01, CHAPTER ONE. DOING HER BEST.
word count. 6.0K. warnings. nothing really. links. main masterlist. wicked games masterlist. a/n. new fic we up 😋😋 it’s probably gonna be controversial af but here we are anyways. you may hate micah, you may like her but at the end of the day that’s bbg
MICAH IS DOING HER BEST. She keeps repeating that to herself like a mantra, like if she thinks it hard enough, it'll settle and become true. She's doing her best at not distracting Jackie while she cooks, which is a massive test of her willpower considering she's notoriously bad at keeping her hands to herself whenever Jackie is trying to navigate a hot stove. She's doing her best to ignore the stubborn, dull twinge in her left ankle that's been humming under her skin for the last few weeks, a small ache she refuses to acknowledge because admitting to stiffness means admitting to vulnerability, and she simply doesn't have the room for that right now. She's doing her best to get used to the Florida humidity, which feels like walking through warm soup compared to Vegas's dry heat—her skin always a little damp, her curls always a little frizzy, her clothes always sticking to her back. Most of all, though, Micah is doing her absolute best to positive about the upcoming winter and Unrivaled season. Optimism has never been her strong suit; she's always been the type to brace for impact, to prepare for the worst so she can't be blindsided. But she's trying. That's the whole point. She really does love Florida; she loves the way the Miami sun doesn't just shine but seems to sink directly into the pores in her skin, a different kind of burn than the Nevada desert but no less fierce. She loves the ocean, the sprawling blue horizon, and she genuinely loves the Unrivaled league. She loved everything about its inaugural run—the breathless pacing of the 3x3 court, the loud energy of the crowd, the sisterhood of a league run entirely by the women who play in it. She's excited to play with Cam Brink again, excited to see Rickea every day, excited to watch Dom Malonga grow into the monster she knows she'll become. She's excited. She's trying. She's doing her best.
But it comes with a cost, like most things do.
Being teammates with Paige Bueckers is quite a cost.
Micah exhales slowly, letting the thought dissolve as she sits on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, palms pressed against the cool marble. Jackie stands at the stove, stirring her sauce, the scent of sautéed garlic, crushed red pepper, and sweet butter heavy in the air, rising in a fragrant cloud of steam. Micah watches her fondly, eyes wandering. Jackie's wearing one of her Aces shirts, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back with a bandana. She looks relaxed, at home, like she belongs here in this Miami apartment even though they've only been in the city for a day. Micah tries not to distract her. She really does. She keeps her hands against the countertop, keeps her mouth shut, keeps her body still, even though she'd much prefer to hop down and wrap her arms around Jackie's waist.
Jackie glances over her shoulder. "Taste this," she says, blowing on the wooden spoon gently before reaching across the small gap between them. She cups her left hand beneath the spoon to catch any stray sauce, her gaze locked onto Micah's. "Tell me if it needs more salt."
Micah leans forward, parting her lips to let Jackie slide the spoon into her mouth. The flavor of the sauce is rich, bright with lemon zest and a creeping, pleasant heat from the pepper flakes. It's, predictably, perfect.
"Mm," Micah hums, her shoulders dropping as she lets the taste marinate on her tongue. "No. Don't touch it. If you add anything else, you're gonna ruin it, and then I'm gonna starve."
"Always so dramatic," Jackie laughs, shaking her head as she turns back to the stove to turn the burner down to a low simmer. She tosses the pasta with a deft flick of her wrist. "And you wouldn't starve. You'd just DoorDash something and then complain about the delivery time."
"That is a terrible lie," Micah says, though she knows it's the absolute truth."
Micah has never been a good cook. Cooking requires patience, a willingness to let things simmer and develop without hovering over them, and Micah's brain has never exactly functioned at that speed. In college, her culinary exploits had been limited to microwaveable Mac and Cheese, frozen pizzas, and whatever Werth was serving between her grueling practice schedules. When she got drafted to the Aces and moved to Vegas, she had survived almost entirely on a rotating cycle of takeout, post-game dinners, and pre-packaged Caesar salads she bought in bulk from Whole Foods. She had been perfectly content with her plastic containers and delivery apps until she started dating Jackie. Jackie, who cooks like she's auditioning to be on Master Chef, who always has some new recipe she wants to try, who always says, "Sit down, Mic, I got it," whenever Micah even thinks about helping.
Micah watches her now, feeling a warmth in her chest that has nothing to do with the stove nor the Miami heat. She's doing her best to hold onto that warmth, to let it be her crutch, to let it drown out the anxiety that's been buzzing beneath her skin since she landed in Florida. She's doing her best to be present, to be grateful, to be excited.
Even if the thought of seeing Paige tomorrow—being teammates again for real—makes her nearly queasy. Even if she has no idea how it's going to go. Even if she hasn't spoken to Paige in over a year and a half, not even when their paths crossed at All-Star earlier this year or when the Aces were matched up against the Wings. The last time they spoke was practically a lifetime ago, during the blur of her rookie All-Star weekend in Phoenix back in July of 2024. Micah stills remembers the way Paige had cornered her, equally as hurt as she was angry, demanding her what was going on, why she wasn't answering her texts. Micah remembers the way her stomach twisted, remembers the way her throat tightened, remembers the way she scoffed and said Paige was stupid if she didn't know why Micah wasn't talking to her—which she still stands on, to be fair. She remembers being mean, genuinely mean, something she's good at when she wants to be. She remembers standing there in that brightly lit hotel hallway and telling Paige that she had absolutely no intention of ever entertaining her again. She remembers Paige's face falling, remembers the glassiness of her blue eyes. And she remembers sleeping with Jackie for the first time that night, which had felt like a clean break, like a line drawn in the sand, a decision she wasn't going back on.
So, yeah. Micah doesn't really know how tomorrow is going to go with her and Paige in the same vicinity again.
"Micah," Jackie's voice breaks through the static of her thoughts. "Hey, Mic?"
Micah blinks, her fingers twitching against the smooth counter where she's still sitting. She looks over, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."
Jackie sighs, letting the hot pan of rigatoni down on a trivet in the center of the small glass dining table. She walks over to the counter, stepping directly into the space between Micah's knees. She reaches up, her warm palms cupping Micah's jaw, her thumbs tracing the tense, rigid line of her cheekbones. Jackie's touch is always like this—gentle and unhurried, devoid of any sharp electric currents.
"About tomorrow?" Jackie guesses.
Micah's jaw tightens under Jackie's fingers. She forces a shrug, mumbling, "A little."
Jackie slides her hands down to Micah's shoulders, giving them a firm, reassuring squeeze. "It's gonna be awkward. I'm not about to lie to you and say the first time talking to your ex-best friend in two years isn't gonna be. But you both are professionals. More than that, you're both hoopers. Just focus on the game. You know how to do that."
She pulls back slightly, tilting Micah's chin up so their eyes are forced to meet. "You don't have to be her best friend again. You don't even really have to like her. Just go in, do your job, and be cordial. Nothing can be changed about the roster now. Better to just keep it clean.
"Cordial," Micah repeats, the word tasting like dry ash in her mouth. "Yeah."
That had been her plan, too. But it's easier said than done. It's easier to pretend she's fine than to actually be fine. It's easier to act like Paige is just another random teammate than to face the reality of everything that happened between them.
Jackie taps at her hip. "C'mon, though, let's eat. I thought you were starving."
"I am," Micah reassures, sliding off the counter.
Later, when the plates are cleared and the kitchen is dark, they retreat back to Jackie's bedroom. The apartment is still in a state of chaos, much like Micah's own place down the hall. They've only been in Miami for twenty-four hours, and the space is cluttered with the physical evidence of lives temporarily uprooted. Heavy black suitcases sit half-zipped on the floor, their contents spilling out in colorful piles of athletic gear and casual clothes; cardboard boxes of sneakers are stacked unevenly against the baseboards, and an army of hangers still clad in dry-cleaning plastic lay draped over the back of a chair.
It's messy, but beneath the sheets of the king-sized bed, it feels like a cozy sanctuary.
They watch a movie, the glow of the screen flickering across the white walls. Micah leans into Jackie's side, letting herself relax. When it's done and the TV is turned off, they settle into something else between tangled sheets. Hands warm on hips, mouths soft on necks.
Afterward, Micah is swollen and flushed and as satisfied as she can be, her cheek pressed against the center of Jackie's chest, her arm draped loosely over Jackie's waist. The hum of Jackie's white noise mixes with the steady thump-thump of her heart beneath Micah's ear. Micah squeezes her eyes shut, inhaling the clean, familiar scent of Jackie's skin.
This is good. This is her being her best. This is what a stable, adult love feels like. It's safe and quiet and doesn't break you open, doesn't leave you bleeding on a hotel room floor.
Micah remembers that, burns it into the gyri of her brain, hoping it's enough.
THE MORNING ARRIVES with a heavy, golden slant of Florida sunlight cutting through the cracks of the bedroom blinds, painting long, dusty lines across the white duvet. Micah is exhausted. It's a deep, bone-weary fatigue that has very little to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the mental marathon she ran in her sleep. She wants to stay under the covers forever, pressed against Jackie's warmth, pretending the outside world doesn't exist.
They end up kissing lazily, slow morning presses of mouths that taste like sleep and comfort. They linger like that for a while, neither of them bothering to talk, just breathing into each other, Jackie's hand smoothing over Micah's hip in absent circles. It's easy to stay there. It's easy to pretend like today isn't happening. But eventually, Jackie sighs and says, "We should get up," and Micah hums a reluctant agreement, rolling out of bed only because Jackie does.
The drive to the facility is mostly quiet, but for the R&B station that's on low volume. Jackie drives, occasionally sipping her iced coffee. Micah keeps her forehead pressed against the cool passenger-side window, watching the palm trees blur past against a sky so bright it makes her head ache. She's still tired, still foggy, still wishing she could crawl back into bed and forget the entire concept of preseason.
But, as soon as they arrive, the energy is like a splashing, cold wave. Loud voices, laughter, people walking every which way, the thrum of music from one of the locker room. All the Unrivaled teams share the same building, which means everyone is here, everyone is loud, everyone is excited, and Micah feels like she's walking into a carnival she didn't mentally prepare for.
She does well enough in keeping up. She daps up players she hasn't seen in a few months, hugs girls she's missed, smiles at coaches, nods at staff. She tries to pretend she's not thinking about two things simultaneously: getting back into bed, and the impending doom of seeing Paige Bueckers. She hasn't spotted her yet—thank God—but the possibility hangs over her like the humidity, thick and unavoidable. Every time she turns a corner, she half-expects Paige to be there, loud and bright and impossible to ignore.
But the first thing she has to do isn't practice. It's medical checks and jersey fittings, which is a blessing because it means she can hide behind logistics for a little while. Rickea is with her, equally tired, equally uninterested in being awake. They sit across from each other on exam tables while a trainer checks them, then walk together to the equipment room to get fitted for their Breeze jerseys.
The room is lined with rolling racks of fresh, crisp Breeze gear—deep purple and white jersey sets with lines of hot pink, as well as heavy-duty fleece hoodies, slick warmup pants, all bearing their names and numbers. Micah watches as Rickea pulls her white jersey over her head, adjusting the shoulders in front of the full-length mirror. She looks at her reflection, then shifts her weight, her shoulders slumping as she lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.
"I'm tired as hell," Rickea mutters, her voice low and raspy. She reaches for a pair of shorts on the rack, shaking her head. "And I already know Paige's loud ass gon' drive me nuts."
Micah snorts under her breath. "You and me both."
It's true—Paige is loud. Always has been. Loud in the way that fills a room, loud in the way that makes people turn their heads, loud in the way that used to make Micah laugh until her stomach hurt. She's surprised she hasn't heard her yet, actually. Paige's voice usually carries like a damn megaphone. The fact that Micah has yet to hear even a single "broooo" echoing down the hall is almost unsettling.
"She's probably with media doing some promo," Rickea says, pulling her jersey off and dropping down into a chair. "They love puttin' her in front of a camera."
"Yeah," Micah murmurs, turning back to the mirror to adjust her own jersey, her eyes locking onto her own tense reflection. "Probably."
They don't have to wonder much longer, though. As soon as they're done with their fittings, they opt to finally head to the Breeze locker room. The walk is short and Rickea opens the door, going in first, and—
There she is, in the flesh.
Paige is sitting on the bench in the center of the locker room, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees as she wraps a strip of white athletic tape around her thumb. She's already wearing the white practice jersey over a black short-sleeve undershirt, her name and number—the familiar, mocking Bueckers and 5—sitting crisp on the fabric. Seeing her in those colors, officially Micah's teammate again, is bizarre, an overload. It's one thing to know it's happening; it's something entirely different to have the physical evidence sitting right in front of her.
For a fraction of a second, Paige's eyes flick up. They're the same piercing blue Micah has memorized a thousand times over. But the warmth that used to live in them is entirely gone, replaced by coolness, by ice, finally looking like the color they are.
"Hey," Paige says. Her voice is flat, devoid of its usual sing-song cadence. It's a strictly professional greeting, the kind of tone you use with a league executive or a stranger at a press junket.
"Hey," Micah echoes, her voice Paige's note for note, cool and perfectly level.
They don't exchange a single word more. They don't smile. They don't do the half-hug or the easy daps that are second nature to women who share a locker room. It's almost painful, a disciplined cordiality.
Almost immediately, the stark contrast of Paige's behavior with the rest of the room makes the tension ten times worse. The moment Cam Brink walks through the door, Paige's entire energy shifts. She's up on her feet, her face breaking into that wide, goofy, gums-showing grin, her voice instantly rising to its familiar, gratingly loud pitch as she teases Cam. She's chipper, she's annoying, she's throwing a mini basketball at Dom Malonga's head to get her attention and then laughing when the younger girl rolls her eyes. She is, in every way, the Paige Bueckers the public knows and loves.
But she doesn't give Micah a single drop of that light. Not a tease, not a glance, not even a casual piece of trash-talk. That's okay because Micah doesn't care to even be on the receiving end of it, and it's not as if she doesn't do the exact same. She talks with Kea and focuses on pulling her hair up, paying the blonde no mind. Though, she is acutely aware that the other girls—especially Cam, who's known them both for years—are probably catching on to the heavy, cold front settling over their side of the room. Micah doesn't much care. There is no world where they can just jump into pretending to be best friends again. That's not how this works. Not after the way they've both handled everything.
Not long later, it's the Breeze's practice slot. Their small team—all six of them, which still feels bizarrely tiny even though Micah's played 3x3 before—start making their way toward one of the courts. Cam and Dom walk ahead, and might as well be the twin towers. Kate and Paige are behind them, laughing over something. Rickea falls into step beside Micah.
As they turn the corner, Kea nudges Micah's arm with her elbow. "I thought y'all were close," she says lowly, curious.
Micah doesn't look ahead of her where Paige's blonde ponytail is bouncing. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor, her shoulders dropping a shrug. "Haven't been in a while."
Rickea hums, a soft, nonjudgemental sound, and shrugs back. She doesn't push; she never does. That's one of the reasons Micah likes her—she's observant but not intrusive, curious but not nosy. She sees things, but doesn't pry unless necessary.
Micah wishes she could shrug off her own thoughts as easily.
And, okay, while Micah and Paige haven't been close off the court in nearly two years, it turns out they have no trouble getting back into a flow on the court. Micah doesn't know why she expected anything different. She still knows all the little habits embroidered within Paige's game, and Paige knows all of hers. That becomes very clear as soon as drills are over and they shift into a pick-up scrimmage.
It's instantaneous, a reaction that neither of them can control, an invisible string snapped taut between them—thin, familiar, annoyingly strong. A string with a Husky logo stamped right on it, tethering them together the way it has since UConn, since they were kids who didn't know anything except basketball and each other. Without looking, Paige skips a wrap-around pass through the seam of the zone, putting the ball exactly two inches in front of Micah's chest. Micah catches it in stride, rises, and fires a transition three in one fluid motion. Swish. On the next possession, when Micah drives left, drawing two defenders to the block, she doesn't even look back toward the perimeter; instead, she lofts a blind, over-the-shoulder drop pass into the empty space. Paige is already there, stepping into the pocket, catching and finishing the layup before the defense can even rotate.
Noelle Quinn, their coach, makes them pause after a few more strides down the court. "Good job," she makes a note to nod to Micah and Paige, a genuine smile on her face. "Y'all huskies make a good team."
Cam laughs, too, wiping sweat off her forehead. "It's kinda disgusting, actually. Get a room," she jokes.
Paige snorts and Micah forces a laugh out. It sounds normal enough, but inside she feels almost sick—like nostalgia is a hand around her throat, squeezing. Because it is disgusting, in a way. It's disgusting how easy everything used to be. How natural, and fun, and uncomplicated. How much she used to rely on Paige without even realizing she was doing it. How much she used to love playing with her.
It's not as if she necessarily wants things to go back to how they used to be—Micah knows she deserves better than that, and maybe Paige does, too, since it clearly wasn't what she wanted. Besides, Micah was the one who walked away, was the one who slammed the door shut and locked it. But nostalgia is a bitch. It creeps in anyway, whispering reminders she doesn't want, tugging at memories she prefers to keep buried.
The moment practice is over, Paige turns her back. It's without hesitation, lacking any lingering glance or acknowledgement of the chemistry that just lit up the court. She walks straight to the opposite baseline, grabs a towel, wipes at her face, and doesn't look at Micah once.
Micah's chest tightens, her ribs digging. She tells herself it's just the workout, just the heat, just the humidity, just the ankle. (She knows it's not.)
She leaves the court quickly, sweat dripping down her spine, her pulse still fast. She heads straight for the recovery room, knowing it's probably the safest place right now. It's better this way, she tells herself. Paige planned to get an extra lift in—Micah overhead her telling Kate earlier—so she won't run into her again. That's good. That's fine. That's what she wants.
Except she also knows she can't keep avoiding run-ins forever. They're teammates now. They're going to be together constantly. They're going to share locker rooms and courts and flights and meals. They're going to be in each other's orbit whether they like it or not.
Micah pushes the door to the recovery room open, the cool air washing over her skin. She sits on the edge of a treatment table, rolls her ankle gently, feels the familiar twinge. She exhales, long and slow.
Like she said, this was the cost. There always is one.
THE LATE AFTERNOON sun is a thick, golden syrup pouring over the concrete pool deck, baking the clay tiles until the air above them shimmers with a lazy, liquid heat. It's just past four in the afternoon on the second day of practice, and the world has slowed down to a crawl. Micah is stretched out on a plush, sand-colored lounge chair, her body slowly sinking into the canvas. A thick, paper-back novel is resting on her lap, its pages completely unread, its spine still stiff because she hasn't actually opened it since they walked down from their apartments. She had fully intended to read—she's been trying to get back into the habit of keeping her mind occupied with something other than basketball or the looming shadow of her own thoughts—but the reality of her surroundings has proven to be a much more demanding distraction.
Specifically, the woman lying on the chaise lounge next to her.
Micah tilts her head to the side, letting her sunglasses slide down the bridge of her nose just enough to peek over the dark, polarized rims. Jackie is lying on her back, her face angled up toward the sky, her eyes closed under the shade of a black silk bandana tied neatly around her hairline. The contrast is almost unfair. Jackie is wearing a bright, fire-engine red bikini that sits like a flame against her smooth, dark skin, her shoulders and collarbones catching the high sun in a way that makes her look less like a human and more like a sculpture. From this angle, Micah has a perfectly clear, unobstructed view of Jackie's biceps—firm and defined even in complete relaxation—and the neat, symmetrical lines of her abs.
Dating a fellow professional athlete has many perks, but Micah is currently of the opinion that watching Jackie sunbathe in Miami is easily at the top of the list. It is a very good afternoon.
"You're staring," Jackie says, her voice low. She doesn't open her eyes, but a slow, smug smile pulls at the corner of her lips, her chest rising with a long, contented breath.
"I'm not staring," Micah lies instantly, though she doesn't bother to look away or adjust her sunglasses. She reaches out, her fingers lightly tracing the soft, warm skin of Jackie's inner forearm where it rests on the arm of the lounge chair. "I'm appreciating. There's a difference. It's called being supportive."
Jackie lets out a quiet, amused huff, finally tilting her head toward Micah. She slides her sunglasses down her nose, her dark eyes sparkling with a warm, lazy affection that makes Micah's chest feel suddenly very full.
"Supportive, huh?" Jackie asks, her fingers curling upward to link with Micah's, their palms pressing together in the small gap between the metal frames of their chairs. "Is that what we're calling it now? Because it looked a lot like you were tryna burn a hole through my stomach with your eyes."
"I was just thinking about how lucky I am," Micah says. It starts out as suggestive, an innuendo, but then it ends soft and she realizes she actually just means it.
It's nice—this. Being here. Being with someone who makes everything feel simple. Being with someone who doesn't make her heart race in a way that feels like danger, but rather in a way that makes her smile. Jackie is everything she should ever want—calm and steady and loving and smart and many et ceteras.
"Mm," Jackie hums, her thumb stroking the back of Micah's hand. "Guess you're sweet when you're tired. Maybe I should make sure you run extra sprints every day if it gets me this kinda treatment."
"Shut up," Micah groans, pushing Jackie away, but she's grinning as she does so, enjoying the smile she gets back, enjoying the sun overhead and the glittering blue of the untouched pool.
Until, decidedly, it is not.
She should have seen it coming. She really, truly should have. When fifty professional basketball players are crammed into the same high-end apartment complex, sharing the same amenities, the courtyard pool isn't exactly a private oasis. It was guaranteed that some of the girls would eventually wander down here to kill the late afternoon heat. Micah hears the heavy glass doors of the lobby click open, and she turns her head. There's only one person in the entire fifty-plus-player field she's actively, desperately hoping would stay upstairs in her apartment.
And, lo and behold, there she is.
Paige's laugh carries across the concrete, bright and familiar, and Micah mentally curses. She's not alone, of course. Azura Stevens is beside her, Rickea, too, and Aaliyah's trailing behind them with a towel over her shoulder.
"Oh, hey!" Lili calls, spotting Micah and Jackie immediately. She makes a beeline straight for them, waving like she hasn't seen Micah in years instead of literally five hours ago.
Don't get Micah wrong—Aaliyah is her absolute best friend, her ride-or-die, the person she would trust with her life. But right now, as she watches Paige walk with her, Micah wishes Lili had decided to go literally anywhere else by the pool. The far side. The hot tub. The damn parking lot. Anywhere that didn't involve dragging Paige directly into Micah's line of sight.
Still, Micah forces her facial muscles to cooperate, pasting a tight, polite, completely synthetic smile onto her face as the four of them approach. She raises a hand, offering a stiff, casual wave that she hopes looks a lot more relaxed than she feels.
Aaliyah drops into the lounge chair next to her, dropping her beach tote onto the concrete with a heavy sigh. Beside Micah, Jackie sits up, sliding her legs off her own chair. She stands, stepping forward to dap up Azura, the two of them exchanging a quick, easy laugh, before Jackie turns her attention to Paige.
"What's up, Bueckers?" she says, her voice friendly.
"Not much, Jack," Paige replies, smiling.
They share a quick, casual bro-hug. As long as Micah's known them both, they've been good at that—at being friendly with everyone, at making people feel welcome.
But as Paige leans in, her shoulder pressing briefly against Jackie's, her blue eyes flick directly behind Jackie and lock onto Micah. It's a split second of eye contact, but it feels like a physical shock. Paige's gaze doesn't just stop at Micah's face; it drags slowly, deliberately down, tracing the line of Micah's throat before sliding over the exposed skin of her chest, then her stomach, then where her pelvis meets her bikini bottoms. It's barely lingering, not anything anyone else would notice.
But Micah notices. Micah feels it like a spark under her skin.
A hot, angry flush rushes through her blood, and she instantly reaches for her sunglasses, shoving them back onto her face like they're a shield.
Annoying. It's annoying. Everything about Paige is annoying. The way she looks at her. The way she doesn't look at her. The way she exists. And Paige looks—there is no other word for it—astonishingly gay today, which is even more annoying.
Micah is only human. She herself is a gay woman with eyes, and she is, to her own immense self-loathing, still frustratingly, chemically attracted to the blonde—a problem she thought she'd buried under eighteen months of silence and a very stable relationship. Paige's hair is pulled up into a messy, golden bun at the nape of her neck, a backwards baseball cap clamped down over her forehead. She's wearing a loose, oversized white t-shirt that is thin enough to clearly show the stark, black lines of her Nike sports bra underneath, paired with a pair of dark, baggy swim trunks that sit low on her hips.
Micah honestly doesn't know what's worse: the fact that Paige opted for the gayer, athletic swim attire, or if it would have been easier to handle if she had just worn a normal bikini. Both options are disastrous for Micah's heart rate. Both options make her wish she'd just stayed inside.
Thankfully, Paige doesn't linger. Whether she senses the sudden, freezing drop in Micah's temperature or she's just being respectful of Jackie's presence, she steps back almost immediately, breaking the tension before it can completely suffocate them.
"Lili, catch!" Paige yells, her voice instantly bouncing back up to its loud, childish volume as she whips a mini underinflated football out of her bag.
Within seconds, the quiet, golden peace of the pool deck is entirely shattered. Paige and Aaliyah start tossing the football back and forth across the concrete, their laughter loud and echoing off the stucco walls of the apartment building. Paige might as well be a golden retriever—grinning, running backward, making dramatic, diving catches, and ultimately launching herself chest-first into the deep end of the pool with a massive splash that sends a wave of chlorinated water washing over the edge of the deck.
She surfaces, shaking her head like a wet dog, her blonde hair plastering to her forehead as she yells at Aaliyah to get in.
Micah flips the paperback open, turning to a random page somewhere in the middle of chapter four, and stares resolutely at the black print until the letters blur into a solid, meaningless grey wall. She does her absolute best to look thoroughly, deeply engaged in the narrative, turning a page after what she hopes is a convincing amount of time, even through her brain hasn't processed a single syllable. It's too busy being hyper-aware of Paige splashing around in the pool.
Beside her, the hum of Jackie's voice rises and falls as she chats with Rickea and Azura, the conversation drifting lazily over the ambient sounds of splashing water and distant traffic. Micah doesn't pay much attention to the specifics of what they're saying, using their banter as a sort of audio shield to keep her own racing thoughts at bay, until the words "Christmas plans" cut through the static. It's Azura's voice, light and curious, asking if anyone has actual plans or if everyone is just going to collapse in their respective off-season apartments.
Micah doesn't look up, but she can see movement in her peripheral vision—Paige and Lili walking back over, towels slung over their shoulders, water dripping down Paige's arms, which are fuller than Micah has ever seen them. Her stomach tightens; she keeps her eyes glued to the book.
"Oh, yeah. Mic and I are going to my family's in Indy," Jackie answers easily.
Micah nods, because that's true. She is going to Indiana with Jackie for Christmas. And she is relieved she doesn't have to spend the holiday with her mom and her new step-father—a man who, in the short year he has been in their lives, has already proven to be just another carbon copy of Micah's father. Another loud, emotionally vacant, deeply disappointing man who her mother somehow convinced was different. She really knows how to pick 'em. So, yes, Micah is happy to go somewhere else. Happy to spend Christmas with Jackie's family, who are normal and kind and not emotionally exhausting.
"Shit, spending Christmas together? Y'all are fuckin' serious, damn," Rickea says, letting out a little whistle. She stretches her long legs out, her foot extending just enough to nudge Micah's shin with the toe of her slide. "You're really locked in, huh?"
Micah barely even registers the nudge to her leg, because her attention has just narrowed down to the freezing shift in the air three feet to her left. She knows Paige just heard that. She isn't looking directly at her—she doesn't dare—but she doesn't need to. She can feel the exact second the bright, goofy golden retriever energy drains out of Paige's posture, replaced by a sudden, rigid stillness. There's a sharp, telltale clench in her jaw, a small, white knot of muscle jumping beneath sun-pinked skin of her cheek as she pulls her towel tighter around her shoulders.
"What's next, a ring?" Azura jokes, leaning back in her chair.
Micah takes a sip from her water bottle at the exact wrong moment. The word ring hits her ears just as she swallows, and her trachea completely locks up.
She chokes. It's a violent, undignified reaction, the cold water splashing up into her nose and sliding down the wrong pipe. She erupts into a harsh, hacking cough, her chest heaving as she bends double, her face instantly flushing a bright, hot crimson. The paperback book slides off her lap, landing facedown in a small puddle of pool water on the concrete.
The entire circle goes quiet for a second before erupting into a fit of giggles. Even Jackie laughs, reaching over to press a warm, reassuring hand between Micah's shoulder blades, giving her a few firm, rhythmic pats to help her clear her throat.
"Clearly not yet," Jackie jokes, her voice dripping with easy, affectionate amusement as she rubs Micah's back.
"Sorry," Micah wheezes, her voice raspy and thin as she finally manages to catch her breath. She wipes her damp mouth with the back of her hand, her ears burning with a mix of physical embarrassment and sheer, suffocating panic. She keeps her eyes glued to the wet concrete, refusing to look up and see what kind of expression is currently sitting on Paige's face. "Just... went down the wrong way. I'm fine."
She reaches down, picking up her damp book and closing it with a quiet, decisive snap. The paper is already starting to wrinkle at the edges, absorbing the pool water, and Micah feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to be anywhere else but here.
She thinks she's done with the pool for the day.
She's trying her best. God, she's trying her best.
It's just proving to be more difficult than she thought.
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