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lupinqs · 1 day ago

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CHAPTER TEN ━━ The Introduction

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

❀ ━ word count: 5.9K

❀ ━ warnings: allusions to sex, alcohol consumption

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: hehe

IT’S FRIDAY, December 2nd, and UConn just annihilated Providence. Jo played out of her mind, as she always does. Of course, Paige is proud. Of course she is. But both her performance and the team win can’t really make this might feel like a victory for Paige to bask in.

Currently, she’s standing in Nika’s kitchen, staring down at the cup full of Everclear in her hand. The liquid inside is dangerous, too strong for her, and yet she’s already downed three or four shots. She doesn’t even like it. In fact, she usually avoids this shit like the plague. But tonight, it’s the only thing she can think of to numb her, the only thing that might be able to quiet the anxious, suffocating storm inside her chest.

It’s almost laughable, really, how predictable she is. How every time Jo does something—breathes, laughs, smiles—Paige feels like she’s suffocating just a little more. It’s insane. They’re best friends. They’ve been living together since May. She’s seen every side of Jo—the silly, the serious, the completely ridiculous.

Well, every side except the one she shares with Asher.

Because Paige still hasn’t met him.

She’s seen all the pictures, of course—the one’s on Jo’s Instagram, the one that Jo has as her lock screen, the one framed in Jo’s family’s house back in Boston, the one perched on Jo’s desk in their apartment. She hears about him a God awful lot, too. She’s seen Jo text him, call him. She’s listened to Jo gush about him and their future while Paige is just… there. Watching Listening. Seeing Jo get lost in that perfect, fairytale love that Paige will never be a part of.

The rest of the team, on the other hand, have already met the damn boy. Back in October, while Paige was in LA rehabbing, he’d come up to visit Jo, and they’d met him. And, of course, they all informed Paige of how kind and charming and absolutely perfect for Jo he was.

And, tonight, it seems that Paige has finally met her dues. Because he’s coming to Ted’s with Jo, to hang out with the team.

Okay, it’s not that Paige wants to hate Asher. He hasn’t done anything to her, not really. She just doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to see the joy and adoration in Jo’s eyes when she’s with him. Doesn’t want to see her look at someone else the way she’ll never look at Paige.

That’s why she’s standing here in Nika’s kitchen, holding the cup of Everclear like it’s a lifeline. She’s downed drink after drink, trying to numb herself before the night really starts. She needs something to take the edge off. Anything to make the world feel a little less sharp, a little less raw.

So, Paige reaches for the bottle again, pouring herself another cup, her hand unsteady from the alcohol already coursing through her veins. She doesn’t even care that she’s probably about to get way too drunk to function. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not when she’s about to experience first-hand the perfect, romcom, movie-like romance of Jo and Asher.

As Paige pours the drink, she doesn’t even hear Caroline approach. It’s not until the sophomore’s hand wraps around her wrist that Paige jerks back, spilling some of the alcohol across the counter. “Bro!” she exclaims, frustration creeping into her voice as she whips her head to glare at Caroline. “What the hell?”

Caroline narrows her eyes, and the look she gives Paige is one of irritation, not amusement. “What are you doing?” she demands, voice tight. “You’re gonna be wasted before we even get to Ted’s. Besides, you don’t even like this shit!” She gestures to the bottle of Everclear in Paige’s hand, her gaze pointed.

Paige rolls her eyes. “Nah, don’t do that with me, Carol,” she says, her voice flat and cold, the words rolling off her tongue like venom. “I’m older than you. If you wanna mother someone, go find the freshmen.”

Caroline doesn’t flinch at Paige’s outburst. Instead, she just rolls her eyes back, her expression practically dripping with exasperation. Then, with one swift motion, she gives Paige a quick shove on the shoulder, a mockery of affection that’s meant to get her attention but only serves to make Paige more frustrated. “No,” Caroline says, her tone laced with that same tired edge. “I’m gonna mother because clearly you need it!”

The words land like a slap, stinging more than Paige expects. Yes, she knows she’s not being entirely responsible, but also—when has she been? It’s sort of in her nature to be irresponsible, so she’s not sure how this is any different. But is is. And she doesn’t even know why.

There’s a long pause. Too long. It stretches between them like a chasm, and Paige can feel the moment hanging in the air like it’s about to swallow her whole. She thinks Caroline might be done. She thinks the conversation might be over.

But it’s not. Caroline is not finished.

“Look,” the brunette says, her voice gentler now, but still firm. “I know you’re, like, totally in love with Jo and all, but please, Paige, get yourself together.”

Almost instantly, Paige stills. It’s as if the entire world falls silent in an instant. The sound of her pulse fills her ears, louder than anything else. Her mind goes blank for a moment, and then the words slowly filter through. Caroline knows. Paige has been so careful recently to pretend, pretend, pretend. But Caroline’s still seen through it.

Fuck.

“Wha—? How did you know that?” Paige’s voice comes out high-pitched, more frantic than she wants it to be. She feels like she’s suffocating, like she’s about to drown in the truth that’s just been laid bare. “Did Azzi tell you? Aubrey?” The thought of anyone else but the two of them knowing, of anyone else seeing what she’s been trying to hide, is bad. It’s what Paige imagines standing in front of a crowded room, naked, while everyone stares at her would feel like.

Caroline gives her a look. “No, dumbass,” she deadpans. “I figured it out myself. You’re not very subtle.”

As if it were possible, Paige’s stomach seems to drop even more at the simplicity of it all. Because Caroline’s right, just as Aubrey and Azzi both had been. Paige isn’t subtle. She never has been. The way she looks at Jo, the way her face burns every time Jo smiles at her, the way she seems to track everything Jo doesn’t without even meaning to—none of it is subtle.

She groans, a frustrated sound that escapes her before she can stop it. She leans forward, her palms flat against the counter as she rests her forehead against the cool surface. She’s so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of fighting the feeling that never goes away. And now, with Caroline’s words hanging before her, she knows it’s probably only a matter of time before Jo figured it out, too. Before Jo realizes what Paige has been hiding, and everything goes to shit. Jesus Christ, she’s gonna have to transfer.

Caroline doesn’t let the silence linger for too long, though. “Okay, yeah,” she says, her voice softening a little. “I know it sucks. I get it.” She takes a deep breath, and Paige can hear the sympathy in her voice, the understanding. “And I’m sorry you have to see Jo with Asher while you like her. But, please, get yourself together. Because she’s so excited for you to meet him, and if you’re drunk off your mind when you do, you’re probably just gonna embarrass yourself and her. Do you wanna do that?”

Caroline’s right. Of course she is. Paige can imagine herself meeting Asher, entirely wasted, and saying some stupid shit that would have him grimacing at her and Jo flushing with embarrassment over the fact that this drunk girl before them is supposed to be her best friend. It would be wrong and selfish to do that. But it’s gonna be so hard to do it and act normal. She knows she swore she would take Jo in whatever way she’ll give her—and she still stands by that—but that doesn’t mean she has any desire to meet her boyfriend. Because she just doesn’t. She’s truly not sure she can.

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she just stays there, head pressed against the counter, trying to will sway the stupid, hot tears that begin to form in her eyes. She can’t cry here. It’s fucking stupid.

Eventually, after blinking the tears away, Paige begrudgingly shakes her head. “No,” she mutters under her breath, the words barely audible. “I don’t wanna do that.”

Caroline pats her on the back. “That’s what I thought.”

PAIGE LISTENS. She’s being good. She’s only slightly tipsy, every so often taking sips of her Dirty Shirley. She’s doing her best to integrate herself into the team’s conversation around her, despite her uncharacteristic anxiousness. She tries to will her gaze to stop flicking toward the door. It doesn’t work; her mind is already rehearsing every possible scenario when Jo and Asher walk in.

“Aye, JoJo just said they should be here any minute!” Ice says loudly, reading a text off her phone. The rest of the team, half-fueled by the alcohol running through their bloodstream, lets out a few cheers.

Azzi, who’s across from Paige and who Paige can tell is almost entirely sober, meets her eyes. She title her head, giving her a look as if to say you good? The blonde gives her a tight nod. She will be good. She’s gonna keep it together, it’ll be fine. It’s just one night, one introduction. After that, she can pretend none of it matters. She doesn’t need to be anywhere near Asher.

But even as she tells herself that, her pulse begins to quicken, the seconds ticking by too slowly as she waits for the pair to walk through that door. And, when they finally do, it’s not the way she thought it would be. She expected her heart to sink, her breath to catch, but what happens instead is worse. Her skin tingles, and her chest feels too tight, like her ribs are being squeezed, her lungs struggling for air. Jo walks in first, her laugh ringing out across the bar like it’s some beautiful melody that Paige can’t stop hearing. And then there’s Asher, in the flesh, right behind her. His arm is casually draped over Jo’s shoulder, and the two of them look so natural, so right together that it makes Paige feel like she’s been hit with a sucker punch to the gut.

They’re happy. It’s blatantly obvious in the way they move together, the way Asher’s hand rests lightly on Jo’s shoulder, the way they share that easy, carefree smile, as if nothing in the world could ruin this moment for them. Paige’s vision sharpens, the edge of the bar blurring as the urge to shrink away into herself rises up like an overwhelming tide. She wants to leave, to disappear, to drink so much she blacks out and dies.

But she doesn’t. Obviously.

Jo and Asher head straight toward the team, where they stand in the back corner. Paige forces herself to appear nonchalant like always, her back pressed against the bar wall, her fingers gripping the edge of her drink. The others begin to greet the pair quickly, all laughing and chatting with him so easily and fast it almost gives Paige whiplash. Within a minute, he already fits in so seamlessly—and Paige hates if. She hates the way he’s making them all laugh, the way he’s charming without even trying, the way everyone seems to like him so easily. Things would be so much easier for Paige if he was just some shitty douchebag boy.

But then Jo’s eyes find hers, that smile spreading across her face, and all thoughts of the boy flee for a short moment. It’s that smile only for her, only for Paige. She’s reserved it.

Paige feels her heart leap, an automatic reaction that she can’t stop, especially with alcohol in her system. She doesn’t know if Jo can see it, the way her face softens at the sight of her, but Paige knows her smile is already in place, even if it feels a little strained, like her cheeks might crack under the pressure.

Paige watches as Jo grabs onto Asher’s wrist, pulling him so they’re both face to face with Paige. “Paige! This is Asher!” she exclaims excitedly, and it’s adorable, it really is, the way her doe eyes shine at Paige, twinkling.

With some effort, the blonde forces her gaze from Jo to the boy beside her. “Hey, bro,” Paige says, her voice coming out a little higher than she intended, but she doesn’t let it show. She forces the words out, the greeting she’s practiced a thousand times too many.

“Nice to meet you,” she adds. It’s a lie. Of course.

Asher nods, his hand extending to shake hers. It makes everything inside Paige write. He’s not just some asshole she can dismiss; he’s the guy who makes Jo happy. And in the face of that, what does Paige have to offer? Absolutely nothing.

“Yeah, you too,” Asher replies, his smile wide, genuine. Fuck, he really is likable. It makes everything worse. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Stupidly, Paige can feel her heart skip a beat. He’s heard about her. Jo’s talked about her. The thought of it makes her skin flush, and she glances at Jo, who’s standing just a little too close to Asher, her eyes sparkling. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks, just enough for Paige to notice.

Hm.

Jo’s talked about her. Jo’s talked about her. It’s an absurdly stupid thing to obsess over, because, yes, it would only make sense that Jo has talked about her. They’re roommates, for God’s sakes.

But then, just as quickly, it all comes rushing back—the overwhelming knowledge that it just doesn’t matter. Because Jo has Asher.

Paige’s hand in tightens slightly around her drink, and she forces her smile to stay in place. “I bet,” she says, before gesturing to Jo. “She’s a yapper.”

Asher’s grin widens, and he nods in agreement. He glances down at Jo for a moment, and Paige can see the faint sparkle in his own eyes. It makes her sick. “Yeah, she is,” he chuckles. Of course he would know that. He knows everything. Certainly more than Paige (except how to make a girl cum—though, at this point, she supposes it can’t even apply to the situation). But he’s been there. For everything. Since the fucking sandbox days. It’s not something Paige can even remotely compete with.

She needs another drink.

JO SITS awkwardly in the booth at Ted’s, wedged between Asher and Paige. It’s not even that the space is tight—there’s room enough for the three of them, probably room for one more—but the proximity feels off, almost claustrophobic. She shifts in her seat, feeling the edge of Asher’s knee against hers, and Paige’s shoulder brushing lightly against her own. All of it—the heat from their bodies, the weight of their presence—is somehow making her feel small, like there’s no space for her in this conversation.

Asher, ever the extrovert, is holding court with Paige, talking on and on about college football rankings and how Penn State (where he goes to school) is sure to win their bowl game. Jo tries to listen and engage, but the topic doesn’t interest her. Basketball is far superior to football. But she still follows along, because Asher’s so into it, so excited to share his thoughts, and Paige—who, as usual, is completely unfazed by the world around her—responds with that ease that always leaves Jo wanting more.

Jo feels herself sinking lower in the booth, staring at her drink. It’s a cranberry vodka, something that feels sweet on her tongue. She takes another sip—maybe too quickly—and feels the alcohol warm her from the inside out. It helps dull the growing discomfort, but it doesn’t erase it. The tightness in her chest persists, a strange, insistent thing that makes her shift again, trying to find a way to make herself comfortable.

She doesn’t know why she feels this way. She should be happy. She should be enjoying this. After all, she’s the one who was so eager to introduce Asher and Paige, so excited to see her favorite people meet and get along. So why does it feel… wrong now? Why does it feel like she doesn’t belong?

It’s not jealousy. No, not even close. She’s fine with Asher and Paige talking. She’s good with it. She wants them to like each other. She’s been waiting for this, hoping for it. But still… the weight of their conversation feels like it’s too much for her to hear, even if she can’t articulate why. It’s the way they’re so at ease with each other, like they’ve known each other for years, and Jo feels like she’s just a spectator, stuck in the middle. Paige is talking about football like she’s always been passionate about it, and Jo wonders if she even really cares or if she’s just being her usual, charismatic self, making everyone around her feel like they’re the most important person in the room.

She doesn’t know why this feels so weird, so odd. It’s almost as if the booth is too small for the three of them, like either Asher of Paige needs to move out of it so Jo can finally breathe again. She just doesn’t get it.

Asher keeps talking, oblivious to the tension knotting in Jo’s stomach. She can tell he’s enjoying himself, that he’s happy to be here, happy to be connecting with Paige. He’s wanted to ever since he’s realized how close she and Jo are, not to mention the fact that he’s a big fan of Paige’s game—which, valid. And Paige, of course, is just as nonchalant as always. She’s good at this—at making people feel seen and heard, like she’s the only person in the room that matters.

Jo tries to keep her smile in place, but she knows it’s not quite reaching her eyes. Every time Paige laughs, it hits something inside her she can’t explain, some quiet ache. Every time Asher leans in closer to Paige, every time they lock eyes, Jo feels a small, gnawing discomfort in the pit of her stomach. Not jealousy, just… something else. Something she doesn’t want to name.

Paige’s voice cuts through her thoughts, and Jo snaps back to the moment. “I’mma go get another Shirley,” the blonde says easily, pushing herself up from the booth. Jo watches her walk away, feeling a strange sense of relief mixed with the sudden urge to grab Paige’s hand and pull her right back. So weird.

Asher’s voice suddenly cuts through the murmur of chatter, causing Jo’s head to snap toward him. He’s looking at her now, his brow furrowed in that way he gets when he’s concerned. “Babe, you good? You been kinda, like… quiet?”

Jo forces a smile, the expression coming easy enough but feeling unnatural on her lips. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and she can feel it, can feel the way he’s watching her, sensing something is off. Why am I being like this? She doesn’t know.

“Yeah, let’s go dance,” she says, the words sounding too breezy. Asher doesn’t seem to notice, though, his smile brightening. He takes her hand in his, tugging her up from the booth.

They make their way to the dance floor, and Jo feels the heat of the crowd, the heavy bass that vibrates in her chest. She tries to lose herself in it, tries to let the rhythm take over. Asher’s hands find her waist, guiding her gently, pulling her closer as they fall into the music. She moves with him, tries to feel the warmth of his body, the comfort of being with him. It’s weird, though, because the steps feel a little too quick, like she’s trying to make her body fit the rhythm of something that feels off.

Her gaze drifts without meaning to. It’s not even something she consciously does, it just happens, as her eyes scan the room, taking in the crowd of people. And then, they land at the bar.

Paige is there, talking with someone Jo doesn’t recognize at first. But when she squints her eyes, trying to make sense of the redhead leaning over the counter, she realizes it’s Celeste. She watches, captivated for reasons she doesn’t understand, as Celeste leans in closer to Paige, her fingers brushing along Paige’s arm. Jo doesn’t really like that. She should stop watching.

But she doesn’t. And the longer she stares, the more that strange feelings gnaws at her. She can’t tear her gaze away, even though she tries. It’s weird and wrong, Jo knows, watching her best friend cook up her nightly fuck—because, surely, that’s what this is.

And then, just as if she’s been caught, Paige’s eyes meet here. Jo feels her heart skip a beat. Her cheeks instantly flush, her gaze jerking away from Paige’s with an awkwardness she doesn’t understand.

Bur when she dares to glance back, she finds Paige still looking at her, her gaze steady, unwavering. There’s something about the way Paige is staring, like she’s waiting for Jo to react, to do something, anything. Jo feels herself shift uneasily under that gaze, her skin heating as though she’s been caught in something she shouldn’t have been.

She looks away again, closing her eyes briefly as she tries to focus more intently on the movement of Asher’s hands on her hips, on the way he’s leading her in a slow circle. She tries to focus on the feel of his body close to hers, tries to drown out the memory of Paige’s eyes. But Jo’s thoughts are all scattered, her focus slipping like sand through her fingers.

The music changes, the beat shifting, becoming more sensual, slower. Asher leans in closer, his lips brushing against Jo’s ear, and he whispers in that low voice that always makes her shiver, “You wanna go back to yours?”

Jo nods automatically, because, yes, she really needs to leave this place.

As they move through the crowd, heading for the exit, Jo sneaks one last glance at the bar. She’s hoping for something—she doesn’t even know what—but Paige’s attention is elsewhere, focused on Celeste now. Jo feels a pang, but it’s fleeting, and she brushes it off with a shrug, tightening her grip on Asher’s hand.

“I’MMA GO get another Shirley,” Paige says, pushing herself out of the booth before either Jo or Asher can respond. She’s already halfway out by the time the words fully register with them, and she doesn’t wait to hear what they might say. For obvious reasons, talking to Asher has drained her. They’ve been going on and on about football, and it just got to a point. Not to mention the fact that Jo was between them, the whole right side of her body pressed against Asher, his arm casually slung over her shoulders.

Paige tries not to think too hard about it. She’s fine. She’s so fine, in fact, that she decides she needs another drink.

The bar is crowded, but Paige carves her way through the bodies easily. She leans against the counter, resting her forearms on the sticky surface as she flags down the bartender. She orders another Dirty Shirley, and then a shot of tequila because, well, it’s just one of those nights.

Paige exhales and lets herself sink into the moment—the crowd, the pounding bass of the music, the buzz of alcohol in her system. She tries to think about anything but the happy couple she’d been forced to hang out with for far longer than she’d planned.

Her drink arrives, the tequila shot placed next to it. She picks up the shot glass without hesitation, throwing it back quickly. The burn hits her immediately, sharp and biting, but she welcomes it. She needs it. The glass clinks against the bar as she sets it down, and she picks up her Shirley, sipping it to chase the tequila’s lingering heat.

“Hey, P,” a voice says from beside her, catching her off guard.

Paige turns, her brown furrowing for a split second before her expression smooths out. It’s Celeste. Of course.

“Hey,” Paige says casually, as if the sight of the redhead doesn’t throw her a little off balance for a moment. She’s not surprised Celeste is here—she’s always around. She’s also not surprised when Celeste slides closer, her lips curving into a smile that Paige knows all too well.

“You celebrating the win?” Celeste asks, her voice light, flirtatious. Paige has to give her credit, if she’s honest, because, really, this girl never gives up, no matter how hot and cold Paige is.

And, if Paige is even more honest, Celeste looks good. Better than good. She’s wearing some kind of black corset top that pushes her tits up in a way that’s impossible not to notice, her bright red hair perfectly blown out, and her makeup flawless even in the hazy lighting of Ted’s.

“Something like that,” Paige replies, her words accompanied by a small shrug. She takes another sip of her drink, letting the alcohol settle over her like a warm blanket.

Celeste doesn’t waste any time. She leans forward, her hand brushing against Paige’s arm in a way that’s calculated. “You looked good on the bench tonight. I posted a couple shots that the cameras got of you,” she says lowly.

Paige nearly snorts at the words—you looked good on the bench tonight. That’s what she’s been reduced to, a pretty bench-warmer, too injured and useless to be anywhere but on it. But she doesn’t laugh. Because she knows exactly what Celeste is doing. And under normal circumstances, she might be annoyed—Celeste has a habit of getting too attached, of acting like there’s more between them than there really is. But tonight, Paige is a little drunk, a little tired, and more than a little tempted to let herself fall into the distraction Celeste is offering. She was already planning on fucking someone tonight, and Celeste? Well, she’s right here, looking like that. Why not?

So, Paige smiles, tilting her head just slightly, enough to give the redhead the impression that she’s been hooked. “Yeah?” she says playfully, teasingly. “Didn’t know you were paying that much attention.”

Celeste laughs a little, leaning even closer, and Paige can feel the way her fingers linger on her arm. She plays along, letting herself fall into the conversation, the push and pull of flirtation. It’s easier to think about other things.

But, of course, somehow, her focus still seems to slip.

Over Celeste’s shoulder, Paige catches a glimpse of the dance floor. Her eyes find Jo and Asher almost instantly, like she was looking for them without even realizing it. They’re dancing, their bodies close, their smiles easy. They look happy. They look like they belong together. And it makes Paige want to puke.

She tries to look away, tries to focus on Celeste, on the warmth of her hand still on her arm, on the sharp curve of her smile. But she can’t. Her eyes keep drifting back to Jo, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

And then, suddenly, Jo looks over. Their eyes meet across the room, and Celeste blurs into the background beside Paige like she was never even there. Paige should look away, should stop staring. But she doesn’t. Her eyes stay locked on Jo’s, rooted there.

But then Jo breaks the connection, her gaze shifting away, and Paige is left staring at nothing. She feels an idiotic pang, and forced herself to take another sip of her drink.

Celeste seems to notice, her head turning to follow Paige’s line of sight. Her eyes land on Jo and Asher, and she tilts her head as she turns back to Paige. “Is that Jo’s boyfriend?” she asks.

Paige nods. “Yup. His name’s Asher.” She forces her voice to sound calm and unaffected, even though saying his name feels like she’s choking on something too sharp to swallow.

Celeste hums slowly in response. She pauses for a moment, and Paige can feel her gaze, sharp and curious, boring into her. “So… you and Jo are, like, best friends, right?” Her tone is casual, but there’s something suspicious laced beneath it, like she’s fishing for something Paige doesn’t want to give.

Paige nods again, slower this time, turning her head to glance at Celeste. “Yeah…” she says, the word dragging out of her like it takes effort to say. She wonders where this is going.

“Well,” Celeste begins, tipping her shot glass back and setting it down with a faint clink. “I ask her about you sometimes, and she never really gives me a clear answer. I can tell she tries to be nice to me, but it doesn’t really seem like she likes me much.”

Paige raises an eyebrow at that, her instinct to defend Jo kicking in automatically. “Nah, Jo likes everyone,” she says, waving Celeste off with a dismissive hand. And it’s true—Jo does like everyone.

But Celeste shakes her head, her red hair catching the light. “I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “For a while, I kinda thought you and her were a thing.”

The words hit Paige like a slap, and she chokes on the sip of her Shirley she just took, coughing as she sets her glass down hard on the bar. “What—?” she manages to get out, her voice rough and disbelieving. Her heart is pounding so loudly in her chest she’s sure Celeste can hear it.

Celeste shrugs, her expression almost too nonchalant, like she knows exactly what kind of chaos she’s causing. “Yeah. I mean, I guess I just kinda got that vibe. But if she’s got a boyfriend and we’ve fucked a couple times recently… I guess I was wrong.”

Paige blinks at her, wide-eyed. “You definitely were,” she says quickly, the words tumbling out too fast, too eager to set the record straight. Her face is flushed, and she can feel the heat crawling up her neck. “We’re just friends. Nothing more. At all.”

The words feel heavy in her mouth, bitter and thick. They’re not a lie, no matter how much Paige sometimes wishes it could be.

She doesn’t miss the way Celeste studies her, her green eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s trying to figure out if Paige is telling the truth. Paige hates how exposed she feels, like someone on the outside—someone as far removed as Celeste—can somehow sense the mess of feelings she’s been trying so hard to bury.

She forces herself to take a large gulp of her Shirley, the alcohol doing little to ease the tightness in her stomach. When she glanced back at the dance floor, her eyes automatically searched for Jo, she realizes that she’s—and Asher—are gone from their previous spot.

Her gaze flickers around the bar, scanning the corners, but they’re nowhere to be found. Probably went to go fuck, she thinks bitterly. Even though she has insight now that Asher is basically terrible at it, the idea still makes Paige want to die.

But she doesn’t. Obviously.

Instead, she finishes the last of her drink, turning her attention back to the girl next to her, forcing her signature smirk back onto her lips. Jo’s gone, busy with him, and Paige doesn’t owe anyone anything.

She leans into the conversation, matching Celeste’s flirtation with her own, their banter growing looser and bolder with each drink they down. The alcohol is certainly doing it’s job, blurring the edges of her thoughts, making everything feel distant and less painful.

Unexpectedly, Paige ends up in Celeste’s bed. And, also unexpectedly, she thinks about brown hair and doe eyes during the entirety of it.

JO LIES tangled in the sheets with Asher, her head resting on his bare chest, his arm wrapped around her back. It’s around four, she thinks, and the world outside feels impossibly quiet at this hour, the kind of stillness that comes only in the dead of night. Asher’s fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along her shoulder, his touch featherlight and soothing.

The haze of the night has mostly worn off now—the alcohol burned away by time, replaced by a comfortable clarity that feels almost foreign after hours of noise and chaos. It’s just the two of them now, alone in her room, their breaths in sync, the moment easy and weightless and familiar.

Jo closes her eyes, letting herself drift in the warmth of his presence, but her mind doesn’t quiet as easily as her body does. It’s almost like something beneath the surges won’t let her fully settle. It’s not unease, exactly. Not suspicion. Just… something. A restlessness she can’t name.

“Okay, I gotta piss,” Asher says suddenly, breaking the silence.

Jo snorts, her eyes fluttering open as she turns her head to look up at him. “Way to ruin the moment,” she teases, though her voice is laced with affection.

Asher grind down at her, unapologetic as he shifts, moving to sit up on the edge of the bed. “Nature calls,” he jokes. He starts to stand, but Jo catches his wrist, tugging him back down for just a second.

“Put some clothes on first,” she reminds him. “Paige got back a little bit ago.” She’d heard the door open, the quiet shuffle of footsteps as Paige made her way to her room. It was probably a half an hour ago, maybe less, and Jo had listened, wondering how Paige’s night had gone, whether she’d been alone or gone back with the team or left with Celeste.

Asher groans playfully, leaning down to peck Jo’s lips. “I will, I will,” he promises, his voice low and warm.

Jo rolls her eyes but can’t help the soft laugh truth escapes her. “You’d better,” she says, swatting lightly at his bare chest.

He smirks before gathering his clothes from the floor. Jo watches him for a moment, her head propped on her hand, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. He looks good, his hair messy, his lips still swollen pink from all the kissing. And he’s here—he’s always been hers. She knows she should feel lucky.

When he leaves the bedroom to disappear into the bathroom, Jo sighs and sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The cool air against her skin makes her shiver, so she grabs the first things she can find—a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from her drawer. She pulls them on quickly, then settles back on the bed, folding her legs beneath her as she waits for Asher to return.

The sharp buzz of a phone notification catches her attention, the sound loud in the quiet.

Instinctively, Jo reaches over to the nightstand, assuming it’s hers. She picks up the phone without thinking, the screen lighting up in her hand—and stops short.

The message isn’t hers.

Her heart stills in her chest, her breath halting for a moment as she stares at the screen. Without thinking, she presses on the contact, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling, unraveling everything she thought she knew in an instant.

She doesn’t notice the sound of the bathroom door opening, doesn’t register Asher’s footsteps until they’re right at her bedroom door.

And then she hears his voice, soft and unsuspecting. “What’s wrong?”

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wcbb #wbb #uconn #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers angst #paige bueckers smut #ncaa wbb #wcbb x reader #wlw #lgbtq #nobody gets me

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bueckets · 1 month ago

Text

The Hit List | Part 1

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Genre: romance (eventually), slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, smut (eventually), cat n mouse

Description: When an overworked engineering student's late-night CAD project gets interrupted by a very drunk, very lost basketball star stumbling into the wrong dorm room, she learns that some defensive plays work better in love than on the court.

What starts as a case of mistaken identity turns into an unexpected game of cat and mouse when UConn's golden girl, Paige Bueckers, can't seem to take a hint– or maybe just doesn't want to. Armed with nothing but sarcasm, an overprotective stuffed bear named Mr. Gummy, and a borrowed team jacket that definitely isn't helping the situation, our engineering hero finds herself drawing up plays to defend her heart against college basketball's most persistent point guard.

They say offense wins games, but defense wins championships. When you're trying not to fall for a girl who treats the court like her kingdom and your personal space like a suggestion, maybe it's time to admit some battles aren't meant to be won.

WC: 11.2k

Authors Notes: i had first written this for jkxreader on my other blog (whoretan) however plot deviates heavily after the first encounter, um, kinda fuck girly paige, but kind of just a love drunk idiot too

Chapter 1: The Unexpected Guest

Your eyes burned as you stared at the CAD model rotating on your screen, the internal combustion engine you'd been working on for the past—what was it now, eight hours?—still refusing to cooperate.

The familiar workspace of SOLIDWORKS had become both your best friend and worst enemy over the past three years at UConn, but tonight it felt particularly vindictive. You'd been trying to get the timing belt assembly to properly mate with the crankshaft for what felt like an eternity, and your deadline was creeping closer by the minute.

"Did you hear?" Riven's voice cut through your concentration as she burst through the door, her designer backpack hitting her bed with enough force to make your desk lamp wobble.

"Hear what?" You didn't bother turning around, instead zooming in on the problematic area of your model. The project was due in six hours, and you were nowhere near having it stress-tested. Sleep was starting to feel like a distant memory from another life.

Riven paused in her tracks—you could practically hear her jaw dropping in that dramatic way she'd perfected since freshman year. "Paige Bueckers was talking about how Q’s jump shot is worse than a middle schooler's."

The absurdity of the statement finally forced you to tear your eyes away from the screen. Your neck cracked in protest as you turned to face your roommate, who stood there with her perfectly manicured hands on her hips, waiting for your reaction. Three years of living together had taught you that Riven wouldn't let you focus until you properly acknowledged whatever piece of gossip she'd brought home.

“That’s literally ridiculous.”

Riven tilted her head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling in that characteristic way of hers. Six seconds of contemplation later (you’d learned to count), she shrugged and pulled out her iPhone, probably to text the women's basketball group chat about the latest drama.

Your roommate, much like all the other Huskies superfans, didn't care whose reputation a particular player tarnished. She'd much rather get on their good side, damaged reputations or not. It was a dance you'd watched play out countless times since freshman year, when you'd first been assigned as roommates.

Back then, you'd thought the random housing assignment would be a disaster—the sports-obsessed sorority girl and the robotics team president seemed like a recipe for mutual hatred. But somehow, your differences had created a strange balance. She dragged you out of your engineering cave occasionally, and you reminded her that there was more to college than chasing after basketball stars.

"Caitlin bought Kate those new custom Nikes." Riven thrust her phone in your face, revealing a photo of Clark's teammate happily posing with pristine white sneakers. The caption read, 'Thanks for the gift bb, @CaitlinClark22'.

You squinted at the screen, trying not to think about how those shoes probably cost more than your entire semester's textbooks. The basketball elite weren't just known for their court skills—their NIL deals were equally legendary. Every starter came from successful programs, the kind that built training facilities and had courts named after their alumni.

"What a lucky bitch," Riven sighed, flopping onto her bed.

Apparently, your roommate wasn't the only one who didn't care for her reputation. Last week, she'd blown up your phone with about thirty—maybe sixty—texts about how her sorority sister had seen Caitlin making out with someone else at The Tavern. Looks like those custom Nikes must've been an apology.

You looked up at your starstruck roommate with pursed lips. Riven caught your expression and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, she's being messy. So what? Those shoes are like two thousand dollars with the custom work, that's my fucking meal plan right there."

"Remind me again how you're a neurology student?"

Riven clutched her chest with an open hand, gasping dramatically. "Wow. I see how it is." She threw herself backward onto her bed with the theatrical flair of a soap opera star.

You couldn't help but grin, even as your eyes darted back to your computer screen. The smile quickly died on your lips.

Oh fuck.

The CAD model still sat there, mocking you with its incomplete state. You'd managed to complete maybe forty percent of the assembly, and the entire thing needed to be fully rigged and stress-analyzed by nine AM.

This was the cost of your procrastination, another dinner sacrificed to the gods of engineering deadlines. At least you had a good excuse this time: you'd spent the weekend helping the robotics team prepare for their upcoming competition. Being vice president meant putting in the extra hours, even if it meant cramming your actual coursework into impossible timeframes.

"I have to finish this tonight. Do not bother me with any more basketball drama." You spun your chair back to face your screen, not bothering to check if Riven was sticking her tongue out at you. You could picture it anyway, she had the maturity of a twelve-year-old sometimes.

Five and a half hours later, you finally pressed the glorious 'Submit' button on Blackboard. You turned off your PC with such violence that the desktop nearly toppled over.

"Never doing that again," you groaned, slumping into your chair and letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your neck felt like it had been replaced with concrete somewhere around hour six.

"You literally say that every time," Riven quipped from her side of the room.

If you had any energy left, you would've gotten up and punched her in the ass. Luckily for her, your eyes had started doing that thing where they drooped shut every few seconds without your permission. You'd decided about thirty minutes ago that your chair was an acceptable substitute for a bed. The walk to your actual mattress seemed about as feasible as climbing Mount Everest right now.

"How do I look? Good enough for the party?"

Fucking hell.

You summoned what little remained of your core strength and groaned as you forced your chair to swivel around. The sight that greeted you was, admittedly, impressive, even through your exhaustion-blurred vision.

Riven wore a black dress that hit just above her knees, with strategic cutouts along her ribs. The laced-up black heels she'd spent twenty minutes struggling with (while whining very fucking loudly) completed the look perfectly. She'd devoted the last hour of your project completion marathon to preparing for KK’s birthday celebration.

“Which party?” you croaked. “The one where everyone’s fighting or the one where they’re pretending nothing happened?”

Her nose wrinkled in that way it did when she was trying not to laugh. "You're so annoying."

Yeeeaaah, definitely the messy one.

You watched as Riven stumbled toward her drawer, rummaging through three compartments before pulling out a neon orange tiny bag. And when you say tiny, you mean tiny, it couldn't have been more than two inches across.

"Can you even fit anything in there?"

A wicked smile spread across her face as she opened the toy purse, pulling out her student ID and a tube of lipstick. Of-fucking-course. “Minimalist chic, baby. Besides, I don’t need much. Just the essentials. I'm serious. Tonight's gonna be fucking legendary."

“Legendary,” you deadpanned, swiveling your chair back to your desk. “Try not to end up on Barstool again.”

You swore she lunged forward, ready to attack you with her miniature weapon. But her phone rang, which happened to be a far more pressing matter. The assault could wait. Riven pressed the phone to her ear with a smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat proud.

"Are you here? Yeah, I'm ready. You have the Pink Whitney? Okay. Bye."

She turned back to you with that same manic grin. "I'll get you back for that later. Bye!"

And just like that, Riven leaped out of the room, her neon orange bag and its singular tube of lipstick disappearing with her into whatever chaos awaited at the UConn house.

The sudden silence in her wake felt almost oppressive. You sat there for a moment, contemplating your life choices. The clean lines and precise measurements of your engineering models never gave you this much drama. Maybe that's why you preferred spending your nights with SOLIDWORKS instead of at parties—machines were predictable, logical, and they never started drama about anyone's jump shot.

After nearly crawling your way across the room for what felt like thirty minutes (but was probably closer to five), you finally made it to your bed. Or rather, to the base of your bed. The problem now was getting on top of it. UConn, in its infinite wisdom, had given everyone the tallest fucking beds in existence.

Tall enough that all of your belongings fit underneath it so they could make the rooms ten times smaller by doing so. You sat on your ass, glaring at what felt like a sixteen-foot space between you and the mattress. You could, theoretically, just fucking get up and with one last surge of energy jump onto it. But the soft cotton of your fuzzy rug was suddenly hugging your back, tucking you in, cradling you like a loving parent.

Fuck it, the floor isn't even that bad. You've slept on much worse—like that one time freshman year when you passed out in the robotics lab after a forty-eight-hour building session. At least your rug didn't smell like motor oil and desperation.

Your head lay flat on the floor, the hardwood never felt softer. Riven had left hours ago, and you'd managed to successfully knock out on your chair for a bit. That was until you jolted awake, sweating out of every crevice of your body, and made eye contact with your actual bed. You'd said goodbye to the chair and began the voyage to your proper sleeping place. Clearly, that wasn't going as planned.

It was too late now to dwell on what could've been. Tomorrow, you'd start anew. Just like every time she partied, Riven wouldn't be back for two or three days. You'd have a full day to sleep on your actual bed without the mention of UConn and internal combustion engines.

You turned to your side, the fuzz tickling your chin as you nuzzled into it. Sleep was just starting to creep in when—

"Taylor! Tay baby, please open the door!"

The hairs on your arms rose and a fart you hadn't realized you'd been holding in released into the air. Some drunk player had the wrong door.

“Wrong room,” you called, hoping they’d get the hint. With a shaky breath, you nuzzled deeper into the carpet.

Not a second later, a bang erupted through your room. "Tay, please. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."

Your heart thrashed in your chest. Could you not have one night of peace? One night of tranquility to enjoy your own company? One night to enjoy sleeping on the hard floor?

"Taylor, for fuckssake." The asshole nearly knocked the fucking door off the hinges.

First, you're going to knock her the hell out. Then, you'll find out where Taylor lives and knock her out, too. Maybe you could work it into your next robotics project—a robot specifically designed to punch drunk athletes who can't read room numbers.

"Tay, please—"

You jolted upward and ran to the door so fast you probably broke several laws of physics. Swinging the wooden panel open like a madwoman, you yelled, "Listen asshole, I don't know who Taylor is and I don't give a damn. It's late as hell and some of us actually enjoy sleeping!"

Said asshole leaned against the door frame of your room, a Nike-covered foot tapping against the floor as she pressed a finger to your lips. "Shhhhh, baby, I said I'm sorry."

Your throat locked and you nearly laughed at the audacity. Did this fucker really not notice you weren't Taylor? Through your sleep-deprived haze, you managed to register a few details about the intruder: tall, athletic build that made your mouth go dry, honey-blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and wearing what looked like exclusive UConn team gear. Great. A drunk basketball star.

Said basketball star happened to also push herself off the door frame and trudge past you, right into your room as if she'd been there a million times.

Much like you wanted to before your carpet trapped you, the stranger leaped onto your bed, stomach flopping onto the cushion of your mattress. She muttered something you couldn't hear as she grabbed your favorite pillow and brought it close to her chest. She was snuggling your Mr. Gummy.

You were going to go to jail for assaulting a Division I athlete. Yeah. This was the end of your girl boss engineering career. Goodbye feminist STEM icon. Hello convict. All those years of suffering to get into UConn just for you to catch a case over the Greek Goddess, Nike, herself. At least you'd submitted your project first, might as well get credit for that before you went to prison.

"Babe, I don't remember your bed smelling this good." She'd gone into a fetal position, kicking off her—yep, definitely team-exclusive Nikes. Maybe, just maybe, you'd knock her out and then sell her shoes on StockX. The proceeds could cover your legal defense.

You rubbed your forehead with the back of your palm, wiping away the stress sweat that had accumulated. You swung your head out of your door, looking left and right, then repeat. Empty. Fuck. Fuck, and fuck.

You paced back and forth a few times, biting on the edge of your hand. You can't pick this goddess off your bed. One, she's drunk as hell. Two, she's... You gazed back at the stranger, somewhere on her journey to your bed she'd tossed her UConn warmup jacket to your floor. Leaving her in a fitted tank top that left nothing to the imagination.

Who needs that many shoulder muscles? The definition in the arm that hugged Mr. Gummy was sculpted by years of perfect jump shots. Each shift of her body revealed new curves, like a living Nike ad designed specifically to torment sleep-deprived engineering students.

Holy hell. Get a fucking grip.

Okay, so you can't drag the basketball star off your bed.

Plan B it is.

You trudged into your room, taking one last look at the hallway. Should you close the door?

If someone did hypothetically walk past would they think you drugged her? She was slurring her words and hugging your favorite bear while you paced back and forth like you happened to "accidentally" slip something into her Gatorade.

You closed the door.

You needed to call Riven. You could care less that she was at the beginning of her three-day rager, you weren't going to wait till the next morning when Nike would wake up and start accusing you of kidnapping UConn's star point guard.

You slowly walked toward your desk, making sure to avoid the panels on the floor that creaked every time someone stepped on them. Empty. You pushed your chair back to see if it happened to fall earlier. Empty.

The air stilled, and you shook your head. No. No. She was laying on it.

You'd chucked your phone onto your bed after deciding to finally start your project. You had to call Riven. There was no other choice but to tell someone. And given the fact that your contact list included your parents and Riven, she was looking like the most optimal candidate.

As silently as you could, you tip-toed toward your bed and did a quick examination. Near her head? Nope. Mr. Gummy? Nope. Legs? Nope. Hip?

Yeah.

Maybe you would go to jail after all, for assault.

You better get an A on that fucking project.

You took a step forward, awkwardly climbing the edge of your bed to get closer to your phone. Which was nicely tucked right under the curve of her ass, your camera barely peeking out as if it was taunting you.

Shit. How are you going to pull it out?

Your face contorted as you inched closer to the basketball player, thumb and middle finger clutching the edges of your phone and lightly tugging backward. She huffed out a soft groan. Dear god.

It's not budging.

In and out. Breathe.

You tugged again.

Something thudded against the floor.

Your eyes left the phone and gazed to the floor where your Mr. Gummy lay sacrificed to the floor demons. Uh oh.

You turned back to retrieve your bear when your eyes locked with hers. Her very open eyes.

She was smiling.

"Baby I didn't know you were so handsy."

You stared. That's all you could manage to do—stare at the face of the beautiful drunk idiot in front of you. And holy shit was she beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you question if UConn's recruitment standards included a mandatory photogenic quota for certain players.

The idiot had a playful smile playing across her stupidly perfect face. Taylor must be a lucky girl. Not lucky enough, though, considering her girlfriend was currently in a stranger's bed. How drunk did someone have to be to not recognize they had the wrong person?

"C'mere," she grabbed your arm, pulling you to your side as if you weighed nothing. A strong arm locked around your waist and began rubbing circles on your stomach. The motion sent shivers down your spine that you desperately tried to ignore.

"Missed you, n' I'm sorry baby," she slurred into your ear. Her voice was much softer now, a warm whisper that made your whole body tingle.

Taylor, I'm so sorry.

The words shot straight between your legs. You hadn't been touched in almost two years. Sue me. A gorgeous basketball star was rubbing your lower stomach while she told you—her girlfriend—she missed her. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. You spend three years avoiding athlete drama, and now the universe deposits one directly into your bed?

You needed your phone. Pronto.

"Listen— I—" You raised a clammy hand to lift her, attempting to wrap your fingers around her wrist to lift it. Your engineering brain was trying to calculate the exact force required to remove her arm without waking her up further, but all mathematical ability seemed to have short-circuited.

"You're so squirmy tonight," she intertwined your fingers.

What the fuck are you supposed to do? You inched your body further away in an attempt to shrug her off. A move that, in retrospect, was about as well-thought-out as trying to integrate calculus while drunk.

Nike thought otherwise. She pulled you closer until her front was pressed firmly against your back, her breath warm against your neck. You could feel the defined muscles of her stomach through her tank top, her body radiating heat that made your head spin.

FUCK.

You'll wake up with a gay panic and a warrant.

"I'm really tired," you squirmed against the death grip around your waist. For someone supposedly blackout drunk, she had the grip strength of someone who'd spent their life fighting through double teams.

Just pretend it's not there. You do not feel anything. Just toned arms and her—

"G'to bed baby. I'll make it up— make it up to you n' the morning." Nike lifted herself to place one last sleepy kiss against your cheek.

Two minutes later, Nike’s light snores vibrated against the back of your neck, warm breath caressing your skin. You wouldn't be able to move her off you. You had no clue where your phone was. Her hip could very well have fully consumed it at this point, creating some kind of phone-eating black hole that physics hadn't yet discovered.

With a sigh, you closed your eyes, pretended there wasn't a Division I basketball star sleeping in your bed, and prayed that you wouldn't end up in some viral TikTok before noon. At least if you did become internet famous, you'd already submitted that goddamn CAD project.

Your last thought before drifting off was that Mr. Gummy better not tell anyone about this.

"OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL!"

Are you being robbed? Is someone being murdered? You jolted upwards to see Riven staring at you with an open mouth, her perfectly applied makeup from last night now resembling a raccoon's Halloween costume.

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog of sleep. What's her problem?

She pointed to your bed and you turned your body to the side. Oh.

Oh.

Nike was rapidly blinking, those unfairly long eyelashes fluttering as she was most likely realizing you were not Taylor. The morning light streaming through your window illuminated her features in a way that should be illegal before coffee.

You laughed nervously, hands flailing in front of you like a malfunctioning windmill. "It's not what it looks like."

"Why is Paige Bueckers in your bed?"

Paige Bueckers? The same UConn Basketball Star Paige Bueckers? No fucking way.

This Paige had cuddled Mr. Gummy half of the night before opting to trap you in the bed with her. There was no chance that this was the same Paige Bueckers that had NIL deals with Nike and Gatorade and had laid waste to half the NCAA.

Paige—definitely Paige—groaned beside you, hands rubbing her face. "Taylor's going to kill me," she mumbled underneath her breath.

"No, we— we didn't. We." You pointed between yourself and Paige, your brain short-circuiting like a poorly wired circuit board.

"Listen, sweetie, I'm sure it was the time of your life, but this was a one-time thing." Her voice had that practiced smoothness of someone who'd given this speech before, probably more times than the number of equations in your thermodynamics textbook.

Your eyes bulged out of their sockets. Was she serious? Did she think you two—? And she was okay with it? Now, this fits the description perfectly of the cocky superstar Paige Bueckers was known to be.

Your face burned hotter than an overclocked processor. "We did not have sex. You came in here drunk off your ass screaming about your girlfriend."

By the time the word girlfriend left your mouth, Paige Bueckers had already jumped off your bed with the agility of someone who definitely wasn't as hungover as she should be. She snatched up her UConn warmup jacket from your floor and was halfway down the hallway before you could blink.

What an arrogant little asshole. Your muscles quivered with the urge to strangle her. That is if you ever saw her again. Which, given your luck and UConn’s campus, was probably inevitable.

"How long have you and Paige been seeing each other?" The empty spot beside you filled with Riven's weight. "Is that why you never wanted to come to the games with me?"

"Riven, you have five seconds to get off of my bed before I strangle you."

"You can't avoid this conversation forever!" she called out as you stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you tried to process the reality that you'd just spent the night cuddled up with Paige fucking Bueckers. The same player whose name had been carved into the unofficial NCAA hierarchy since before orientation.

You splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the memory of how her arms had felt around you, how her breath had tickled your neck, how her—

No. Absolutely not. You were not going to join the ranks of college students who'd lost their minds over a basketball star. You had bigger things to worry about. Like whether your CAD project had uploaded properly. Or if you could ever look at Mr. Gummy the same way again.

The next few days passed in a blur of classes, labs, and actively avoiding any location where you might run into Paige. You'd even skipped Tuesday's Engineering Club meeting, sending your vice president a detailed email about needing to catch up on work. It wasn't entirely a lie—you did have work to catch up on, considering you'd spent half your study time calculating alternate routes to class that avoided the usual athlete hangouts.

But by Thursday afternoon, your luck ran out. The library was supposed to be safe—the one place on campus where the basketball players rarely ventured. They had their own private study rooms in the athletic center, after all. Which is why you'd let your guard down, settling into your favorite spot near the engineering section to catch up on your reading.

The peaceful atmosphere was shattered by two girls settling at the table across from you, their whispered conversation carrying clearly in the quiet space.

"So yeah, I like totally made out with Paige in the team room. We almost knocked over Coach's whiteboard, isn't that hilarious?" The prettier of the two said as she placed her MacBook on the wooden table, her voice carrying that forced casualness of someone trying very hard to seem unbothered.

Her friend laughed and took a sip of her Starbucks, a lemonade, probably sugar-free, because of course it was. "So how was it?"

Paige's latest conquest giggled and opened her laptop, trying to seem as uninterested in the conversation as possible. You'd seen this play before, the carefully crafted nonchalance that masked the inevitable disappointment when Paige moved on to her next target. You'd bet your entire scholarship that she'd gone home crying after being ghosted, only to watch Paige pretend she didn't exist the next day.

By this point, you'd given up all pretense of studying chemical processes and electron movement. You'd reread the same paragraph in your textbook sixteen times, your brain more interested in this glimpse into the life of your unexpected bedmate. So what if you're being nosy? Everyone is nosy, and besides, you'd mentally checked out the moment these two sat down.

"She's such a good kisser.” Her friend's mouth dropped open as she placed her half-empty cup onto the table, grabbing her friend's shoulder with one hand. The former nodded, still giggling, "Sarah, I know. She like totally picked me up against the whiteboard."

Are they not aware that people can hear them? That they're in a public space? You glanced around the library, which was half-empty as usual. So maybe you were the only one eavesdropping. Still, you wouldn't go around a library of all places announcing your hookups to the world.

"Hey buttercup," an eerily familiar voice purred in your ear.

You jolted, arms flailing like a malfunctioning robot, inevitably colliding with your pencil case and sending its contents scattering across the floor. Various writing implements rolled under nearby tables like they were making a break for freedom.

You turned to lock eyes with a very, very familiar pair of hazel eyes. Shit.

"Do I know you?" You asked through gritted teeth, trying to ignore how good she looked in her fitted Nike training gear. The amount of exclusive team merchandise on her body probably equaled your entire semester's expenses.

Why would Paige, of all people, be looking for you? If you remembered correctly, she was the one to so diligently inform you that whatever happened was a one-time thing—even though nothing had actually happened.

Paige's eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips tugged upward into that infamous smirk. She leaned forward, resting one hand on the edge of the table, the other on the back of your chair, effectively caging you in. "Don't play dumb."

She was in your bubble. Way too close for comfort, especially since you'd been planning on never having to interact with her again. You groaned and leaned backward, roughly pushing your chair back to give yourself space to lean over and pick up your scattered pens. The move was partly practical and partly designed to annoy her.

"Listen, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be here either." Paige grabbed the chair to your left and pushed it closer to you, dropping into it with that natural athlete's grace. "I've been to your room every day since Sunday and you haven't been there once."

Welp. Why the hell would she be looking for you?

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was supposed to be waiting in my room for you." You shoved the pens back into your pencil case, gripping the zipper and tugging it closed with perhaps more force than necessary. Looks like the library was no longer a safe haven.

"I lost my phone and you're the only person I remember being with that night," Paige groaned, turning her head.

Does she truly remember that night? Remember that you two didn't actually hook up but instead cuddled? You wanted to convulse at the memory of how safe and warm you'd felt in her arms. How right it had—no. Absolutely not.

"Oh fuck," she mumbled, her expression shifting from annoyed to something closer to panic.

Your eyes followed her gaze to see what had caused this reaction.

Ha. Ha. Ha. In your face, superstar. You couldn't help but grin as you realized the two girls were still very much present. Not only present but staring at you and Paige with expressions that suggested their jaws might actually detach and hit the table.

Paige leaned back in her chair, sending them a small wave and a—was that a wink? Your eyes nearly rolled directly out of their sockets. How much more predictable could she get?

You didn't bother to look back at the two girls to see their reaction. You could guess it anyway—probably swooning in their chairs, maybe even planning their own strategic "accidental" encounters with her. You wouldn't be surprised if they were already planning to show up at her next practice session.

"Anyways," Paige turned back to you, her voice dropping to that low register that definitely didn't do things to your insides, "Have you seen it?"

You shook your head, closing your textbook. Time to get the hell out of here. "No, I haven't. Sorry."

"Are you mad about what I said? Is that why you're holding my precious phone hostage?" Paige's hand shot out to land on top of your textbook, preventing you from shoving it in your bag—or directly at her stupid, perfect face.

"Mad about what exactly?" You grabbed her hand and tried to shove it off the textbook. She didn't budge. Of course she didn't, you'd seen her arms during all those ESPN highlights Riven forced you to watch. "I do not have your phone."

Within seconds, Paige's hand slid off the textbook only to trap your hand against it instead. She moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward until her lips were at the shell of your ear. Her warm breath hit your skin and you had to resist the urge to squirm. "About what I said in front of your roommate, sweetie."

Your blood ran cold. Does she think you give two shits about what she said in front of Riven? That she made your roommate think you two were secretly hooking up and that she would undoubtedly eventually let it slip to her sorority sisters? Who will tell the rest of campus? No. Not. At. All.

Asshole. She's a no-good little asshole with too many NIL deals and too little accountability.

You turned your head to face her, ignoring the fact that you were now inches apart. If you weren't so pissed you might've paused to appreciate how her eyes looked up close, how they seemed to hold more mischief than all the troublemakers in Cambridge combined. But now wasn't the time for character studies.

You held her gaze, noting the slight knit in her brow that suggested she wasn't as confident as she was pretending to be. "Listen here Bueckers, whether or not you want to keep pretending like we hooked up or not is none of my business. I do not have your fucking phone, and if I did I would've thrown that shit into the Charles River by now."

You yanked your hand away from her grasp and turned back to your desk. You managed to successfully toss your textbook into your bag and rise from your chair without another word from her.

Before making your very dramatic exit, you turned to face her one last time. Might as well make it grand.

Paige hadn't moved an inch since you'd stood up. She stared at you with a raised brow and that infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. She found this amusing? Found humiliating you in the library a good pastime?

You bent over your chair, placing one hand on her shoulder and leaning in until you were at the shell of her ear. She stiffened under your touch, and you felt a small thrill of satisfaction. What the fuck are you doing?

You leaned in further, so close that your chest pressed flat against your arm and her body. So close that your lips actually grazed her ear as you whispered, with all the venom you could muster, “This might work on your little groupies, but, I’m not interested.”

The last thing you saw as you straightened up and walked away was the shocked expression on her face, like she couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Good. Let her be confused for once.

You managed to make it all the way to the library exit before your hands started shaking. What the hell had gotten into you? You'd just essentially declared war on one of the most prominent athletes at UConn. The star player who could probably get you banned from every sports event without blinking.

But as you pushed through the heavy doors into the crisp fall air, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. Maybe it was time someone stood up to the mighty Paige Bueckers. Someone who didn't want anything from her except for her to leave them alone.

Your muscles were still tense from your library encounter as you trudged up the stairs to your dorm room. The familiar hallway felt longer than usual, probably because every step reminded you of how spectacularly you'd just antagonized UConn's star player. At least you'd managed to get through your thermodynamics lab without dwelling too much on the way Paige's face had dropped when you'd—

No. Stop fucking thinking about it.

You fumbled with your key card, missing the reader twice before finally getting the door open. The first thing you noticed was an envelope on the floor, likely slipped under your door while you were in class. You bent down to pick it up, ready to toss it in the recycling with all the other campus spam, when Riven's voice cut through the room.

"What's that?"

You jumped, nearly dropping the envelope. Your roommate was sprawled across her bed, still in her scrubs from her hospital rotation. She must have gotten back early.

"Nothing," you muttered, but it was too late. Riven had already launched herself off her bed with surprising agility for someone who'd just finished a twelve-hour shift.

"Oh my god," she squealed, snatching the envelope from your hands before you could protest. "These are courtside tickets to Saturday's game!"

Your stomach dropped. Sure enough, two tickets peeked out of the torn envelope in Riven's hands. But what caught your eye was the note attached.

Found my phone in the team room. Who would’ve thought, right? Peace? - PB

"We're going," Riven declared, already pulling out her phone. "I'm texting the group chat right now. Do you know how impossible these tickets are to get?"

You reached for the tickets, but Riven danced away, holding them above her head like a prized trophy. "We are not going."

"Oh yes we are," she grinned, typing furiously with one hand while keeping the tickets out of your reach with the other. "Everyone's going to be so jealous. How did you even get these?"

"I didn't—" you started, then stopped. How exactly do you explain to your basketball-obsessed roommate that these tickets were some kind of weird peace offering from Paige Bueckers? A peace offering that felt more like a challenge, especially given that note.

"Earth to engineering nerd," Riven waved her hand in front of your face. "You're coming to this game. No excuses. I've already told everyone you're finally embracing the Husky spirit."

You groaned, falling face-first onto your bed. Mr. Gummy stared at you judgmentally from his spot against your pillow. Even he seemed to be saying you should have thrown those tickets away the moment you saw them.

"I have to study," you mumbled into your comforter.

"You always have to study," Riven countered. "But how often do you get courtside tickets from Paige Bueckers?"

Your head shot up. "How did you—"

"PB?" Riven held up the note, smirking. "Please. I may be pre-med, but I'm not stupid. Also, her signature is literally on every piece of UConn merch in the campus store."

Great. Just great. Now you had no choice but to go to the game. If you didn't, Riven would never let you hear the end of it. She'd probably drag you there anyway, study plans be damned.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some escape route from this situation. Instead, all you could think about was how you'd have to sit courtside—courtside—and watch Paige play. Watch her make those impossible passes, sink those perfect three-pointers, command the court like she was born to do it.

And she'd know you were there. That was the worst part. This wasn't just a peace offering—it was a power play. She was making sure you couldn't ignore her anymore.

"Fine," you sighed, already regretting the word as it left your mouth. "But I'm bringing my thermodynamics textbook."

Riven's squeal of delight was probably heard all the way in the engineering building.

You grabbed Mr. Gummy and hugged him to your chest, wondering how exactly you'd gone from successfully telling Paige Bueckers to fuck off to having courtside seats to watch her play. The bear offered no answers, but you could have sworn he looked a little smug about the whole situation.

The next two days were a special kind of torture. Riven had taken it upon herself to become your personal "game day preparation coordinator," which apparently meant forcing you to sit through endless highlight reels of UConn's recent victories. By Friday afternoon, you could probably recite Paige's stat line from memory—not that you'd ever admit that to anyone.

"You can't wear that," Riven declared as you pulled out your standard comfort outfit: UConn Engineering hoodie and black leggings.

You glanced down at your clothes, then back at your roommate. "Why not?"

"Because we're sitting courtside," she emphasized the word like you were a particularly slow child. "People are going to see us. The cameras might even pan to us during timeouts!"

The mere thought made your stomach churn. "That's exactly why I should wear this. I don't want to draw any attention."

Riven was already shaking her head, diving into her closet with the determination of someone on a mission. "No way. If Paige Bueckers gives you courtside tickets, you dress for the occasion."

"She didn't give them to me," you protested, even though technically she had. "They were just left under our door."

"Right," Riven emerged with an armful of clothes. "Just like she just happened to end up in your bed that night?"

You threw Mr. Gummy at her head. She dodged, laughing as the bear bounced harmlessly off your desk lamp. "We are not talking about that again."

An hour and approximately seventeen outfit changes later, you finally escaped. Your excuse about needing to pick up materials from the engineering lab wasn't entirely a lie—you did have a project due next week. The fact that the engineering building was on the opposite side of campus from the athletic facilities was just a bonus.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice the person exiting the coffee shop until it was too late. Hot liquid splashed across your chest as you collided with what felt like a brick wall of muscle.

"Shit, I'm so sorry!" A voice that definitely wasn't Paige's (thank god) exclaimed.

You looked up—and up—into the concerned face of one of UConn's basketball players. The Croatian accent and defensive intensity were legendary enough that even you, perpetually sports-oblivious, recognized her from Riven's endless team discussions.

"It's fine," you managed, trying to ignore how the hot coffee was currently seeping through your shirt. At least it wasn't your engineering hoodie—Riven would've killed you if you'd ruined her carefully planned outfit for tomorrow.

She was already pulling napkins from her pocket, dabbing at your shirt with a look of genuine distress. "Let me buy you a new coffee. And shirt," she added, eyeing the growing stain.

"Really, it's fine." You stepped back, ready to bolt. The last thing you needed was another interaction with a basketball player.

But she wasn't letting you off that easy. She grabbed your wrist with surprising gentleness for someone known for her aggressive defense. “Nah, I insist. I'm Nika, by the way. And I really do feel terrible about this."

Before you could protest further, she was steering you back into the coffee shop. The barista's eyes widened slightly at the sight of Nika—clearly a regular customer—but otherwise maintained their professional composure.

"The usual for me," Nika called out, "and whatever she wants." She turned to you expectantly.

You mumbled your name and order—"Just a black coffee"—trying to shrink into yourself. Several students were openly staring now, probably wondering why Nika Mühl was buying coffee for some random engineering student.

"And a chocolate croissant," Nika added, ignoring your attempt to protest. "Trust me, they're amazing here."

You shifted uncomfortably as she paid, very aware of the wet fabric clinging to your skin. Nika seemed to notice your discomfort because she shrugged off her UConn warmup jacket and held it out to you.

"Here, you can't stay in that wet shirt."

You stared at the jacket like it might bite you. The same style jacket Paige had left on your floor that night. The one that probably cost more than your textbooks.

"I can't—"

"You can and you will," Nika insisted, pushing the jacket into your hands. "There's a bathroom right there. Go change before you catch a cold."

Something in her tone brooked no argument. You found yourself in the bathroom before you could really process what was happening, staring at your reflection as you zipped up the warmup jacket. It was slightly too big, making you look like a kid playing dress-up in their older sibling's clothes.

When you emerged, Nika had already claimed a table in the corner, your drinks and the promised chocolate croissant waiting. She waved you over with a smile that somehow managed to be both friendly and slightly intimidating.

"So," she said as you slid into the seat across from her, "what's your major?"

"Engineering. Mechanical." You picked at the croissant, wondering how quickly you could eat it and escape.

Nika's eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Engineering— wait." Her eyes widened with recognition. "Holy shit, are you that girl?"

You froze mid-bite. "What girl?"

"The one from the library! The one who told Paige—what was it? ‘That you’re not one of her groupies’?” Nika's grin spread across her face like wildfire. "No wonder she's been such a mess lately."

You choked on your croissant. "What?"

"Oh my god, this is perfect. You're also the one she—" Nika cut herself off, studying your increasingly red face with growing delight. "The one whose room she crashed in after KK’s party?"

Your face burned hotter than the coffee you'd been wearing moments ago. "How did you—"

"Paige tells me everything," Nika leaned back in her chair, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Well, eventually. Had to drag this one out of her after she spent three days moping around practice like someone had stolen her favorite pair of Jordan’s.”

"I didn't steal anything," you protested automatically. "Not her phone, not her—"

"Oh, she knows that now," Nika waved dismissively. "Found it in the team room yesterday morning. Right where those girls said it would be." She paused, then added with a smirk, "Though I have to say, watching her spiral about it was pretty entertaining. She's not used to people calling her out like that."

The implication hung heavy in the air. You remembered the library girls' story about making out with Paige against the whiteboard. Something must have shown on your face because Nika's expression softened slightly.

"Look, Paige is complicated. She's not used to people seeing through her bullshit." She took a sip of her drink, considering her next words carefully. "Those tickets? That's her way of saying she fucked up."

"By accusing me of stealing her phone?"

"By letting you think she didn't remember that night."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "What?"

Nika's phone buzzed before she could answer. She glanced at it and grimaced. "Speaking of her royal highness, I'm late for film." She stood, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "Keep the jacket. Consider it compensation for the coffee attack."

You watched her head toward the door, your mind spinning with questions. Just before she left, she turned back with a knowing smirk.

"See you tomorrow at the game. Front row, right?"

The door chimed as she left, leaving you alone with a half-eaten croissant and more questions than answers. You looked down at the jacket, at the way the UConn logo seemed to mock you with its pristine embroidery.

Somehow, in trying to avoid Paige Bueckers, you'd managed to get tangled up in her world anyway. And tomorrow, you'd have to sit courtside and watch her in her element, all while wearing her best friend's jacket.

Mr. Gummy was definitely going to judge you for this.

"No." You glared at the suspicious red cup Riven was waving in front of your face. "Absolutely not."

"Come on! It's tradition!" She pushed the cup closer, its contents sloshing dangerously near the rim. The sharp smell of cheap vodka mixed with what you assumed was cranberry juice wafted toward you. "You can't go to your first real game sober."

You turned back to your mirror, adjusting Nika's warmup jacket for the hundredth time. The number 10 stared back at you, a constant reminder of yesterday's coffee shop encounter. You'd tried to talk yourself out of wearing it, but everything else felt too casual for courtside seats (according to Riven) or too formal (also according to Riven).

"I'm not pregaming a basketball game at three in the afternoon."

"It's four," Riven corrected, checking her phone. "And yes, you are. The team's already been at Gampel for hours, and we need to leave in thirty minutes if we want good spots for warm-ups. I refuse to let you sit there reading thermodynamics while history happens right in front of us."

You spun around, hands on your hips. "History?"

"Yes! We're playing Notre Dame. It's huge." She thrust the cup into your hands with such force that some of it splashed onto your fingers. "And you're wearing Nika Mühl's personal jacket. Do you know how many people would kill for that?"

"I got it because she spilled coffee on me," you muttered, but took a small sip anyway. Just to shut her up. The drink was surprisingly not terrible— mostly juice with just enough vodka to warm your chest.

"Right. Just like Paige 'accidentally' ended up in your bed." Riven made air quotes with her fingers, nearly spilling her own drink in the process. "And then 'accidentally' gave us courtside tickets."

"Can we not talk about that?" You took another sip, larger this time. The warmth spread through your limbs, making everything feel slightly softer around the edges. Maybe Riven had a point about the drinking thing.

"Oh, we're definitely talking about it." She flopped onto your bed, somehow not spilling a drop. "You're wearing her best friend's jacket to watch her play. This is like, next level psychological warfare."

You choked on your drink. "It's not warfare! I just didn't have anything else to wear."

"Mhmm." Riven's knowing smirk made you want to throw Mr. Gummy at her again. "That's why you spent twenty minutes adjusting it in the mirror."

"I did not—"

"You did! You were all,” She stood up, mimicking your earlier movements with exaggerated precision. "'Oh, should I zip it up all the way? Maybe halfway? What if I push up the sleeves?'"

You drained your cup in one go, grimacing at the burn. "I hate you."

"You love me." She was already mixing another drink, this one slightly stronger than the last. "And you're going to thank me when Paige sees you in that jacket and loses her mind."

"She's not going to lose her mind," you protested, but accepted the fresh drink anyway. "She probably won't even notice."

Riven's laugh echoed off the walls. "Oh honey. Paige notices everything. Why do you think she's the best point guard in the country?"

The walk to Gampel Pavilion was a blur of Riven's excited chatter and your growing anxiety. The drinks had taken the edge off, but your heart still raced as you approached the arena. Students were already lining up outside, many wearing jerseys and carrying signs. Your hand instinctively went to the zipper of Nika's jacket, suddenly very aware of what you were wearing.

"Stop fidgeting," Riven hissed, pulling you toward a separate entrance. "You look hot. Own it."

The security guard barely glanced at your tickets before waving you through. The arena was already humming with energy— staff rushing around with equipment, the band setting up in their section, early arrivals claiming their seats.

Your courtside seats were exactly where you'd dreaded they'd be: directly behind the UConn bench. Close enough to hear every word, see every expression, feel every moment of tension.

"This is insane," you muttered, sinking into your seat. The court stretched out before you like a stage, the overhead lights making everything feel surreal.

"Look." Riven nudged you, pointing toward the tunnel. "They're coming out for warm-ups."

Your heart jumped into your throat as the team emerged, led by the coaching staff. Players filed onto the court in perfect formation, their practice jerseys a sea of navy and white. You spotted Nika first— impossible to miss with her distinctive playing style, already intense even in warm-ups.

And then there she was.

Paige moved with that effortless grace that made everything look easy, her ponytail swinging as she dribbled two balls simultaneously. She hadn't looked toward the crowd yet, locked in that pre-game focus that elite athletes got.

"Here we go," Riven whispered, her phone already out and recording.

You watched as Paige went through her warm-up routine, each movement precise and practiced. She worked her way around the three-point line, barely seeming to notice as shot after shot swished through the net.

Then she turned to grab a rebound, and her eyes swept across the courtside seats.

You saw the exact moment she registered you. Her hands froze mid-dribble, the ball bouncing away forgotten. Her gaze locked onto the number 10 across your chest, then slowly traveled up to meet your eyes.

The intensity in her stare made your whole body flush hot. You watched as her jaw clenched, that familiar muscle ticking in a way that sent heat straight to your core. Her eyes darkened with something that looked dangerously close to possession.

Nika appeared beside her, saying something that made Paige snap back to attention. But not before you caught the way her gaze lingered on how her best friend's jacket fit your frame.

"Holy shit," Riven breathed, still recording. "I think you broke her."

You slumped lower in your seat, already regretting letting the vodka convince you this was a good idea. "Shut up."

"No way. This is better than any reality show." She zoomed in as Paige missed her next three shots in a row. "Look what you did to her."

"I didn't do anything," you protested weakly, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from Paige's form. The way her practice jersey clung to her shoulders, how her muscles flexed with each movement, the intense focus that had returned to her features – though you swore you caught her glancing in your direction between plays.

This was going to be a very long game.

The game started exactly as you'd expected— with Paige absolutely demolishing Notre Dame's defense while you tried very hard to look anywhere else. It wasn't working.

"Did you see that pass?" Riven screamed in your ear for approximately the eighteenth time. "She didn't even look!"

No, you hadn't seen the pass, because you were very deliberately studying the fascinating architecture of Gampel's ceiling. The vodka buzz had worn off about twenty minutes ago, leaving you hyperaware of every move, every sound, every time Paige jogged past your seats during transitions.

The worst part? Nika kept sending you these knowing looks from the bench, like she was watching her favorite rom-com play out in real time. You were starting to regret not bringing your thermodynamics textbook after all. At least differential equations made sense. They didn't smirk at you or have perfectly defined arm muscles or—

"Time out, Huskies!"

The players jogged toward the bench, and suddenly your personal space was invaded by very tall, very sweaty athletes. You tried to shrink further into your seat, but there was nowhere to go. Especially not when Paige dropped into a crouch right in front of you, ostensibly to grab her water bottle.

"Nice jacket," she said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear over the timeout huddle. Her eyes traveled down your body in a way that made you feel like you were wearing significantly less than a full warmup jacket and jeans.

You opened your mouth to respond with something witty, something that would put her in her place like you had in the library. Instead, what came out was: "Your friend has good taste."

Paige's eyes darkened, that same possessive look from warm-ups returning with intensity. "Does she?"

Before you could dig yourself into an even deeper hole, Coach Auriemma's voice cut through the tension. "Bueckers! Get your ass over here!"

You watched as she jogged back to the huddle, trying to ignore how your skin felt electric where her gaze had lingered. Beside you, Riven was practically vibrating with excitement.

"I got all of that on video," she whispered, waving her phone in your face. "This is going in the group chat."

"If you send that anywhere, I will reprogram your phone to only play the Barney theme song."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

The timeout ended, and the players returned to the court. You noticed Paige was playing with even more intensity now, if that was possible. Her crossovers were sharper, her passes more precise, like she had something to prove.

"Twenty bucks says she's showing off for you," Riven muttered.

"Thirty says you're delusional."

But as you watched Paige sink another impossible three-pointer and turn slightly— just slightly - in your direction before jogging back on defense, you had to admit that maybe, just maybe, Riven had a point.

The game continued in a blur of strategic timeouts (during which Paige found increasingly creative ways to end up near your seat), incredible plays (that you definitely weren't watching just to see the way her muscles moved), and Riven's running commentary (which was getting progressively less about basketball and more about the "tension that could be cut with a knife").

By the fourth quarter, UConn had built a comfortable lead, and you'd developed a concerning familiarity with exactly how Paige's practice jersey clung to her shoulders when she was sweating. This was not information you needed in your life. You had CAD models to build, robots to program, a future in engineering to secure. You did not have time to notice how her hair had started falling out of its ponytail in these impossibly attractive wisps, or how—

"Game! Huskies win!"

The final buzzer snapped you out of your completely professional analysis of athletic biomechanics. The crowd erupted as players from both teams exchanged handshakes and hugs. You stood, ready to make your escape before—

"Leaving so soon?"

You turned to find Paige standing right there, still slightly breathless from the game, her presence filling your entire field of vision. Up close, you could see the flush of exertion on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the slight curl of her lips that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

"I have studying to do," you managed, proud that your voice came out steady.

"On a Saturday night?" She stepped closer, and you caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with sweat. It should not have been as attractive as it was. "After watching me put up thirty points?"

"Thirty-two," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Beside you, Riven made a sound that might have been a squeal or a laugh.

Paige's smirk grew wider. "So you were watching."

"It was kind of hard to miss, considering where we're sitting." You gestured to the courtside seats that had started this whole mess.

"About that," she ran a hand through her hair, and those loose strands fell perfectly around her face in a way that had to be practiced. "I was thinking maybe we could—"

"Paige!" Nika's voice cut through whatever she'd been about to say. "Media's waiting!"

You'd never been so grateful for press obligations in your life.

Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "This isn't over," she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear. Then she was gone, jogging toward the media section with that natural athletic grace that made everything look effortless.

You stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Your skin still tingled where she'd been standing close enough to touch.

"So," Riven's voice broke through your daze. "Still think she hasn't noticed you?"

"We're going out," Riven declared, already rummaging through your closet without permission. "No arguments."

You looked up from your laptop, where you'd been desperately trying to focus on anything other than replaying the game in your head for the past two hours. "I have to—"

"If you say 'study' I will literally scream." She emerged with your one decent going-out top, the black one with the low back that you'd bought on impulse and worn exactly once. "You just watched UConn destroy Notre Dame from courtside seats while Paige Bueckers eye-fucked you in front of the entire student section. We're celebrating."

"She wasn't—" You cut yourself off, heat creeping up your neck. "And anyway, shouldn't she be celebrating with her girlfriend?"

The words tasted bitter in your mouth. You'd been trying very hard not to think about Taylor, about how Paige had crashed into your room calling out her name, about how clearly serious it must be if she was that desperate to apologize. The fact that she'd spent the entire game looking at you like... that... well, it just proved what everyone said about her, didn't it?

"Oh my god," Riven threw the shirt at your head. "Put this on. We're getting drunk and you're going to tell me everything you're overthinking about right now."

An hour later, you found yourself at The Tavern, nursing your second Moscow Mule while Riven recounted the game to anyone who would listen. The bar was packed with students celebrating the win, most still wearing their UConn gear and riding the high of victory.

"I just don't get it," you said, mostly to your drink. "Why is she suddenly so interested? I'm literally nobody. I spend my Friday nights debugging Python scripts and building robots that occasionally catch fire."

"Maybe that's exactly why," Riven waggled her eyebrows. "You're different. You don't worship the ground she walks on."

You snorted. "Right. Because what Paige Bueckers really wants is someone who told her to fuck off in the library."

The doors to The Tavern burst open, and suddenly the energy in the room shifted. A new wave of celebration swept through as the team arrived, fresh from their post-game duties. Your stomach did a complicated flip as you spotted Paige among them, now changed into fitted black jeans and a white button-down that should be illegal. Her hair was down, falling in waves that your fingers definitely didn't itch to touch.

"Speak of the devil," Riven smirked. "Want to test that theory?"

"Don't you dare—" But Riven was already waving enthusiastically, catching Nika's attention. The Croatian player's face lit up with unholy glee when she spotted you.

"Engineering girl!" Nika bounded over, dragging a very amused-looking Paige with her. "Still wearing my jacket, I see."

You started to unzip it, but she waved you off. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway." She shot Paige a meaningful look that made your cheeks burn.

"I need another drink," Riven announced suddenly, grabbing Nika's arm. "Come show me where the team keeps their secret stash."

"We don't have a—" Nika caught on quickly, grinning. "Oh, right. That secret stash. This way."

And just like that, you were alone with Paige at the crowded bar, your body humming with awareness of how close she was standing.

"Subtle, aren't they?" Paige smiled, and for once it wasn't that practiced smirk. It was something softer, more genuine. She signaled the bartender, who materialized instantly. Must be nice being a campus celebrity.

"The usual?" The bartender asked Paige, already reaching for a bottle.

"And whatever she's having," Paige nodded toward your nearly empty Moscow Mule.

"I can buy my own drinks," you said quickly, reaching for your wallet.

Paige's lips twitched. "I know you can. But consider it part of my ongoing apology for the whole bed situation."

You raised an eyebrow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "You always apologize to your drunken mistakes with expensive drinks?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to snatch them back. But instead of looking offended, Paige just studied you with those impossibly intense eyes.

"Only the ones who let me cuddle their stuffed bears."

"Mr. Gummy," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Again.

The bartender returned with your drinks, and you grabbed yours perhaps a bit too quickly, needing something to do with your hands. The Moscow Mule was perfect – strong enough to blame your burning cheeks on the alcohol.

"So," Paige said after a moment, looking far too comfortable for someone who'd just been called out on their drunken mistakes. "Engineering, huh?"

You nearly choked on your drink. "Are we really doing small talk right now?"

"Would you prefer I go back to staring at you from across the court?"

"I prefer knowing where I stand," you shot back, the alcohol making you braver than usual. "Because last I checked, you had a girlfriend you were pretty desperate to apologize to."

Something flashed across her face – regret? Embarrassment? "Taylor and I it's complicated."

"Isn't it always?" You couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of your voice. You'd heard enough stories about Paige's "complicated" situations to fill a textbook.

She turned to face you fully, and your breath caught at the unexpected vulnerability in her expression. "Look, I know what people say about me. Some of it's probably true. But Taylor and I have been over for months. That night... I was drunk and stupid because she'd started seeing someone new, and I handled it badly."

"By trying to crawl into her bed?"

"By accidentally crawling into yours." Her voice dropped lower, sending involuntary shivers down your spine. "Which, in retrospect, might have been the universe doing me a favor."

You forced yourself to meet her gaze, ignoring how your heart raced at the way she was looking at you. "Does that line usually work?"

"I don't know," she smiled, and it wasn't her usual cocky smirk. It was something smaller, almost shy. "I've never used it before."

Before you could process that, a commotion erupted near the pool tables. You both turned to see Riven attempting to teach one of the team's shooting guards proper form, which seemed to involve a lot of unnecessary physical contact.

"Ten bucks says they end up making out in the bathroom," Paige said, amusement coloring her tone.

"Twenty says Riven chickens out and spends the next week telling me about all the signals she thinks she missed."

Paige laughed, and the sound did something dangerous to your insides. "You know your roommate well."

"Well enough to know she's going to interrogate me about this conversation later."

"This conversation?" Paige shifted slightly closer, and you caught that intoxicating mix of her perfume and something uniquely her. "What's there to interrogate about?"

You gestured vaguely between you. "This whole... whatever this is. Where you're suddenly interested in small talk about my major and making jokes about the universe doing you favors."

"Maybe I just want to know more about the girl who told me to fuck off in the library." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "While wearing my best friend's jacket, no less."

"That was an accident—"

"Was it?" She was definitely closer now, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like a challenge."

Your grip tightened on your drink. "Not everything is about you, Bueckers."

"No," she agreed, her voice soft but intense. "But the way you've been looking at me all night? That might be."

The air between you crackled with tension. You should step back. You should remember all the stories, all the warnings, all the reasons this was a terrible idea. You should—

"There you are!" Nika's voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water. "Coach just texted. Team meeting tomorrow morning got moved up."

Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "What time?"

"Eight AM." Nika's eyes darted between you and Paige, her expression far too knowing. "Sorry to interrupt."

"You weren't," you said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly judging by Nika's raised eyebrow.

Paige turned back to you, and the intensity in her gaze made your breath catch. "We'll finish this conversation later."

It wasn't a question.

You watched her walk away, trying to ignore how your body still hummed from her proximity. Nika lingered behind, grinning like she'd just won a bet with herself.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I've never seen her work this hard for someone's attention before."

"I'm not—" you started, but Nika was already following Paige, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a half-empty Moscow Mule.

Riven materialized beside you moments later, her eyes wide. "Okay, what the hell was that?"

"Nothing," you mumbled into your drink. "Just Paige Bueckers being Paige Bueckers."

But as you watched her gather her team to leave, she turned back just for a moment, catching your eye across the bar. The look she gave you was pure heat, a promise of more conversations to come.

You were so beyond utterly fucked.

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