked the sound of the ball going through the net. I still do.”

There’s a moment there—small, golden. You don’t rush it.

“You talk about that sound like it’s music.”

She glances at you. “It kinda is, right?”

Your smile deepens. “See, this is why I’m glad this isn’t a live podcast. People would already be tweeting unhinged things. Like we’re flirting.”

She laughs, but there’s something in her eyes—a flash of interest, maybe curiosity. “Are we?”

“Dunno,” you say, flipping a pen between your fingers. “We’ll let the comment section decide.”

She leans forward a bit more, playful. “Dangerous game.”

“I like dangerous,” you echo, and there it is again—like you’re circling something neither of you fully plan to name. You redirect, but only slightly. “So when did it get serious? Like, serious serious. When did Paige Bueckers go from ‘cute kid with a mini hoop’ to ‘national recruit and Gatorade Player of the Year’?”

Her smile fades into something more grounded, thoughtful.

“Probably middle school. I was playing up against older kids. My coaches were honest with me early—they told me I had potential, but I had to want it. Like, really want it.”

You nod, sipping from your water as you watch her speak. “And you did.”

“I did,” she says. “I still do. I don’t think that’s ever changed.”

You scribble something in your notebook, not because you need to, but because you need to look away for a second. The way she talks—low, deliberate, with that quiet confidence—makes it a little hard to keep your cool. You’ve interviewed charismatic people before. But Paige? She’s that rare mix of humble and magnetic. The kind that makes you forget you’re working.

“Talk to me about Hopkins,” you say. “You were a walking headline by, like, freshman year.”

Paige makes a face. “Ugh. I was also a walking awkward phase.”

“You and every lesbian born in the early 2000s,” you reply.

She laughs, covering her mouth for a second. “I didn’t even know back then—”

“Oh, sweetie,” you say, deadpan. “We all knew.”

She tilts her head, pretending to be scandalized. “Are you outing me on my own episode?”

“Absolutely not. But girl, be so for real right now.”

“Wow,” she says, laughing, “this is targeted.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Just doing my journalistic duty.”

The banter flows, faster now. She’s open, unguarded. You ask about pressure, expectations, media narratives. She gives measured but honest responses. You don’t grill—never do—but you go deep, and she meets you there.

You click your pen like it matters, but you’re not taking notes anymore. Not really. You’re just watching her speak—fluid, honest, careful in a way that doesn’t hide anything but still keeps a part of her close to the chest.

“So, let’s talk about it,” you say, leaning back in your chair, mic close to your mouth. “The elephant in the room.”

Paige raises an eyebrow, amused. “There’s an elephant?”

“There is,” you nod seriously. “Its name is Geno Auriemma.”

She laughs—light, warm, fond.

“Oh, God.”

“No, no, we’re gonna go there,” you grin. “Because we’ve talked about Minnesota, we’ve talked about middle school, we’ve talked about how you terrorized local basketball courts by age twelve. But I want to know—why UConn? Why Geno? You had offers from literally everyone.”

She exhales slowly, as if this is a question she’s answered before but never gets tired of answering.

“I think... deep down, I always knew.”

“Why though?”

“The legacy,” she says first. “The culture. The players who came before me. It wasn’t just about playing at a top program. It was about pressure. UConn has this... weight to it. You don’t go there unless you’re willing to be great.”

You tilt your head, lips curling.

“So you just wanted to be surrounded by greatness?”

She smirks back. “Yeah. Kind of like right now.”

You cough, trying to cover the grin that breaks out too fast.

“Wow,” you say, shaking your head. “Are you flirting with your host mid answer?”

“You started it.”

“Very unprofessional. I’m literally just doing my job.”

“And doing it very well,” she says, with zero hesitation.

You blink. The room feels warmer. Or maybe it’s just you. You pull it back together, even if it takes effort.

“Okay. Back on track before I combust,” you mutter. “UConn. Talk me through it. Year one. Year two. Everything.”

She exhales again, a little softer now.

“It changed me,” she says simply.

You let the pause settle. “How?”

She looks at the ceiling, then down at her hands, fingers lightly curled in her lap. “I think there’s this myth that when you get to a place like UConn, you arrive fully formed. Like, you’re already who you’re supposed to be. But I wasn’t. Not even close.”

You nod, gently. “None of us are at eighteen.”

“I was scared,” she admits. “I was confident on the court, yeah. But everything off it? The pressure. The expectations. The comparisons. It messed with my head.”

There’s no pity in your expression—just knowing. You’ve watched too many athletes burn out under the same spotlight.

“I got hurt, too,” she continues. “Sophomore year. That knee.”

Your voice softens. “I remember.”

“Everyone remembers. It’s weird, you know? Being reduced to a timeline. ‘Six weeks out. Six months. A year. Will she be back for March? Is she ever gonna be the same?’ I stopped being a person and started being... a question.”

You don’t rush in with sympathy. You just let her have the silence. She fills it naturally.

“But I had people,” she says, voice gentler now. “My teammates. The trainers. Geno.”

“What was he like through that?” you ask. “Because people love to paint him as this gruff, yelling machine.”

She grins. “He is. But also... he listens. When you let him. When I was quiet—too quiet—he noticed. And he pulled me aside one day after practice. Didn’t yell. Just said, ‘I know it sucks. But you’re still here. That matters.’”

You write that quote down before you realize you’re doing it.

You glance at her again, and she’s watching you with a kind of cautious ease, like she’s not used to people writing her words down without turning them into headlines.

You smile. “You grew up at UConn.”

She nods. “I really did.”

“Who was your rock while you were there?”

“Azzi,” she says immediately.

There’s a new kind of stillness in her voice. Familial, rooted, undeniable.

“Azzi was—she is—one of the most disciplined people I’ve ever met,” Paige continues. “Like, I’d be on the couch recovering and she’d come in from shooting for two hours and say, ‘Want to play Uno?’ Like it was nothing.”

You laugh. “What’s the Uno score between you two?”

“Oh, I stopped keeping track when I realized she cheats.”

“She what?”

“Allegedly,” Paige adds, eyes twinkling.

You grin. “I’m putting that in the episode title. ‘Paige Bueckers Accuses Azzi Fudd of Cheating at Uno.’”

“She’s gonna kill me,” Paige laughs.

“She’ll love it.” You hesitate. “It sounds like you really leaned on her.”

“I did,” she says. “But not just for the injuries or the hard stuff. For the little stuff too. Like, post-game takeout orders. Netflix recs. The stupid stuff that makes it all feel normal.”

“And what about team chemistry?” you ask. “Because from the outside, that UConn squad felt... locked in. Like you’d die for each other.”

“We would’ve,” she says softly.

You’re quiet for a beat. “That real, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, we had our fights. We had our off days. But we always knew how to come back to center. I think that’s what made it work.”

You sit in that. The weight of it. The warmth.

“What was the moment you knew,” you ask slowly, “that you weren’t just good—you were built for this?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Her mouth moves around the air like she’s sifting through time.

“There was a game my junior year,” she says. “We were down at halftime. I’d missed, like, seven shots. Geno told me I looked like I forgot who I was.”

You smile at the phrasing. “Classic.”

“Yeah. But it hit me. Because he was right. I’d let doubt take over. So the second half, I didn’t think. I just played. And I think I had, like... seventeen points in the third quarter alone.”

You whistle. “That’s not just playing. That’s poetry.”

She shrugs. “That’s UConn.”

You glance down, heart still tight from the way she said all of it—like she left pieces of herself behind on that court.

“You ever miss it?” you ask gently.

She nods, quick. “All the time.”

“What do you miss most?”

There’s a pause. Then, “The routine. The locker room. The smell of old sweat and bad jokes. Running suicides and pretending not to cry. Group chats about who forgot to bring their shoes. You know—real team stuff.”

“God,” you murmur, laughing, “that’s weirdly specific and deeply nostalgic.”

She grins. “It’s the stuff no one sees that sticks.” You nod again, feeling it. You’ve never been a college athlete, but you’ve been on enough sidelines to understand how those echoes live in you long after the lights fade. “And I trusted my gut when I went there. I still do.” You lift your gaze. Her voice drops, just slightly. “It’s never let me down.”

Your breath hitches.

Something about the way she says it—low, unwavering, not for show—cracks open a tiny place in you. You mirror it without thinking.

“I know what you mean,” you say. Your voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

There’s a beat. Neither of you look away. Neither of you speak. The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, not forced. Just... full.

If Em were in the room, she’d throw something at you. If your editor were watching live, they’d be marking timestamps for clips. You only break the stare because you have to. Not because you want to. You glance down at your notes, which might as well be written in a foreign language now. Nothing on the page matters as much as the thing still buzzing between you and her. When you look back up, Paige is watching you like she’s been doing it the whole time.

You clear your throat. “Well. That was a moment.”

She tilts her head. “Was it?”

“I think I blacked out.”

She laughs, soft and low. “You should trust your gut more.”

You smile, a little breathless. “I think I just did.”

The mics are still rolling. But it doesn’t feel like they’re there.

You ease into the next part of the conversation with practiced grace, but inside, your heart’s still caught on that last moment. The weight of her words. The look that didn’t blink. You’ve had sparks with guests before, but this… this isn’t a spark. It’s a slow burn, one you feel blooming low in your chest, rising like tidewater. Dangerous. Delicious. And entirely unprofessional. But you’re past the point of pretending you don’t enjoy it.

“So,” you say into the mic, voice steadied by muscle memory more than calm, “we’ve talked childhood. We’ve talked college. Let’s talk now. Dallas. Big city. New team. WNBA life. What’s that been like for you so far?”

Paige shifts in her seat. She’s a little more relaxed now—arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly spinning the cap of her water bottle. She smiles, slow and thoughtful.

“It’s... a lot,” she admits, almost laughing at herself. “There’s no other way to say it. It’s fast. Like, faster than I expected. Not just the game—though the speed of the league is insane—but everything. Schedules. Flights. Practices. Media. I feel like I live out of a suitcase now.”

You lean forward a little, eyes on her. “No more dorm room comfort zones.”

“Exactly. I miss knowing where everything is. My spots. The routine. But this—this is pushing me. It’s making me grow. I like that.”

“Tell me about the team,” you say, pen loosely tucked behind your ear, even though you’re not using it anymore. “Because that’s not just any locker room. You’ve got Arike. You’ve got DiJonai. That’s some serious personality to walk into.”

She laughs, head tilting back for a second. “It’s wild. In the best way. Arike’s got this energy that’s just... loud in the most joyful, chaotic way. She’ll walk into practice already roasting everyone. And DiJonai is the most stylish person I’ve ever met. She’ll show up in a full fit at 8 a.m. like it’s fashion week.”

You grin. “Do you feel like the rookie?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, smiling again. “They keep me humble. Arike made me carry her bag once just because I beat her at a shooting drill.”

“That’s hazing.”

“She called it character building.”

“Same thing.”

“She’s lucky I like her.”

“You like them both?”

“I do,” she says, with warmth that feels earned. “It’s different from college. You don’t have that built-in family right away. You’ve gotta prove yourself. Earn their trust. But they’ve been really supportive. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

“Do you mess up a lot?”

She shrugs. “I think everyone does. But I try to learn fast.”

“And leadership?” you ask. “You were the leader at UConn. Now you’re the rookie again. How’s that shift been?”

She hesitates—just enough for you to catch it.

“It’s humbling,” she says after a beat. “At UConn, people looked to me. Now I’m learning to speak less, listen more. It’s weird, finding your voice again. In a new system. A new city.”

You nod. “For what it’s worth? You’re doing a good job here.”

Her eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’ve got presence. And you don’t dodge the real stuff.”

A pause. Not long, but full. Charged.

“I think that’s the best compliment I’ve gotten all week,” she says, voice low.

“Maybe I’ll try to beat it before we’re done.”

“Now that’s dangerous,” she says, echoing the phrase from earlier, lips twitching at the edges.

The air between you pulls tighter, warmer. You push forward before it swallows you whole.

“All right,” you say, clearing your throat like that’ll clear the heat in your chest. “Walk me through a day in the life of Paige Bueckers. Not game day. Just... a random off-day in Dallas.”

She exhales like it’s a relief to shift gears.

“I wake up late,” she admits, eyes flicking to yours like she’s confessing a crime. “I’m not a morning person unless I have to be. So maybe 9:30, 10?”

“A rebel,” you murmur.

She smiles. “I stretch. Journal sometimes. Depends on the mood. Then maybe a walk. I like walking. Especially in new places.”

“City walks? Nature? What’s the vibe?”

“City. I like the noise. Headphones in. No destination.”

You hum. “You people watch?”

“Always.”

“And the music?”

She smirks. “What do you think I listen to?”

You blink, caught off guard by the pivot. “Oh, we’re flipping the interview now?”

“Just curious,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye. “What does your gut tell you?”

You lean back, arms crossed, mock-thinking.

“You strike me as an R&B girl,” you say. “Smooth, layered, a little introverted. You’ve definitely got some SZA in rotation. Maybe Summer Walker. Some old Alicia Keys when you’re feeling dramatic.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed.

“But,” you continue, slowly, “I also think you secretly listen to sad Taylor Swift songs on planes.”

That does it. She laughs so hard she folds in on herself, hand over her mouth.

“I—how did you—”

“I knew it,” you say, victorious. “You’re a ‘Clean’ or ‘The Archer’ type, huh?”

She’s still laughing. “You don’t miss.”

“You are the archer,” you tease. “Careful aim. Hidden feelings. Lowkey brooding.”

“Oh my God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You’re exposing me.”

“You exposed yourself, Bueckers.”

She grins. “You’ve been studying me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just doing my homework.”

“Dangerous,” she repeats again, softer this time.

You catch her gaze, and there it is—something wordless passing between you. Not scripted. Not planned. Just real.

Em’s voice crackles in your ear piece again, distant but amused, “Tell them to get a room.”

You cough. “Sorry, my producer says we’re flirting too hard.”

“Is she wrong?” Paige asks, still smiling.

“Isn’t that for the audience to decide?”

You both laugh. But it’s different now—layered. Knowing. You glance back down at your outline and realize, again, that you haven’t touched it in ten minutes.

“Any hobbies?” you ask, lighter now. “Other than walking with your headphones in and contemplating your entire emotional landscape through sad pop lyrics?”

She groans. “Stop.”

You grin. “Never.”

“I read,” she offers, regaining composure. “Mostly sports bios, but sometimes fiction. Stuff that lets me disappear a little.”

“And when you want to reappear?”

She looks at you, half-tilted smile, eyes softer. “I guess… I come back to things like this. Conversations. People who see me.”

You weren’t ready for that one. You blink, breath catching in your throat.

“Well,” you say, voice suddenly a little unsteady, “hi.”

She mirrors your tone. “Hi.”

And for the third time in less than an hour, you forget entirely that there are cameras on.

You lean back into your chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“All right,” you say, tone shifting into something more playful, “you’ve survived the deep dive. You’ve given us poetry, heartbreak, growth arcs. But now it’s time for the real journalism.”

Paige raises a brow, lips twitching. “Oh no.”

“Rapid fire round,” you announce, adjusting your mic dramatically. “No overthinking. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. You ready?”

She nods slowly, suspicious but smiling. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Favorite cheat meal.”

“Chick-fil-A. Spicy deluxe.”

You fake a gasp. “Problematic and spicy. Bold choice.”

She snorts. “Gotta be honest.”

“Pre-game ritual?”

“Getting lost in the music. Right sock on before the left.”

“Superstitious or just vibing?”

“Superstitious. Like, irrationally.”

You make a note. “We’ll revisit that in therapy.”

She laughs, shaking her head.

“Biggest pet peeve?”

“People chewing with their mouths open.”

“That’s fair. What are you bad at?”

There’s a pause, a beat longer than expected. She licks her lips, almost shy.

“Texting back,” she admits.

“Oh?” You lean forward, faux serious. “We’ve found the flaw.”

“Hey,” she says, defensive but laughing. “I read them! I just… don’t reply. Or I do, like, in my head. It’s a problem.”

“You know,” you muse, “that’s dangerous behavior for someone flirting on a podcast.”

She meets your gaze, eyes gleaming. “Who says I won’t reply to you?”

The silence after that is louder than anything you’ve recorded today.

You raise your brows, smirk playing at the edge of your mouth. “We’ll circle back.”

She grins. “Looking forward to it.”

You break eye contact because if you don’t, you’ll fall face-first into it again. Instead, you shuffle your notes, breathe slowly, and shift the tone with practiced ease.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “can I tell you something?”

Paige blinks, surprised by the sudden turn, but nods. “Yeah.”

You rest your elbows on your knees, fingers laced loosely. The studio feels smaller now, intimate. Like the lights have dimmed without anyone touching a switch.

“I started this podcast in my college dorm,” you begin. “Borrowed mics. Blankets tacked on the walls for soundproofing. No sponsors. No following. Just… this need to make space for women’s sports. For athletes who were always doing the most and getting the least attention.”

Paige’s expression shifts—softer, listening in a different way.

“I was mad,” you continue. “That no one was talking about it. Mad that I had to dig through forums and niche blogs to find out when a W game was airing. Mad that girls were breaking records and getting two seconds of coverage between football updates.”

You glance at her, and she’s not smiling anymore. She’s just watching you, gaze warm and unwavering.

“So I built this,” you say. “One episode at a time. And now we’re here. You’re here. And it means a lot.”

She sits with that. Doesn’t rush to respond. Just lets it breathe.

Then she says, quiet and sincere, “Thank you.”

You look up. “For what?”

“For doing it,” she replies. “For caring. For showing up. For giving people like me space to be more than stats and soundbites.”

It hits you harder than you expect. You swallow, nod.

“Sometimes it feels like yelling into the void,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, voice steady, “I hear you.”

And God, the way she says it. Like it’s not just about this podcast. Like she sees more than you’re willing to show. Like she’s been listening to you, even before she stepped into the studio.

The moment lingers. Longer than it should. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. You’re the first to shift, eyes flicking down to your notes. But your voice is soft when you ask the next question.

“All right. Last one. No pressure.”

She leans back a little, sensing the shift. “Hit me.”

“What’s something people always get wrong about you?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Paige’s gaze drops to her hands, fingers twisting the cap of her water bottle again. She breathes in slowly, then out.

“That I’m always put together,” she says finally.

You don’t speak. You just let her keep going.

“I think people look at the highlights and the press and assume I’ve got it all figured out. That I’m calm. Collected. That I don’t break down. But I do. A lot. I get nervous. I overthink. I put so much pressure on myself it sometimes feels like I can’t breathe.”

Her voice doesn’t shake, but it thins a little at the edges.

“I smile through it, because that’s what people expect. But inside? I’m scared all the time. That I’m not enough. That I’ll mess up. That they’ll stop believing in me.”

You nod, slow. “That’s real.”

She exhales. “Yeah.”

You glance at her, and your tone gentles even more.

“Me too,” you say.

She turns toward you.

“I get nervous before every interview,” you admit. “Even now. Especially now.”

Her brows lift slightly. “With me?”

You nod. “Yeah. You’re… more than I expected.” That makes her smile again. Small. Honest. “You’re doing great,” you tell her.

“So are you,” she replies, and something shifts again in the air—like a curtain pulled back, or a room getting quieter when someone important walks in.

The lights haven’t changed. The mics are still on. But everything feels different. You don’t need to say anything else. You just sit in it. Together.

You’ve never wanted an interview to end less.

It’s not just that the episode’s been good—though, objectively, it’s been one of your best. The pacing, the banter, the rhythm. The intimacy that crept in somewhere around the midpoint and never left. It’s all been magnetic. Electric. Like your favorite kind of story, the one you fall into so deeply you forget you’re holding the book.

But time’s up. You feel it before Em signals it in your ear. Before the last question fades into a silence thick with things unsaid.

You tap the edge of the mic once and clear your throat, voice calm but low.

“Well… that’s gonna do it for today’s episode of She Scores.”

Paige’s eyes are still on you, softer than they were an hour ago.

You glance at her, smile twitching at the corners of your mouth.

“Paige Bueckers, thank you for coming through, for sharing your story, and for ruining all other guests for me from this point forward.”

She laughs under her breath. “High praise.”

“I mean it,” you say, more serious now. “This was special.”

She doesn’t speak right away. When she does, her voice is quiet.

“I had fun,” she says.

You nod once, throat tightening for some reason you don’t have time to name.

“I’m your host,” you say into the mic, still looking at her, “and if you need me, I’ll be rewatching this episode on mute just to study eye contact.”

She lets out a full laugh—quiet, disbelieving, charmed. You don’t break the stare.

“And as always,” you finish, voice slow and warm, “thanks for listening. We’ll see you next time.”

The red light clicks off.

The studio doesn’t move right away. It rarely does. Your crew’s used to your pacing, your cadence. They let the moment breathe. But eventually, lights dim to neutral, camera arms swing away, and a few muted voices pick up as people begin unplugging cables and shutting down feeds.

You lean back in your seat, drawing a slow breath.

She stretches her legs slightly, then looks over at you. “That went fast.”

You nod. “That’s how you know it’s good.”

She stands first. You do the same. Neither of you rushes.

Em walks past the set, holding a half-rolled cable over her shoulder. She catches your eye and smirks. You ignore her.

Paige lingers by the couch, hands in her pockets, looking around the studio like she wants to memorize it.

You don’t say anything. You just watch her watching everything.

After a beat, you walk over and gesture toward the door.

“I’ll walk you out.”

She nods. “Cool.”

You step into the quiet hallway side by side. The air’s cooler here, and the low hum of fluorescent lights follows you down the corridor until you reach the side exit near the green room. You stop there, under a small overhead light. It's soft. Pale. Like a halo waiting to happen.

Paige turns slightly and leans back against the wall, her shoulder brushing the cool brick, arms crossed loosely.

“You’re really good at this,” she says.

You tilt your head, amused. “The podcast?”

She shrugs. “All of it. This space. The way you talk to people. It feels... safe.”

That takes the wind out of you a little. In the best way.

You take a small step closer.

“You made it easy,” you say, voice low.

She smiles again. Not wide. Just real. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then—without a word—she pulls out her phone and holds it toward you, screen lit up on the contact page.

“In case I need help prepping for interviews,” she says. You take the phone, eyebrows raised. “Or something like that,” she adds, teasing but quiet.

You type in your number, thumb hovering for a second before you hit save. You don’t add an emoji or anything extra. Just your name. Clean. Simple. But your heart’s not moving simple. It’s skipping. Tripping.

You hand the phone back and she looks at it for a second, nods once, then locks the screen and slips it back into her pocket.

“Well,” she says.

“Well,” you echo.

The silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Just unfinished.

You don’t hug. You don’t say too much. You don’t have to.

She opens the door and steps out into the early evening light. You watch her walk down the path toward the lot—hair catching gold from the sunset, one headphone already in.

She doesn’t look back.

But you stay there, standing in the doorway, your hands tucked into your pockets like maybe they’ll keep you from feeling too much.

A moment later, Em walks up behind you, pausing in the doorway.

She glances at Paige’s retreating figure. Then at you. “You are so down bad.”

You exhale. Slow. A smile cracks the corner of your mouth.

“I know.”

You don’t deny it. You just watch the door swing slowly shut, and try not to already miss her.

It’s just past 8:30 p.m. when a knock comes.

You’re on your couch, bare-faced, in sweats, hair tied up in a lopsided bun. The post-interview high has settled into a quiet hum in your chest, the kind that doesn’t want to fade but also can’t be sustained. You haven’t eaten yet. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The remote’s resting on your stomach. You were debating rewatching the episode clips Em already sent you—Paige’s soft laugh on loop, her eyes lingering on yours like there was more she wasn’t saying.

You haven’t even touched your phone. You’ve been too afraid to find out whether she texted or didn’t.

The knock happens again.

You freeze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not food delivery, not friends, not—

No.

No way.

You rise slowly, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears, and pad barefoot toward the door.

When you open it, you forget how to breathe.

Paige Bueckers is standing on your doorstep, backlit by the hallway’s overhead glow, a bunch of wildflowers in one hand and two overfilled grocery bags in the other. She’s wearing joggers and a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair down, glasses slightly crooked, like she threw the whole look together in a rush.

You stare.

She blinks, then offers a crooked smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, dumbly.

She lifts the flowers a little. “So… I might’ve told Em I wanted to see you again and she might’ve given me your address.”

You narrow your eyes. “That little traitor.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘She’s down bad so don’t mess this up.’”

You groan into your hand.

“You’re not the only one,” Paige adds, laughing.

You step back and open the door wider. “Get in here before someone sees you and sells the story to DeuxMoi.”

She steps inside. You take the grocery bags from her hand, eyes scanning their contents—pasta, wine, garlic bread, salad mix, two pints of ice cream, and a suspiciously expensive-looking block of parmesan.

You blink. “This is… a lot of food.”

“I panicked,” she admits, cheeks pink. “I was going to ask you out for dinner tomorrow, but then I realized I didn’t want to wait.”

You look up at her.

She shrugs. “Is that weird?”

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s—God, it’s not weird. It’s really not weird.”

“Good.” She shifts the flowers in her arms. “Because I was kind of already halfway here when I realized I didn’t actually ask.”

You reach for the flowers. “Consider me asked. And saying yes.” You pause. “Like… yes, yes.”

“Yeah?” she asks, a little breathless.

You grin. “Yeah.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re both barefoot in your kitchen. She’s stirring the sauce while you try, and fail, to open the bottle of wine. Soft music plays from the speaker you usually reserve for sad Sunday cleaning sessions.

There’s flour on your cheek, red sauce on her hoodie sleeve, and an entire salad still untouched in a bowl because the two of you got distracted talking about pre-game pump up songs and you accidentally brought up her Rookie of the Month highlight reel with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I knew you watched that ten times,” she teases, hip bumping you lightly.

“I was doing research.”

“For what? Your dreams?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

She sets the spoon down and turns to you, leaning her hip into the counter. “This is nice.”

You nod, heart thudding against your ribs. “It is.”

You’re quiet for a second. Not uncomfortable—just full again. The kind of silence where things settle without losing spark.

Then she tilts her head.

“I didn’t want the night to end,” she says, voice lower now. “After the podcast. I kept thinking about everything I didn’t say.”

“Like what?” you ask, careful not to move too fast.

She meets your gaze. “Like how I didn’t want it to be just one interview. Or one conversation. Or one night.”

Your breath catches.

She steps a little closer, the space between you narrowing to something charged.

“I know we’re both busy,” she murmurs. “Schedules. Travel. Different States. Media stuff. But I wanted you to know that I meant it—when I said you made me feel safe. Like I could be myself.”

You swallow. “You were yourself.”

“Because of you,” she says, no hesitation.

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of her, the steadiness in her voice. Her hand brushes yours on the countertop.

“So,” she says softly, “if this is just dinner, that’s okay. But if it’s something more—if it could be more—I’d like that.”

You don’t speak. You just lean in and press your forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut, everything inside you humming.

“I’d like that too,” you whisper.

Her fingers graze yours, then hold.

Outside, the city keeps moving—cars passing, lights blinking, lives rushing past. But in your kitchen, time slows down. The sauce simmers. The wine breathes. And for the first time in a long time, so do you.

[paigesluver]

i hope y’all are voting multiple times a day cuz if NOT, i better not hear any of u who didn’t vote, complain about paige not being an all star cuz the media isn’t voting for her

they can VERY well rob her

fan votes are only 50% while player votes are 25% and media panels are 25%

so start twiddling those thumbs, make as many email accounts as u can to vote with (which u can do multiple times in ur private/incognito browers) and vote for paige ONLY as ur fav GUARD today because others getting more votes isn’t gonna push her up

[paigesluver]

for me? | chapter_3

paige bueckers x fem reader

synopsis; you and paige share unspoken feelings for each other, resulting in an escalating tension that complicates your friendship and challenges your emotions

warnings; some angst, tiny injury (bloody nose), fluff towards the middle/end, tension as always

hi hi! y'all this was supposed to be out a month ago... i just kept getting busy but here it is! we're met with some angst after the previous chapter; it doesn't really last long though lol. any who i hope you all enjoy this and please feel free to let me know what you think about it in the replies or in my inbox! enjoy!

read chapter 2!

The kitchen was quiet, save for the occasional click of the stove and the low sizzle of batter meeting a hot pan. You stood barefoot in the middle of it all, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. Paige leaned against the counter behind you, arms crossed, eyes following your every move—not in a flirtatious way this time, but thoughtful. Observing. Like she was watching more than just breakfast.

You were still in her hoodie, sleeves hanging past your hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh. It felt like wearing her shadow—warm and heavy with meaning.

She hadn’t said much since you started cooking. That alone felt strange. Paige was rarely quiet for long.

“You always make breakfast for your guests?” she asked, voice casual.

“Only the ones who show up at 2 a.m. with ice cream,” you replied without turning around.

She chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. When you finally turned with a plate of pancakes, she took it with a quiet “thanks” and sat at the table.

You sat across from her, nibbling at your pancakes while sipping your iced matcha. The cold, slightly bitter drink was a comforting contrast to the warmth of the food in front of you. It grounded you as the silence stretched on. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… loaded. Like both of you were waiting for the other to say something first.

Eventually, it was Paige who broke the quiet.

“So…” she said, dragging her fork through the syrup without lifting her gaze. “Were you with Kaia last night?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Why?”

She finally looked at you, eyes unreadable. “Azzi sent me a post this morning. From the gallery. You were in the background of one of Kaia’s pics.”

You hesitated, processing her words. “Oh. Yeah, she invited me. It was nice. Quiet.”

Paige nodded slowly, like that was the answer she expected—but not the one she wanted.

“Sounds like a date.”

“It wasn’t.”

“But it could’ve been,” she said, not accusing, just honest.

You swallowed. “I don’t know.”

There was a beat of silence.

You looked at her then. Really looked. At her messy bun, her oversized tee, her long legs tucked under the table. At the guarded openness in her eyes — like she wanted your answer but wasn’t sure she’d like it.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” you admitted, choosing truth over comfort. “Kaia makes things feel easy. Like I don’t have to try so hard. But with you…”

Paige tilted her head. “But with me?”

“With you, everything feels… intense. Alive. Like I can’t look away, even when I probably should.”

A smile tugged at her lips. Not smug—just soft. “That sounds like a compliment.”

“It’s dangerous,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re dangerous.”

“And Kaia isn’t?”

You didn’t answer.

She stood, walked over to the sink, and rinsed off her plate. She moved slowly, deliberately. You watched her, unsure where this was headed or what came next.

When she turned back around, she looked more serious than you’d seen her in weeks.

“I’m not asking you to pick,” she said. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t care, either.”

You nodded, throat tight.

She walked back over to you and gently touched the sleeve of her hoodie still draped over your arm.

“You can keep this,” she said softly. “But don’t wear it just because it’s comfortable. Wear it because you want to remember what this feels like.”

You looked down at the hoodie, suddenly aware of the weight of it again. The meaning is stitched into its seams.

“Paige…”

She gave you a small, bittersweet smile. Then, before you could say anything else, she leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering.

When she pulled back, her eyes searched yours for something unspoken.

“I’m gonna go,” she murmured. “But I’ll see you around.”

You followed her to the door, your heart thudding.

She paused, one hand on the frame, then turned to face you.

“Figure it out,” she said — not unkindly. “Whatever it is. I’ll be around… but I’m not gonna wait forever.”

She pulled you into a brief hug. Warm. Familiar. And then she stepped back, gave you one last lingering look, and left.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was heavier than anything she’d said.

You stood there for a while, the hoodie still wrapped around your shoulders. A reminder of everything unsaid.

───── ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ─────

Two weeks later, you found yourself walking through the familiar halls of the UConn basketball arena, your work shoes echoing on the polished floors as you made your way to the media suite. It was game day, and there was no room for distractions. You had a job to do—coordinating interviews, managing the broadcast feed, and overseeing the production crew. The buzz of the arena, the mounting excitement from the crowd—it was all part of the job. There was no space for your mind to wander, not with everything running so smoothly in the lead-up to tip-off.

On your way to the media suite, you mentally ran through your to-do list: interviews to coordinate, cameras to check, broadcasts to monitor—all the usual tasks. As you walked past the locker room, you caught a brief glimpse of Paige. She was adjusting her warm-up gear, the focus in her eyes sharp, her presence commanding as she prepared for the game.

It was impossible not to feel something in your chest, seeing her so immersed in the moment, so strong and determined. Even though everything between you remained unresolved, she was captivating. For a second, you let yourself watch her. But then, shaking the feeling off, you forced yourself to turn away. There was no time for distractions. You had a job to do, and the game needed to go smoothly.

You pushed the lingering thoughts aside as you entered the media suite, refocusing on the task at hand. There was no time to lose. The game was about to begin, and you couldn’t afford to let anything interfere with your responsibilities.

After making sure everything was in place—assigning people to their tasks, checking camera positions, and ensuring the broadcast feed was stable—you headed toward the court. You showed security your badge, walking past the barricades and onto the court, the energy of the crowd building as the teams warmed up.

As you adjusted your earpiece, you caught sight of Kaia from the student section. She waved, her face lighting up when she saw you. Smiling, you made your way over to her.

“Hey!” you greeted, leaning slightly over the railing. 

“Hey!” She grins back. “Can’t wait to see how this goes. The energy’s electric!”

You chuckle, nodding. “I know, right? It’s going to be a good one.”

After a few more words, you head back to your spot on the sideline, ready to oversee the final preparations.

Some players spotted you and made their way over, KK, as always, was first.

"Look who it is, Ms. Director," she teased, flashing you a grin.

"Hi, KK," you replied, pulling her into a quick hug.

“Feeling important, huh, Ms. Director?” she teased again, and you chuckled.

“Always, always,” you said with a wink.

Then, you moved to hug the rest of the team. You wrapped your arms around Azzi next, feeling her laugh as she gave you a quick squeeze.

“Alright, alright,” Azzi said with a grin, “Glad you didn’t forget us down here in the trenches.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled. “How could I forget you guys?”

You turned next to Jana, who pulled you into a tight hug. “Big day, huh?” she said, her voice always carrying that infectious energy.

“You know it. Gotta make sure everything goes smoothly,” you replied.

Finally, you hugged Aubrey, who was always one for jokes. “Still don’t know how you handle all this stress, but you’re killing it,” she said, her playful tone always lightening the mood.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” you said, laughing softly as you let go.

They all smiled at you, and for a moment, the weight of the day lightened just a little. Despite the chaos ahead, it was nice to feel grounded in this moment, surrounded by the people who had your back. But as your gaze drifted to the court again, your mind couldn't help but wander to one person in particular.

Just then, Azzi gave you a teasing look. “So… you’re ignoring Paige now?” she asked her voice light but pointed.

Your heart sank, and you quickly glanced away, trying to brush it off. “I’m not ignoring anyone,” you said, though the words didn’t quite carry the same conviction as before.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Sure you’re not,” she said with a smirk, before giving you a playful shove. “Just don’t let her catch you ignoring her, okay?”

You didn’t respond, but the words stung a little more than they should have. You knew Azzi wasn’t wrong. You were avoiding Paige, and it had been weighing on you. The lingering tension from your last conversation hadn’t disappeared, and every time you thought about her, your chest tightened. You hadn’t even been able to bring yourself to say hello, to acknowledge her presence.

And there she was, just a few feet away, focused on the game, just like she always was. It was a professional distance, but the emotional one was harder to shake.

The game was about to start, and you couldn’t afford to lose focus, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something needed to give, one way or another.

You took a deep breath, shaking off the nagging feeling that lingered after Azzi’s words. It was game day, and there was no time for distractions. You still had a job to do.

As the teams lined up for warm-ups, you moved back toward the media area to oversee the setup. Your mind wasn’t fully on the work, though, even if you tried to focus. Every time you looked over at Paige, she seemed completely absorbed in the game. It was hard not to admire her—how she moved with purpose, how she held her presence on the court. She was everything you remembered from when you first met her: fierce, confident, and so very much in control of everything around her.

You glanced down at your watch. Game time was almost here.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that you didn’t know how to. What would you say? How could you make things right when everything still felt so... unresolved? Your chest tightened at the thought.

“Focus,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head. No time for this right now. Not when you had to make sure every camera was in place, every angle covered, and every interview scheduled.

You glanced toward the court again and saw Paige shoot a glance in your direction. For just a second, your eyes met. You felt a flutter in your chest—a brief moment of connection before she turned her attention back to her team.

It was impossible to ignore that pull.

But you couldn’t let yourself be distracted by it. Not now.

The game started, and everything else seemed to fall into place. The broadcast crew was in sync, the cameras caught every pivotal moment, and you monitored the feed, ensuring the smoothest broadcast possible. It was just like any other game day, but it felt different. You couldn’t help but feel the tension in your chest every time you caught a glimpse of Paige on the court, even as she played with the same intensity she always did.

Then, at halftime, you found yourself standing in the hallway near the locker rooms, ready to check in with the crew. You heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Paige walking toward you, a towel draped over her shoulders as she wiped the sweat from her face.

You felt a surge of nerves, but you pushed it down quickly, focusing on the work at hand.

“Hey,” she said, her voice calm but with an underlying energy that was impossible to miss.

“Hey,” you replied, your heart suddenly beating faster.

She stopped in front of you, a small, teasing smile on her face. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are you just gonna keep ignoring me?”

You blinked, taken off guard by her bluntness. "I haven't been ignoring you," you said, though the words didn’t quite feel true.

Paige raised an eyebrow, her gaze softening, but there was still something guarded in it. “Don’t play dumb,” she said, her voice carrying a playful edge. “I’m not that out of the loop.”

The words stung, but in a way, you deserved it. You had been avoiding her, consciously or not, and the tension between you two had been building up for weeks. It was hard not to feel the weight of everything—your feelings, her presence, the unresolved conversation hanging over you both.

“I’m just trying to focus on work,” you said, your voice quieter, as you fought to keep your emotions in check.

She nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she understood, but something in her expression told you she didn’t completely buy it. “I get it. But, you know, I’m here, if you want to talk.”

You bit your lip, feeling the truth of her words settle into your chest. You did want to talk. But how could you?

Paige took a step back, the intensity of her gaze still lingering. “I should probably get back to the locker room anyway. But, don’t avoid me forever, okay?” she said lightly, her voice almost teasing.

You nodded, forcing a smile. “I won’t. I promise.”

She gave you one last look, a brief flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, before turning to walk back toward the locker room.

As she disappeared down the hall, you felt the weight of the moment, the pull of her presence, and the quiet space between you that was still so full of unspoken words. The game was still going on, but now, it felt like something else entirely. Something unresolved, something that could only be fixed if you were brave enough to face it.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the emotions swirling inside you. One step at a time. For now, the game needed your focus, and you had to finish what you started. But after that… maybe you’d finally have the nerve to cross the distance between you. One step at a time.

The game was fast-paced, and the energy in the arena was electric. You were on the sidelines now, just behind the baseline cameras, coordinating with the media crew through your earpiece and watching the court through your peripheral vision. Everything had been smooth—up until the third quarter.

It happened fast.

One of the opposing players swung too wide on a drive to the basket, and Paige—ever fearless, ever in the thick of it—caught an elbow square to the face. She staggered, one hand instantly going to her nose, the other reaching out to steady herself.

The whistle blew. Time-out.

You saw the flash of red on her fingers before she turned away from the court. The athletic trainer rushed to her immediately, guiding her off the floor, already pressing a wad of gauze into her hand. Blood. And Paige was pissed. She was muttering something as they disappeared down the tunnel—annoyed, frustrated, hurting.

A beat later, your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey,” a voice said. “Paige is asking for you. She doesn’t want anyone else back there.”

Your stomach dropped, your pulse skipping a beat — but your feet were already moving before you could think twice. You flashed your badge to security at the tunnel entrance, cutting through the controlled chaos of game-day logistics.

The training room smelled like antiseptic and sweat. Paige was sitting on the edge of the table, gauze still pressed to her nose, brows furrowed in irritation. The trainer was giving her a quick once-over, checking for any obvious breaks, and when he noticed you come in, he nodded toward you.

“She’s stable. Keep her sitting, keep it clean,” he said, then stepped out to grab a clipboard and supplies, giving you both a little space.

When Paige saw you, something in her expression softened—just for a second.

“Finally,” she mumbled through the gauze. “Took you long enough.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, stepping closer. “I came as fast as I could. You okay?”

She gave you a look. “What do you think?”

There was blood on her jersey. Her cheeks were flushed, more from frustration than pain. But underneath the tough exterior, you could tell—she just needed you there.

And despite everything hanging between you, you were.

You moved in closer, your voice lowering instinctively. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Paige dropped the gauze and tilted her head back slightly. Her nose was red and a little swollen, but thankfully not broken. Still, the sight of blood crusted under her nostrils and along her upper lip made your stomach twist.

You grabbed a clean cloth from the counter and dampened it, carefully wiping the dried blood away. She winced but didn’t pull back.

“You’re lucky,” you murmured. “Could’ve been worse.”

“I’ve had worse,” she muttered. “It still sucks.”

You gave her a look, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile. “Always so dramatic.”

She smirked, eyes meeting yours. “I get elbowed in the face, and I’m dramatic?”

You rolled your eyes, but it was fond. Familiar.

For a moment, it was just the two of you. The noise of the game, the pressure of your job, the uncertainty hanging between you—none of it mattered right then. Just her, sitting in front of you, and the way her eyes searched yours like they were still asking something you hadn’t answered yet.

She spoke first.

“You didn’t come say hi before the game.”

You blinked. “I was working.”

“So was I.” Her voice was quieter now. “Didn’t stop me from noticing.”

You paused, cloth still in your hand, heart beating a little too loud in your ears.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted,” you admitted.

Paige shrugged, looking down at her jersey. “I don’t know what I want either. But I wanted to know you were still there.”

You swallowed hard, something catching in your chest.

“I’m here now.”

She looked back up at you, and this time, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

You stayed beside her, sitting close as the minutes passed. Paige didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

Eventually, the door creaked open again, and the athletic trainer returned, clipboard in hand.

“Alright,” he said, offering a small smile. “She’s good to go. Keep it clean, monitor for swelling. I’ll check on it post-game.”

He gave a reassuring nod before heading back out.

Paige stood, adjusting her jersey and running a hand through her hair, the strands damp against her forehead. She glanced at you, eyes softer than before.

“You coming?” she asked, her voice steady but carrying an edge of vulnerability like she wasn’t just talking about the tunnel.

You nodded, the answer easy. “Yeah. Always.”

And you followed her out, back toward the noise, the lights, and the game waiting to pull you both under again.

The arena hits you like a wave — the roar of the crowd, the sharp scent of sweat and popcorn, the echo of sneakers squeaking against polished hardwood. It’s alive in a way only a packed gym can be, sound bouncing off the walls, adrenaline hanging thick in the air. The noise crawls under your skin, thrumming in your bones, a reminder of every game you’ve ever watched, every moment that ever meant something.

Paige walks a step ahead of you, her back straight, chin tilted in that familiar way she does when she’s trying to convince the world she’s fine. But there’s a quiet tension in her movements, a subtle hesitation in her steps. You notice how she occasionally touches her nose as if testing whether the pain is still there or if the memory of the hit will fade with time. You follow her, close enough to feel the pull between you but far enough to give her space—space you both need.

She pauses just before the entrance back to the court, half in shadow, half bathed in the glow of the overhead lights. The crowd can’t see her yet. She glances over her shoulder and something unreadable flickers in her expression.

“You sure you’re okay to be out here?” you ask, your voice low and careful. It’s a stupid question. You know what she'll say. Paige Bueckers was born for this—pressure, pain, impossible expectations. She’s lived her whole life balancing on that knife’s edge. But still, you have to ask.

She huffs a quiet laugh, the corner of her mouth lifting in a more familiar smirk, less like the girl from ten minutes ago. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I’ve played through worse.”

And you don’t doubt it. You’ve seen it—the sprained ankles, the jammed fingers, the bruises she pretends not to notice. You’ve seen what this game has taken from her, and what she’s still willing to give.

There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t feel as suffocating as before. It feels… tentative. Like standing on the edge of something you’re not quite brave enough to name. The weight between you hasn’t disappeared, but it’s shifted. Cracked in places. Like showing up in that training room cracked open something neither of you planned for.

She tips her chin toward the court. “Go handle your business, Director.”

You roll your eyes, but a grin tugs at your lips before you can stop it. “You too, Superstar.”

Then she hesitates. Just for a second. But you catch it—the flicker in her eyes, the way her shoulders drop a fraction like the weight’s gotten a little heavier. Like there’s something she wants to say, but no good way to say it. Not here. Not now.

“Hey,” she says, voice low enough that you have to lean in to catch it. “After this… can we talk?”

Your stomach drops again — the same sickening swoop as before, your pulse jumping in your throat. You’ve been dodging this conversation for weeks, burying yourself in game schedules and press passes and whatever excuse you could find. Because you know what she wants to talk about. You know what’s been hanging in the air between you, thick as humidity before a storm.

But right now—with the crowd rumbling like thunder and Paige standing there, fierce, raw, and a little bruised—it feels like a moment you can’t duck.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Yeah. After.”

She holds your gaze a second longer like she’s making sure you mean it. Then, with a crooked, tired smile that punches straight through your chest, she turns and jogs back onto the court. The crowd erupts the second they see her, chanting her name. The blood’s cleaned up, but the fire’s still in her eyes.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, pulse thrumming in your ears.

Azzi materializes beside you, bumping your shoulder with a teasing grin. “Told you she was waiting on you.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t start.”

But it’s lighter now. Whatever knot has been lodged in your chest loosens a little. There’s still a conversation waiting after the game, one you don’t have the words for yet. But for the first time in weeks, you’re not running from it.

You slip your earpiece back in, signaling to the media crew that you’re shifting to the scorers’ table, weaving between staff and sideline security.

The fourth quarter’s a knife fight now — frantic, physical, momentum swinging on every possession. A pass sails out of bounds. A player crashes to the floor. A three-pointer rattles out. The air is thick with adrenaline and the sharp tang of desperation. Every whistle sounds like a gunshot, every cheer a tidal wave.

And through it all, you watch Paige. And this time, you don’t look away.

You settle beside the scorers’ table, bracing one hand against the edge, eyes flicking between the court and the monitors displaying your camera feeds. The game’s tight, the crowd roaring with every drive, and your voice snaps over the comm line.

“Lena, lock in on baseline shots when Paige’s got the ball. No wide angles.”

“Maya, stay on bench reactions — if anyone pops off, I want it.”

“Cam, track the scoreboard after every possession. Don’t miss a damn thing.”

They respond quickly, without hesitation. You’ve worked with these people long enough to know every instruction will be executed flawlessly.

Beside you, Geno’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and commanding. “Sarah! Stay active on D — don’t get caught ball-watching!”

You don’t even need a headset to hear him; he’s right there, standing near the edge of the table, voice carrying that clipped edge he always has in tight games. Sarah barely glances his way, already locked in, hounding her matchup at the top of the key.

The crowd pulses like a living thing, rising every time Paige touches the ball. You catch yourself watching her too long—her movements sharp, the fire back in her eyes, like she never left. You force your gaze back to the feeds.

Your comm crackles. “Bench shot’s clean. The crowd’s losing it every time she drives. You want that?”

“Yeah,” you reply, already tracking the next play. “Grab the crowd on the next make.”

The quarter barrels forward, the clock bleeding down possession by possession. Geno barks out subs and defensive coverages beside you, and your crew moves like clockwork through your orders. 

Your eyes stay glued to the monitors as the game rockets into the final minute — UConn clinging to a three-point lead, 74-71. Every possession feels like it could tip the world off its axis. Paige has the ball at the top of the key, defenders draped all over her, the crowd on their feet like one breath held tight.

You press your comm button again. “Cam, Maya — final stretch. Be ready to track reactions at the buzzer. Lena, stay tight on Paige. If we win, I want her face first. Get that shot.”

“Copy,” Lena answers immediately, voice tight but steady.

The ball swings to Sarah in the corner — she fakes, drives baseline, and kicks it back out. Azzi catches it in stride, shakes her defender with a crossover so clean it draws an audible gasp from the crowd, and buries a jumper from the elbow.

76-71.

The arena erupts.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the other team bricks a desperate three, and UConn snags the rebound. Geno’s already motioning to pull it out, run the clock.

Twenty seconds.

Your comm crackles. “Interviews?”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping toward the edge of the scorers’ table. “Get ‘em set. Press line on the court in two. Paige, Sarah, and—check with Coach—probably KK. Make sure those mics are hot.”

“Got it,” Cam answers. You hear them moving in your earpiece, already setting up the baseline press area.

On the court, the final buzzer sounds.

78-71.

The place explodes.

The team rushes midcourt in a tangle of arms and shouts. Paige’s smile is crooked, exhausted, blood-cleaned, fire still burning behind her eyes. You feel it land somewhere deep in your chest and allow yourself a small grin.

“Baseline cameras, now,” you order through the comm, moving with the current of bodies onto the court.

Your crew’s on it. Maya’s at the logo with a shoulder rig, Lena’s tight on Paige, and Cam waving a boom toward the cluster of players. Geno heads to the handshake line, and you give a nod to one of the ops guys signaling media clearance.

You weave through the celebration, catching flashes of joy in players’ eyes, the press huddled in anticipation, the low hum of the crowd’s adrenaline still pulsing in the air. Your focus sharpens, but there’s a weight at the back of your mind, a quiet hum that lingers even as your feet move on autopilot. Paige is front and center now, her smile softer, energy more contained, but you still catch the flicker of something unspoken behind her eyes.

The press conference room hums with energy, the weight of victory still thick in the air. Paige, Sarah, and Azzi sit at the front, exhaustion tempered by adrenaline. You stand near the cameras at the back, adjusting microphones, watching the room with practiced focus.

Questions flow in the usual postgame buzz. A reporter raises a hand.

“Azzi, you were unstoppable tonight. How did you keep that rhythm through the second half?”

Azzi grins, a soft laugh escaping. “Just staying locked in. I knew we needed to keep pushing, keep that energy for the team.”

Another reporter turns to Sarah. “Sarah, your defense was key tonight. What’s your mindset when guarding the opposing team’s best player?”

Sarah smiles, brushing a stray lock of hair back. “You just focus. Defense is about being relentless, not giving up, reading their every move. It’s as much mental as physical.”

Then, attention shifts to Paige. “Paige, you took a hard hit earlier. How’s your nose feeling now?”

Paige answers with a slight smile, voice clipped. “It’s sore, but nothing new. I’ve played through worse. I’ll be fine.”

The reporter gestures toward you. “Paige, we saw Y/N run off the court after the injury—was there any connection between that and what happened on the court?”

Your eyes lock on the reporter. They make it clear who they mean, and your heart skips a beat. Paige catches your gaze for a split second, then turns back with a calm, deliberate expression.

“I asked for Y/N. I didn’t want anyone else. It wasn’t just about the injury—it was the whole thing, the frustration, the rush. She’s someone I trust. She knows me better than anyone here, and when I needed someone to just be there for me, she was the one I called.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, the weight of her words settling in. Your stomach tightens, but you don’t flinch. The tension between you and Paige hangs thick in the air.

The reporter nods and moves on, but the unspoken understanding between you and Paige lingers, unacknowledged yet undeniable.

The press conference winds down, the questions fading as reporters pack up. You finish securing your gear, making sure everything’s in place. The familiar routine feels automatic, but tonight the air feels heavier.

Footsteps fade behind you as you walk the hallways, the weight of the press conference lingering. Once in the media suite, you take a moment to organize your gear, arranging it with calm precision that’s become second nature.

The suite buzzes with chatter as colleagues pack up. Cameras dismantled, mics wrapped, notes shuffled.

“Hey, everyone,” you say, getting their attention. “I just want to thank you all for your hard work tonight. Seriously, every camera, every mic, every angle—everything went off without a hitch. It’s not easy keeping up with the speed and energy of a game like this, but you nailed it. I couldn’t have asked for a better team.”

Smiles and thanks ripple through the room.

“You all make my job easier,” you add with a grin. “Great job, everyone.”

You post a quick thank-you to the media team, reflecting on how smooth everything went—because tonight, it wasn’t just the players who made it happen. Everyone behind the scenes did.

A soft voice interrupts your thoughts. “Y/N?”

You turn to find Paige standing just outside the door of the suite, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, posture stiff, like she’s been standing there for a while, waiting for the right moment. Her gaze catches yours, soft and nervous all at once.

“Can we talk?” Her voice is quiet, hesitant — uncertainty, but something more.

The noise of the room fades as you nod, your pulse quickening. You gather your things faster than usual. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You follow her down the hallway, the faint echo of your footsteps the only sound between you. The hum of the arena fades as you exit into quieter corridors, away from flashing lights. Paige leads you to a side room, away from the staff, away from everyone.

Inside, the door clicks shut, and the world shrinks. Paige stands there, arms crossed, her posture tight. “I’ve been thinking about what happened a few weeks ago,” she says slowly, “about you and Kaia.”

Her words make your heart tighten. There��s that flicker in her eyes — unreadable. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Paige, I—”

She interrupts, exhaling sharply, eyes dropping before locking on yours again. “I don’t want to hear it from anyone else, Y/N. I need to hear it from you. What’s going on with you two?”

Your pulse quickens, words lodged somewhere between the space you’ve been avoiding and the one you’re trying to hold together. The weight of it presses down hard.

“Paige,” you begin, voice trembling despite your best effort, “it’s complicated.”

She huffs—a short, frustrated sound without anger, just confusion and maybe a little hurt. She steps closer, the space shrinking. “I don’t want to complicate it, Y/N. I just want the truth. I’m not asking for the whole damn backstory—just what’s happening. With her. With you. With... me.”

Her last word is barely a whisper, but it lands heavy.

Silence stretches between you, thick and fragile. You want to reach for her, but the distance feels impossible. Too much left unsaid.

Finally, you speak, steady but quiet, the weight of a long decision in your voice. “I’m not... I’m not going to keep doing this with Kaia,” you say, throat tight. “I’ve been holding onto something I shouldn’t have. Letting the past keep me from what’s right in front of me.”

You breathe deeper, clarity settling in. “It’s not fair to you. It’s not fair to Kaia. It’s not fair to me.”

The air shifts.

When Paige speaks again, her voice is soft, tentative — testing the ground. “So... you’re saying it’s me, now?”

The words are uncertain, but beneath them is a plea for something real.

You step closer, the space closing, heat radiating from her presence, vulnerability shining in her eyes. “Yeah,” you answer, firm. “It’s you. I want it to be you, Paige. No more second-guessing. No more wondering what if.”

Her expression softens, tension melting. A flicker of relief lights her eyes. You hold her gaze, feeling the shift beneath the surface.

She pauses, then smiles—small but real. “Okay,” she says, voice steady. “Then let’s figure this out.”

Your chest feels lighter than it has in days. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not afraid of the next step. Whatever happens, you’re choosing her. And for now, that’s enough.

The air thickens, charged with something more than words. Paige looks at you differently—darker, more focused—as if she’s feeling your words as much as hearing them.

Every inch of her draws you in, the subtle tension between you building.

You can’t stop yourself from stepping closer, pulse quickening again. The distance that once felt comfortable is now unbearable. Her breath hitches when you near. Her lips part, ready to speak, but no words come. She just watches you, chest rising and falling, eyes searching yours, waiting.

You can’t deny it anymore. Something magnetic pulses between you, undeniable. You’re so close now, feeling the heat from her skin, the faint scent of her perfume blending with the air. It’s intoxicating.

Your mind races, body moving on its own.

Paige shifts just slightly, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the touch is electric. The soft contact lingers—a subtle invitation, a question without words.

Her hand comes up to rest on your waist, her fingers just grazing the fabric of your shirt, as if she’s testing the waters, unsure but longing. Then she leans in just slightly, her voice a soft, breathy whisper. “Are you sure?”

The words barely leave her mouth before you close the space between you, your lips meeting hers in a kiss—desperate, raw, all the emotions of the last few weeks pouring out without a single word.

The kiss is slow at first, tentative as if you’re both testing the waters, feeling each other out. But then it deepens—a flood of want, the connection undeniable as your hands slide to her back, pulling her closer.

Paige’s hand slides to your neck, pulling you in even tighter, the kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding. Every inch of space between you disappears, the heat of her body making everything else feel distant, irrelevant.

Your heart races as you break the kiss for a brief moment, only enough to catch your breath before you kiss her again, this time with more intensity, and more certainty. It’s as if all the tension that’s been building, all the confusion and hesitation, melts away with every touch, every kiss.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. The decision, the choice—it’s no longer just about words. It’s about this. About now. About her. 

You ease away just enough to rest your forehead against hers, breaths mingling in the tiny space between you. Paige’s eyes hold yours—unfiltered, vulnerable, and fierce in their honesty. No pretenses, no walls. Just two people finally letting the truth breathe.

Her fingers curl softly around your waist, steady and grounding, pulling you back to the present. Outside, the noise of the arena dims to a distant echo, irrelevant in this quiet bubble where only you and Paige exist. The space between you that felt endless now feels like it’s finally closing.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispers, voice raw and low, trembling with everything she’s held back.

A slow smile blooms on your lips, a release of the tension knotted tight in your chest. “Me too,” you confess, your voice barely audible but packed with meaning.

Time seems to pause, thick and weighty with the significance of what you’ve just shared. Then Paige leans in again, her lips brushing yours with a softness that feels like a vow—gentle, certain, full of hope.

When you pull back, the energy hasn’t vanished—it’s shifted. Warmth replaces tension, steady and promising, like the calm after a storm.

“We’ll figure it out,” you say, fingers lacing through hers. “Step by step.”

She nods, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth. “Step by step.”

You both linger there for a heartbeat longer before the quiet urgency of reality pulls you back. Paige squeezes your hand, a silent promise hanging between you.

“We should probably get back before anyone notices we disappeared,” she says, voice light but steady.

You nod, still riding the wave of that moment, though the familiar weight of the arena waiting outside settles gently on your shoulders. Together, you move toward the hallway, fingers still intertwined like a lifeline.

Back in the corridor, the buzz of voices and footsteps returns, but it no longer feels overwhelming. You catch Paige’s eye, and there’s a spark there—an unspoken understanding that you’re no longer alone in this.

As you walk side by side, your mind races through everything that still needs to be said and done, but for now, words can wait. This step, this choice—it’s enough.

Paige glances at you, a small, knowing smile curling at her lips. “So… dinner tomorrow? To celebrate the start of whatever this is?”

You grin, the knot in your chest loosening even more. “It’s a date.”

And as you part ways in the lobby, the noise and chaos of the arena swirling around you, something inside feels different. Lighter. Like some invisible knot you didn’t realize you’d been carrying finally came undone.

The noise hums around you, but it doesn’t press in the way it used to. It’s just there now—background static to something that finally makes sense.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your chest a little less tight, your head a little clearer. It’s not perfect, not clean or simple—but it’s real.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. A message from Paige lights up the screen:

tomorrow. just us. :) 

A grin tugs at your lips before you can stop it. You type back:

wouldn’t miss it. ;)

And for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s good to be here—in the mess, in the uncertainty, in the quiet, stubborn promise of what’s next.

[paigesluver]

paige sounds so fucking good on the podcast

[paigesluver]

IM TALKIN BOUT INNITTTTTT

[paigesluver]

i know that’s right😽😽

[paigesluver]

all i wanted to do today was go see azzi, juju, and taylor rooks, i fear i fumbled😩

[paigesluver]

she’s so sweet☹️

Our gentlewoman 🥹

[paigesluver]

hi hi! i was on someone’s acc and saw their masterlist and noticed the titles were role model songs and they were about paige but i lost the acc and all i remember was seeing one titled stripclub music so if any of y’all know what i’m talking about help me out pls😩 it’s my two worlds colliding and i want to read them so bad

[paigesluver]

so cute

[paigesluver]

ohmygod they’re insane, hard launch on a random saturday, i’ve been waiting for this😩

[paigesluver]

it’s happening