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Sep 16, 2025

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𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 ꩜ paige bueckers ⁵ (part 3)

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MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you’re steph curry’s eldest daughter, the perfect storm of nepotism and raw, generational talent. after committing to uconn in 2024, you’ve just come off an olympic debut that made the world stop and watch but while the media crowns you basketball’s newest obsession, not everyone is convinced — and one offhand comment from paige bueckers might just light the fire you didn’t know you needed.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited! mentions of anxiety, arguments, swearing, angst, competitiveness, emotional tension, again this is a slooow burn so there wont be much movement until like, next chapter

Two weeks in, the campus already feels like it’s starting to fold itself around you.

You’ve got a rhythm now even if it’s not exactly graceful. Wake up, stumble through your morning classes, scribble down notes you’ll barely be able to read later and then head straight into practice like the day doesn’t actually start until you’re lacing up your sneakers. Dinner with the team if you’re lucky, late-night calls with your family if you’re not too drained then crash and do it all again.

It’s a grind but it’s the kind of grind you’ve been craving, and for the most part, you love it.

The team already feels like family in the messy, loud way that only basketball teams can. Azzi’s become your unofficial translator for all things UConn - where to sit in the cafeteria, which professors are lenient, how to sneak extra snacks from the dining hall. KK and Ice are basically your partners in crime. The three of you run suicides side by side, compete to see who can hit the most threes after practice and clown each other relentlessly until one of you gives in. Even Sarah, who can be a little intimidating at first glance, has warmed up, her deadpan humor making you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your Gatorade more than once.

It feels like a team, a good one.

But then there’s Paige.

It’s not that she’s mean. Or dismissive, or even unwelcoming, really. She shows up, she works hard, she talks when she needs to, she claps when she should but with you, there’s always something slightly off. A tension under the surface, like she’s bracing herself every time you’re on the same side of the ball.

You’ve noticed it in the little things, like when you blow past a defender in transition, pull up for a quick jumper and Paige is the first one to mutter, “Slow it down. Reset.”

Or when she makes a read at the top of the key, directing traffic with a point of her finger, only for you to cut in instinctively, breaking the rhythm she’s trying to build, or when Geno throws you both on the same scrimmage team and the huddle turns into low-grade bickering about spacing.

It’s not hostile. It’s not toxic. But it’s… something. A divide of somekind.

Paige is a thinker - she sees the floor like a chessboard, each piece moving with careful purpose, every pass or cut designed three steps in advance.

You’re the opposite. Your game lives in the moment, a twitch in a defender’s shoulder, the faintest hesitation, the rhythm of your own heartbeat. You react, you move, you trust your body before your brain can even catch up.

And more than once, the two styles have clashed like oil and water.

It’s a scrimmage, again, and the ball swings to you on the wing. You feel the lane open before you see it, your body already shifting into the drive.

But Paige’s voice cuts sharp behind you: “Patience!”

You hesitate just a fraction - enough to get stripped.

The possession flips, Azzi scores on the other end, and Geno’s whistle pierces through the air.

“Hey!” he barks. “Whose ball was that?”

You raise your hand sheepishly and Paige’s eyes slide toward you, unreadable but heavy all the same.

Later, during water break, you sit with Sarah, bouncing the cap of your bottle against your knee, still replaying the mistake in your head.

“She doesn’t trust me,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

Sarah winces. “She doesn’t trust anyone right away, don’t take it personal.”

“Yeah, but it feels personal.”

Sarah just laughs, nudging your shoulder. “Then prove her wrong.”

It’s easier said than done.

The tension spills into huddles too.

One afternoon in particular, you’re down by two in a scrimmage, coach says last possession. Paige has the ball in her hands, naturally. She calls out a set - deliberate, structured, putting Azzi in the corner, you on the opposite wing.

You don’t like it. You see something else - a mismatch, the tiniest sliver of space you know you can exploit.

So you cut - hard.

The pass comes a beat too late, ricochets off your fingertips, rolls out of bounds.

Whistle. Game over.

You’re bent double, breathing hard, when Paige says under her breath, “If you’d stayed where I told you-”

You snap your head up, sweat stinging your eyes. “If you’d trusted me, we’d have scored.”

The silence afterward is sharp enough to sting.

Nobody says anything. Not Geno, not the rest of the team. Just the sound of sneakers squeaking as everyone disperses.

And Paige doesn’t look back.

The rest of the two weeks are a blur of repetition. Classes that all bleed together, lectures where your eyelids feel like they’re made of cement. Meals in the cafeteria where someone always steals fries from someone else’s tray, late nights back in your dorm, shooting texts to Canon about Fortnite strategies or FaceTiming your mom just to hear her voice.

The fluorescent lights in Gampel had that particular hum that only hit when you were tired enough to notice.

It was Thursday night, which was already cursed by default and the clock on the wall mocked you with its glowing red numbers. Only 6:47 p.m. but it felt like you’d been running drills since yesterday.

The court smelled like sweat and rubber, every squeak of sneakers echoing too loud in your skull. Coach had tossed out one of his favorite lines earlier - “It’s not about how you feel it’s about what you do when you’re tired” which was his nice way of saying, suck it up.

You tried, you really did but no matter how many times you reset your stance, no matter how many times you reminded yourself of angles and footwork, your defense just kept slipping.

And of course, Paige noticed.

“Slide earlier.”

Her voice cut through the thump of the ball, sharp.

You shifted your weight, reset. The next rep started. You tried to anticipate, tried to cut off the lane.

“Too slow. Read it sooner.”

Another bark, another sting.

You clenched your jaw, heart beating harder now, partly from the drill, partly from her voice slicing into you again and again.

One more rep, one more failure. Your opponent breezed past you and you reached late, useless.

“Again!” Paige called. She wasn’t even running the drill, she was just… there, overseeing like she’d been handed a whistle and clipboard.

Your lungs burned and your shoulders slumped as you reset. Sweat slid down your temple, stinging your eye.

The whistle blew again. Another attempt, another crack in your focus.

“Y/N, that’s weak. You’re not low enough. Don’t just stand there.”

Her tone wasn’t even cruel but it was relentless. A steady drip, drip, drip of pressure until it seeped under your skin.

Finally, the whistle signaled a break. Everyone scattered toward their water bottles, sneakers scuffing against the hardwood. You grabbed yours, unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers and downed half of it in one go.

Your chest heaved. You stared at the floor, trying to tune out the buzz in your ears.

And then, a low chuckle, a voice not even directed at you but close enough to land.

“Man, she’s got Olympic gold but defense isn’t exactly included in the package, huh?” Paige said, almost under her breath, leaning toward Azzi with a half-smirk.

The words hit harder than any screen.

You froze, bottle halfway to your mouth. The room tilted, every muscle in your body tightening. You could practically feel Azzi’s glance darting awkwardly between you two.

That was it.

You turned, your throat tight but your voice stumbling out anyway.

“Okay, you know what? You don’t have to-”

You stopped. The words tangled. Your chest went hot, your face hotter. Why was it so hard to get a sentence out?

Paige turned to look at you, calm as ever with one brow raised. “Don’t have to what?”

Her tone wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t mocking, it was steady, curious even, and that only made it worse.

“I-” you stammered, gripping your water bottle like it might anchor you. “You don’t have to keep… I don’t know, nitpicking every single-- every time I…”

You trailed off. Your stomach swooped. The confidence you usually had, the control you carried on the court, evaporated like mist under her stare. You had an Olympic Gold medal for God’s sake, and you couldn’t even face her.

Paige tilted her head slightly, arms crossing over her chest. Calm, unreadable.

“I’m nitpicking?” she asked.

Your mouth opened - nothing came out.

Usually you were steady. Usually, when people came at you, you had a quip, a cool shrug, a wall of confidence to hide behind but standing there, sweat-soaked, lungs burning, Paige’s eyes locked on you, the same eyes you’d watched through a TV screen for years - you felt… flustered.

Really flustered.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m trying, okay?” you blurted, voice higher than you meant. “Like-like I know I’m not perfect on defense, but it’s not like you need to announce it every single-”

You broke off again, groaning, dragging a hand through your hair. The words weren’t landing, you weren’t landing.

Paige’s expression barely shifted. Maybe the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth like she was amused but trying not to show it.

“I’m just holding you accountable,” she said evenly. “Same way I’d hold anyone else. What, you want me to go easy on you? Thought you were all tough, Ms. Curry.”

“No!” The word flew out too fast, too defensive and you winced immediately. “I mean-no, that’s not...”

You tripped over yourself again, heat crawling up your neck. Why couldn’t you just be clear? Why did your tongue feel clumsy, your brain one step behind?

Paige blinked once, slow. Then, “Then... what is it?”

Your grip on the bottle tightened, plastic crackling under your fingers. You opened your mouth, closed it again and finally just sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Nothing,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Forget it.”

You turned away, pretending to re-cap your bottle even though your hands were trembling.

Paige didn’t push. Didn’t smirk, didn’t gloat. She just shrugged lightly and turned back toward Azzi, like the moment had already passed.

But you felt it, thrumming under your skin. The way she stayed calm while you scrambled, the way your chest wouldn’t stop tightening whenever her eyes landed on you.

You hated it, hated how much space she took up in your head.

Your dorm room was quiet, save for the dull hum of your desk lamp and the faint buzz from the mini-fridge in the corner. Practice had ended hours ago but your body was still humming with leftover tension, your thoughts still pacing.

The textbooks laid open on your desk were useless. Words blurred, numbers slipped away. You’d been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, pen tapping an impatient rhythm against your notebook.

Finally, you gave up and grabbed your phone. Only one person could handle this particular brand of frustration.

You hit FaceTime and it barely rang twice before your dad’s face filled the screen. He was reclined on the couch, hoodie pulled low, a game playing on the muted TV behind him.

“Hey, champ,” Steph said, grinning as soon as he saw you. “What’s up? Shouldn’t you be grinding on homework right now?”

“I tried,” you groaned, falling back against your pillow. “But my brain’s fried. I needed a break.”

“Break from homework or break from basketball?” he teased, squinting knowingly.

You hesitated. “…both.”

His smile softened and he adjusted the phone, sitting forward now. “Talk to me.”

You chewed your lip for a moment, trying to find the words. The ones that wouldn’t sound petty or small but it all spilled out anyway.

“It’s Paige,” you muttered. “I swear, she has it out for me. Every drill, every scrimmage, she’s just-” You gestured wildly with your free hand. “She doesn’t let up. Ever. And I don’t even know why, I haven’t done anything to her!”

Steph tilted his head, like he was weighing your words. “Alright. Give me an example.”

“She nitpicks everything,” you said quickly. “If I’m too slow on defense, she calls it out. If I miss a shot, she’s right there. Today she made a joke to Azzi about me not having defense even though I have-” Your voice cracked, and you stopped, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know. I’m just sick of it.”

Steph nodded slowly, not rushing to fill the silence. “Okay,” he said finally. “That sounds frustrating.”

“Frustrating?” you huffed. “It’s infuriating.”

He chuckled softly at your dramatics but not unkindly. “So what do you think is behind it? You think she really hates you?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, sinking deeper into your pillow. “She doesn’t even know me. That’s what makes it worse. It’s like she decided day one that I was some… spoiled kid who didn’t deserve to be here.”

Steph raised his brows. “And do you think that’s true?”

“Of course not!” you shot back, sitting up straighter. “I’ve worked for everything. I earned Paris, I earned UConn, it’s not just because of my last name.”

“Exactly,” he said calmly. “So then why are you letting her voice get louder than yours?”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Your dad had that effect on you - cutting straight to the part you hadn’t admitted to yourself yet.

Steph leaned back again, smirk tugging at his lips. “You know, if you’re really sick of her, I could go ahead and burn that Bueckers jersey you’ve got hanging in your room back home. Do us both a favor.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “Dad!”

He laughed, loud and warm, clearly pleased at your horrified reaction. “What? Thought you’d outgrown that thing anyway.”

“That’s-” You scrambled, cheeks heating despite yourself. “That’s not the point! You can’t just burn it.”

“Oh, so you do still like her,” he said slyly.

You groaned, throwing your head back. “I don’t like her. She’s just... she’s Paige.”

“And what does that mean?” he pressed, eyes twinkling.

“It means…” You hesitated, fumbling for words. “It means she’s half the reason I came here, she’s the person I wanted to play with, to learn from. She’s...” You cut yourself off, realizing how much you were rambling.

Steph just hummed, clearly enjoying the show. Then with a grin that told you he’d been waiting for the perfect moment, he continued.

“Sounds like you’ve got a little crush on her.”

Your entire body froze.

“What?”

He shrugged innocently. “Hey, no shame in it. You’re at the age. She’s a good kid, good player, I’d approve.”

“Dad!” Your voice shot up half an octave. “No! Absolutely not. That’s-what? That’s insane. I do not-” You buried your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “How could you even say that?”

Steph was laughing so hard now he had to put the phone down for a second, the camera showing nothing but the ceiling as his voice rumbled in the background. “I’m just saying, the way you talk about her, you’d think she walked on water.”

“Because she’s good at basketball!” you shouted, muffled behind your hands.

He picked the phone back up, still grinning like the devil. “Uh-huh. Just basketball.”

You glared at him, cheeks blazing. “Yes! Just basketball. She’s my idol. Or, was. Now she just hates me for no reason.”

Steph’s smile softened, even if the teasing glint didn’t fully fade. “Hey. For what it’s worth, idols are just people. Sometimes the pedestal you put them on makes the fall a little rougher.”

You looked down, fiddling with the hem of your blanket. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“What you’ve always done,” he said. “Prove yourself. Every day, every practice, every game. You’ve been doing it since you were a kid. Don’t matter if it’s Paris, UConn or our driveway, you play your game, you earn your respect.”

You swallowed hard, nodding.

“And,” he added with a pointed look, “you stop letting her rent that much space in your head. She’s just another player. A good one, yeah but still just another player.”

You smirked faintly. “Easy for you to say.”

“Kid, you think I didn’t have people doubting me my whole career? Sometimes the best thing you can do is let them doubt, makes proving them wrong sweeter.”

You lay back against your pillow, exhaling. The knot in your chest loosened, just a little.

“Thanks, Dad,” you murmured.

He smiled. “Anytime. Now get some rest.”

You nodded, already plotting. Paige didn’t have to like you. She didn’t even have to believe in you but if proving her wrong meant burning yourself into her memory, then that’s exactly what you’d do.

Steph grinned again, one last jab before he hung up. “Just don’t let the crush get in the way of the game.”

“Dad!”

The call ended with his laughter echoing in your ears.

And despite yourself, you were smiling too.

Your dorm was finally still. The campus outside had quieted down to a low hum - faint voices drifting from the quad, the distant slam of a car door. Your desk lamp was the only light, spilling gold across the scattered notebooks and empty water bottle, catching in the edges of your phone screen as you propped it up against a pillow.

You should’ve been asleep, you knew that but your body buzzed with leftover adrenaline and your mind refused to settle. Too many things were tangled up in your head: Paige’s voice in practice, your dad’s teasing laughter, the way your chest still ached every time you thought about her words cutting into you.

You needed something else to focus on, something bigger.

Your thumb scrolled down, searching through saved videos until you found it: Paris 2024 Olympic Finals – USA vs France – FULL GAME (HD). The thumbnail alone tugged at your chest: you in a white jersey, grinning, sweat-slicked and luminous under the harsh lights.

You hit play.

The grainy broadcast music filled your dorm room, and suddenly you were there again.

It started slow, like any other game. Warmups, the squeak of sneakers, the bounce of the ball against polished hardwood but even then, something felt different. You’d dreamed of this stage your whole life but when it was finally real, when the flag was stitched onto your jersey, when the anthem played and your heart hammered against your ribs - it was like stepping inside a lightning storm.

Your body remembered everything - the weight of the ball in your hands, the sweat dampening the back of your neck, the crowd a thousand shades of blurred color.

France came out hard. They pressed, they pushed, they sent doubles your way every possession but every time the ball left your fingertips, the net sang. A swish that cut through the roar of the arena, pure and clean.

By halftime, you were on fire. Triple-double numbers already within reach, the broadcasters couldn’t stop saying your name but it wasn’t the stats you remembered most.

It was the moment in the third quarter, when the clock slowed down and the air felt heavy. A steal at midcourt. The ball was yours, and the world seemed to tilt with you.

One defender. Two. You split them, every nerve firing, your body moving faster than your thoughts. The rim loomed, the crowd rose, and you floated - yes, floated - for just a fraction of a second, weightless as you let the ball roll off your fingertips.

Swish.

The noise hit like a tidal wave.

Your teammates swarmed you, arms wrapping around you, the bench erupting and for one dizzying heartbeat, you weren’t Steph Curry’s daughter, you weren’t the kid everyone whispered about, you weren’t even yourself.

You were infinite.

Lying in your dorm now, you pressed the pillow tighter against your chest. The video rolled on, highlights flashing across the screen - your assists threading between defenders, your rebounds ripped down with sheer will, your smile breaking wider with every possession.

By the time the buzzer sounded, by the time the medal ceremony played out, you could feel that moment pulsing in your veins again.

The gold medal had been heavy around your neck, heavier than you expected - cold against your skin but warming quickly, like it belonged there.

You remembered looking out at the crowd, tears stinging your eyes, and thinking, this is it. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.

You had played the best game of your life on the biggest stage there was. No doubts, no hesitation. Just you, the ball and the rim, like it had been since the driveway days.

The video ended but you kept staring at the blank screen, chest rising and falling slowly.

You could still taste the salt of sweat, still hear the echoes of your name bouncing through the arena. You remembered the way people wrote about you afterward: quadruple-double in Olympic debut, generational player, the future of women’s basketball.

Your jaw tightened.

If you could survive Paris - if you could stand on that podium with gold against your chest, you could survive this, you could adjust to anything.

Defense drills, barked critiques, Paige Bueckers’ sharp stare?

Nothing compared to that storm you’d already conquered.

You exhaled slowly, a steadying breath. The knot in your stomach loosened just a little.

You tucked your phone under your pillow, letting the darkness settle in around you. The buzz in your veins faded into something calmer, something sharper.

Tomorrow, and the next day, and the next - you’d show up. You’d adjust, you’d fight because if you could win a damn gold medal, you could get through this.

No matter how much Paige wanted to test you.

The gym smelled like waxed floors and faint laundry detergent, the kind that clung to the practice jerseys no matter how many times they were washed.

You laced your shoes tight, fingers tugging until the knot bit into the tongue. For once, your chest didn’t feel heavy walking onto the court. Last night’s flashback still lingered in your veins, steadying you like caffeine without the crash.

The whistle blew, and everything snapped into motion.

Drills bled into sets, sets into scrimmage. Bodies crashing in the paint, sneakers squeaking against the hardwood. Geno barked out corrections, his voice ricocheting through the rafters.

You were killing it.

Shots fell smooth. Floaters, pull-ups, even a three you let fly without hesitation - net, net, net. Passing lanes opened where they hadn’t before. You cut sharp, your first step quick enough to leave defenders a half-second late every time.

The rhythm felt good, your body moving the way it was supposed to. No nerves, no static buzzing in your chest - just basketball.

The only place you still felt the rub was in the pace.

Your instincts screamed go go go - drive, cut, transition before anyone could blink but the team system slowed you down. UConn’s half-court sets weren’t the helter-skelter rhythm you thrived on, they asked for reads, waiting for the perfect window.

You had to pull yourself back from sprinting when everyone else was still setting up. More than once, Paige gave you that sharp look, like she was cataloging every beat you rushed but still, you were holding your own.

By the time Geno called it, sweat plastered your jersey to your back. Teammates clapped you on the shoulder, muttered good job as everyone shuffled toward their water bottles.

You bent, hands braced on your knees, breath rushing out steady and strong and then, of course - Paige’s voice slid through the noise.

“You know, fast doesn’t always mean smart.”

Not loud, not cruel. Just tossed into the space between you like a pebble in water, rippling outward.

You froze, something in you snapping.

You let the bottle drop back to the floor, water sloshing inside. “Alright then,” you said, loud enough that heads turned. “Let’s go. Rematch.”

The corner of Paige’s mouth curved, not a smile exactly, something sharper.

“Bet.”

The word hung between you like an electric current.

Around you, the gym seemed to shift, teammates exchanging glances, a low buzz of anticipation building. Geno wasn’t even watching anymore, already halfway out the door but no one else was moving.

Sarah grinned, Azzi groaned softly under her breath but even she didn’t step in.

You rolled your shoulders back, heart thundering, not from nerves this time but from the thrill of it.

If Paige wanted proof? If she wanted to see whether you were the real deal? You’d give her everything.

Azzi leaned against the scorer’s table, sipping her water. “So… teams?”

“Easy,” Sarah said, bouncing a ball lazily. “I’m with P Buckets.”

“Figures,” Ice muttered, snatching a rebound as it rolled by. “I’ll run with Y/N.”

KK jogged over. “Guess that makes three.”

It wasn’t official, not even organized but suddenly you had Ice and KK flanking you while Paige stood across with Sarah and Azzi. A neat little 3-on-3, right down the middle and even though the others laughed and shrugged like this was some throwaway pickup game, you knew. You could feel it.

Paige wasn’t treating it like nothing, and neither were you.

“Alright, listen,” you said, clapping your hands once. It surprised you how naturally the words came out, how quickly you slid into coach mode. “Ice, you run point. KK, get to the corners, I’ll cut off the ball. If I get doubled, look for Ice at the top. Fast passes, don’t hold it.”

Ice smirked. “Yes, coach.”

Across the way, Paige hadn’t even broken her calm expression. She just gestured for Azzi and Sarah to huddle. You couldn’t hear the details but you didn’t need to, you already knew how she thought. Slow, deliberate, like chess. She’d move Sarah into the paint, let Azzi shoot and wait for you to bite at the wrong time.

First possession was yours.

The ball felt heavy in your hands, textured rubber biting into your palms. Ice called for it, so you dished, darting toward the wing. She drove, kicked out to KK in the corner, who immediately swung it back your way.

You didn’t hesitate. Quick first step, slicing past Sarah, pulling up midrange - jumper. Swish.

“Okay,” Sarah said, eyebrows up, jogging back on defense.

Paige didn’t say a word, just caught the inbound and brought it up herself.

Her pace was different. She dribbled slow, measured, letting her defender - Ice, get comfortable. Then she cut, sharp as a knife, splitting the lane.

You lunged to help but it was too late. One bounce-pass to Azzi and it was automatic: net.

“One-one,” Azzi said.

Your teeth clenched, not at her but at the way Paige didn’t even react. No celebration. Just a little glance, like she was daring you to keep up.

Possession after possession, the rhythm built.

You played instinct. Run-and-gun, quick cuts, heat checks. A floater over Sarah’s outstretched hand, a spin move that left KK wide open for a corner shot.

Paige played control. Half-court patience, setting screens with Sarah, feeding Azzi perfectly in rhythm. She barely took shots herself but every assist felt like a blade sliding between your ribs.

And every time you scored, every time you thought maybe you’d pulled ahead, Paige’s team answered right back.

“Thought you were the fastest thing on the court?” she said after she stripped you clean and tossed it ahead to Sarah for a layup.

“Thought you actually shot sometimes,” you snapped back, chest heaving.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Normally, trash talk wasn’t your thing but with Paige, it was like your mouth ran faster than your brain.

She smirked, slow and dangerous, like you’d just proved her point. “Careful what you wish for.”

Next possession, she did shoot.

A step-back three, smooth as silk, right in your face.

It snapped through the net so clean you barely heard it.

“Damn,” Ice muttered, under her breath.

Your jaw tightened.

“Don’t let it get to you,” KK said, slapping your shoulder on the inbound.

But it already had.

The game stretched on, sweat dripping down your spine, lungs burning, but you didn’t let up and neither did she. It was less about points now, more about making each other break. She wanted to prove you weren’t ready, you wanted to prove you’d been ready for years.

Your style was raw, instinctive, explosive, and her style was calm, calculated, surgical and every collision was a clash of those worlds.

Game point came with everyone on edge, even the teammates who’d started laughing it off.

Sarah clapped her hands, calling for the ball. Azzi hovered at the arc, poised to end it. Paige dribbled up, eyes locked on yours.

The gym felt smaller suddenly, like it was just you and her, no one else. Every sound muffled, every breath heavy.

You crouched lower, legs burning, arms wide.

“Let’s see it,” you muttered.

Her lips twitched, almost a smile.

She crossed left, you cut her off. She spun right, you stayed. She tried to dish, you read it, hand shooting out then, steal.

The ball was in your hands, pounding against the floor as you sprinted downcourt. KK trailed wide, Ice cut middle but you didn’t pass. Not this time.

You pulled up just beyond the arc, legs screaming and let it fly.

The ball arced high, kissed the rafters then...

Swish.

Game.

The silence lasted half a second. Then Ice whooped, arms flinging up. KK slapped your back so hard you almost tripped.

You bent over, gasping, grinning despite yourself.

Across the way, Paige stood frozen for just a beat. Her face unreadable. Calm, too calm.

Then she nodded once, barely. Like she couldn’t deny it but sure as hell wasn’t going to give you more than that.

“Nice shot,” she said flatly.

You looked up, eyes meeting hers. Something flickered there - respect, maybe, buried under all the steel.

It was gone in a blink.

Later, walking off the court, Ice leaned toward you, smirking. “She’s never gonna admit it but you got her.”

You didn’t answer, not out loud.

But inside, you knew.

For the first time, Paige Bueckers had seen you.

The gym always feels different on days when Geno’s in one of his moods.

You can tell from the way he stands at half-court, whistle dangling from his mouth like he’s daring someone to give him a reason to use it. Everyone’s a little sharper, a little quieter, sneakers squeaking against the hardwood in a way that feels louder than usual.

Today’s no exception.

You’re gathered in a loose semicircle at center court, jerseys sticking to your backs after another scrimmage. Geno’s got his clipboard in one hand, flipping through notes he probably doesn’t even need. He already knows what he wants to say, he just likes to watch you all sweat while you wait for it.

“All right,” he finally says, voice echoing through the rafters. “Couple days out from our first official game. Time to lock in a starting five.”

Your stomach flips.

This is it.

You’ve been busting your ass for two weeks, trying to prove you belong here, trying to shake off the weight of your last name and all the chatter that comes with it and even though you told yourself you didn’t care if you started or not, the truth is - you do, badly.

Geno scans the circle, eyes landing on each of you like a spotlight. “At guard: Paige. At guard: Azzi. Forward: Sarah. Forward — Y/N. Center: Ice.”

Your breath catches.

Did he just-?

It takes you a second to register it.

There’s a rush of heat in your chest, pride and disbelief tangled up together. You try to play it cool, biting down on the smile threatening to spread across your face but inside you’re buzzing.

And then you feel it.

The shift.

You don’t even have to look to know where it’s coming from.

Paige.

She’s standing a few feet away, towel draped over her shoulders, her face carved into something unreadable. Not angry, not exactly but tight. Controlled, like she’s holding back words.

You swallow hard.

Geno notices too.

“What?” he says flatly, fixing his gaze on Paige. “You got something to say?”

The gym goes still.

Paige hesitates, jaw working like she’s chewing on the words. For a second, you think she’ll let it slide. That she’ll shrug, shake her head, move on.

But then she exhales sharply, shifts the towel in her hands and says, “I just think it’s a little soon.”

The words hit harder than they should.

“Soon?” Geno echoes.

“She hasn’t-” Paige cuts herself off, then tries again. “She hasn’t gotten used to the flow yet. To how we play. It’s different here and we’ve all been working on that since summer. She’s only been here, like three weeks.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You feel your face burn, the pride that had bloomed in your chest shriveling up like paper in flame.

Because she’s not wrong, not entirely. You have been here for only three weeks. You are still learning the system, still fumbling over calls sometimes, still tripping over the rhythm she and Azzi have had years to build.

But hearing it out loud, from her, feels like a punch straight to the gut.

Geno raises an eyebrow. “So what, you don’t think she’s ready?”

Paige shifts her weight, arms crossing loosely over her chest. She doesn’t look at you. “I just think there are other players who’ve been here longer who... know what we’re running. Starting spots should be earned.”

Your throat tightens.

You have earned it. Every sprint, every rep, every drop of sweat you’ve left on this floor has been with that goal in mind and still, all she sees is the rookie. The outsider, the girl with the famous last name.

You want to say something, anything but your voice is buried somewhere under the weight of her words.

Before the silence can stretch too long, Azzi steps in.

“Paige,” she says, gentle but firm, like only she can be. “Cut it out.”

It’s not sharp, not a scolding, more like a reminder. A nudge, and it’s enough to make Paige’s jaw slacken, her lips pressing into a thin line as she looks away.

Geno snorts. “Glad to see we’ve got opinions flying around today. Newsflash, I pick the starting five, not you. You got a problem with it, take it up with me, not each other.”

He claps his hands once, hard, breaking the tension. “Hit the showers. We’re done here.”

The team disperses slowly, sneakers scuffing against the floor, the air thick with things unsaid.

You don’t move right away.

Your hands are shaking, not from exhaustion but from the way the ground feels like it’s shifted under your feet. You’d been floating, high on the announcement and in the span of thirty seconds, you’ve plummeted.

Because Paige doesn’t believe in you.

Not just a quiet doubt, not just the subtle hesitations you’ve felt in practice but out loud, in front of everyone, where it echoes in your ears like a chant you can’t unhear.

It shouldn’t matter this much. She’s just one person, just one teammate.

But she’s not just anyone, not to you. That’s a hard pill to swallow.

She’s Paige Bueckers. The player whose highlights you watched religiously in high school, whose interviews you studied like gospel, whose game you tried to mirror every time you stepped onto the court. She’s the reason you dreamed of UConn in the first place.

And now she’s the one cutting you down.

The ache in your chest is sharp, almost embarrassing in how heavy it feels. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stand, forcing yourself to move, because if you stay still too long you’re afraid the sting behind your eyes will turn into something worse.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, keeping your head down as you follow the others toward the locker room.

You can hear Paige’s voice behind you — low, quiet, maybe even regretful — but you don’t turn around.

Not now. Not when the words she already said are carved so deep.

The locker room is loud at first, the usual post-practice hum. Water bottles clattering shut, showers hissing to life, laughter bouncing off the tiled walls but around Paige, the air feels different.

Sarah leans against the row of lockers, arms folded, her eyes are sharp. “You didn’t have to say that out loud.”

Paige sits on the bench, towel looped around her neck, still pulling tape from her ankle. Her expression doesn’t change. “I was just being honest.”

“Honest,” Azzi repeats, softer but firm, perched on the bench across from her. “Or mean?”

Paige looks up at that. “It’s true. She’s still learning the system. That’s not an insult, that’s fact.”

Sarah pushes off the locker, stepping closer. “Yeah but you know how that sounded. Geno announced starters for the first real preseason game and you basically told him she didn’t earn it.”

“She hasn’t,” Paige says, sharper now. “Not the way the rest of us have, we’ve been running this since June.”

Azzi’s brow furrows. “Paige.”

And for the first time, Paige feels her chest tighten, a twinge of regret creeping through the steadiness of her voice. She drops her gaze to the towel in her hands, twisting the edge of it between her fingers.

She knows what it looked like, she knows what it sounded like.

And maybe she didn’t mean it the way it came out but the silence in the gym, the way your face fell when Geno asked if she thought she wasn’t ready - yeah, that image is hard to shake.

The door swings open, cutting the moment in half.

You step inside, the locker room air heavy with leftover steam and the faint squeak of sneakers drying on tile. Your shoulders ache from practice but it’s not just physical. You feel wrung out, hollow. Geno’s voice still echoes in your head, announcing the starting lineup, and then hers slicing right through it.

The words replay on a loop, scraping you raw from the inside.

You don’t look at anyone as you cross the room. Your bag drops at the far bench with a dull thud. You lower yourself down, focus narrowed to the laces of your shoes. Left, then right. Tug, pull, knot. Repeat. If you keep your head down, maybe you can make it out of here without cracking open in front of them.

The chatter around you is low, uneasy. You can feel it more than you hear it. Everyone knows, everyone heard.

KK’s voice pipes up suddenly, bright and forced. “Sooo, uh, did anybody else nearly die during those suicides? No? Just me?”

A weak laugh follows, too loud, too fake. “Cool, cool. Uh, tough crowd.”

You don’t move. Don’t bite. The knot in your stomach is too tight for jokes. The silence creeps back in. You can feel eyes on you, the weight of them pressing against your skin.

And then-

“Hey.”

Her voice. Low, steady.

You freeze, fingers tangled in your laces. You don’t look up.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” Paige says. The towel in her hands shifts, fabric brushing against itself. “Look, I get it. I was a rookie once too, I know how it feels to-”

Something inside you snaps. Your head jerks up before you can stop yourself, words ripping free from your throat.

“No, you don’t know.”

The room goes still.

Paige blinks at you, caught off guard. “I-”

“No, you don’t,” you cut in, your voice sharper, louder than you intended. You’re standing now, heart hammering so hard it rattles your ribs, words coming out in a rush.

“You didn’t have to sit in your living room at thirteen years old, watching someone tear up high school basketball and think, God, I want to be like her one day. You didn’t have to spend years studying every move, every pass, every interview, building your game around the way she played, dreaming about playing with her someday, only to get here and realize she hates your guts for no reason.”

Your hands tremble at your sides but you don’t stop, you can’t.

“You think I don’t know I’m still learning the system? That I don’t see every time I trip over a call or run too fast? I know. I know, Paige but do you have any idea what it feels like to finally get here and hear you, of all people, say I don’t deserve it?”

The words scrape your throat raw, your chest heaving like you just ran another drill.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

You see it, the flicker in her eyes, the way her mouth parts like she wants to answer but doesn’t have the words ready.

When she finally speaks, it’s softer. “I didn’t say you don’t deserve it. I just-”

“Yes, you did.” Your voice cracks, sharp and final and it cuts through the room like glass shattering. “You can dress it up however you want but that’s what you meant and maybe everyone else is too scared to say it but you were my idol, Paige. You were it for me and now I just get to stand here while you tear me down every chance you get?”

Your throat burns, but you force the last words out. “Fuck that.”

She exhales, tension written across her face. “I didn’t mean-”

“Stop.”

The word comes out broken, trembling. You grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder like armor like if you move fast enough no one will see the way your eyes sting.

The weight of it settles like a stone in Paige’s chest.

She presses her palms into her sides, staring at the floor but the image won’t leave her head.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this, but there’s no taking it back now.

“Just… stop.”

And then you’re moving, pushing past the silence, past their wide eyes and their pity. Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you shove out the door, leaving the weight of everything behind you.

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