This Is What Wanting You Costs - pazzi ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐
Main Pairing: azzi fudd x fem!oc x paige bueckers
Synopsis: Lucia Rios, an heiress from Spain, was raised on money, pressure, and conditional love. The only place she could breathe was on the court, where bruises felt kinder than her motherโs expectations. Basketball carries her from Europe to UConn, where she joins an already legendary backcourt. Paige Bueckers sees a threat, Azzi Fudd sees straight through her, and the Huskies become the closest thing sheโs had to family. But her parentsโ control, old guilt, and the return of someone from โbeforeโ follow her to Storrs. As tension with Paige turns electric and her bond with Azzi softens into something more, Lucia has to choose between the life she was scripted for and the love that finally lets her breathe.
Forewarning: none, i hope.
author note: Iโd love to say Chapter One took me a week, but the truth isโฆ this isnโt even half of what it was supposed to be. It was originally planned as a 20k-word monster, but Iโm still new to this app and had no idea there was a word limit. So here we are, splitting one huge chapter into two. Iโm also a novice writer juggling work, the gym, and ADHDโwhich means I get sidetracked faster than a crow spotting something shiny. So thank you for your patience with the delay. Chapter Two is on the way and will pick up right where this part leaves off. As for proofreadingโฆ I tried, I really did, but ADHD said โabsolutely not.โ So if you see any typos, just know Iโm learning as I go. Thank you for reading and sticking with me. ๐ซ
โFirst time on American soil, my pulse keeps time with the ball.
Strange sky, strange languageโbut hardwood feels like home.
Every step, a new world; every shot, a shot at belonging.โ
โบโงโห เฝเฝฒโโฑโเฝเพ หโโงโบ
Heads up: This story is for mature audiences only (18+), created by an adult.
โบโงโห เฝเฝฒโโฑโเฝเพ หโโงโบ
If youโre enjoying the story, please remember to like, comment, and followโyour support means more than you know.
โ second person pov โ
๐๐ถ๐ผ ๐ญ๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ณ ๐ป๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐พ๐ฏ๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ณ๐บ ๐ฒ๐ฐ๐บ๐บ the runway before your brain fully catches up.
A long, rubbery screech shivers up through the floor of the plane and into your bones, followed by a heavy lurch that presses you back into your seatbelt. The armrest digs into your side, the fabric of the seat rough against your palms as you grab it on instinct. The engines roar in reverse, a deep, metallic thunder, and the whole cabin rattles like itโs exhaling after hours of holding its breath. Outside the small oval window, the runway lights stretch into blurred white and yellow streaks, smearing past like someone dragging a brush across a dark canvas.
โWelcome to Hartford, Connecticut.โ The captainโs voice crackles overhead, smooth and practiced, like heโs said the same sentence a thousand times. โLocal time is 2:30 p.m. The temperature is a comfortable seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.โ
You roll your eyes slightly at Fahrenheit, the word landing wrong in your head, then remind yourself you should probably get used to that. Fahrenheit. Miles. AM and PM. Inches. Pounds. All the small, ordinary things that will make you pause just long enough for someone to notice youโre not from here.
The plane slows and eases off the runway, turning with a low, steady groan. You lean closer to the oval window, the cool plastic pressing lightly against your temple. The sky is a pale autumn blue; beyond the strip of asphalt, a fringe of trees stands with leaves splashed in orange, red, and yellow, like someone spilled paint across their edges. Not Paris. Not Barcelona. No familiar skyline, no old stone buildings. The light feels different hereโsharper, flatter, almost too clean, like a new page in a sketchbook.
Youโre here. In Connecticut.
And your parents have no idea youโre in America.
Right now, they probably think youโre at one of those polished friendsโ housesโgirls with perfect hair, perfect posture, and perfectly empty conversations. The kind of โfriendsโ your parents curated for you, because their families were rich and well-connected and knew how to pour the right wine at the right temperature. You picture your motherโs tight smile, your fatherโs approving nod, and feel a quick stab of guiltโsmall and distant, like an old bruise.
But underneath that dull ache, something else hums louder.
You exhale slowly, a long, shaky breath that leaves your lungs feeling scraped clean. Your chest feels tight in a way thatโs almost pleasant, like static under your skin. You sit back, adjusting your shoulders against the seat, fingers tightening around the strap of your crossbody bagโthe one resting safely against your chest. Inside: your passport, your visa paperwork, your resident card, a folded letter from Isa. Thin, fragile pieces of paper that somehow turned into an entirely new version of your life.
โOkay,โ you murmur under your breath, English rolling thick and lazy off your tongue. โOkay, Lucia. Bienvenue en Amรฉrique, hein?โ
Your accent softens the edges of the words. They feel strange and slightly too big in your mouth, but theyโre yours now, whether you like it or not.
The woman in the seat next to you glances over, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Sheโs middle-aged, with a neat scarf and tired eyeliner, the kind of person who looks like she travels for work. She offers a polite smile, a little nod of acknowledgment, then turns back to her phone. You bury your nerves beneath a small, charming grinโthe one that always seems to work on coaches, referees, strangersโand go back to watching the wing.
The runway crawls by. The plane finally settles into an easy, almost reluctant glide as it approaches the gate.
You press your palm lightly against your sternum.
Your heart is running faster than any drill youโve ever done. Faster than suicides on a bad practice day. Faster than the last ten seconds of a tied game.
The seatbelt sign dings off, and the cabin transforms instantly. People pop up from their seats like springsโstanding, stretching, twisting into impossible angles to grab their bags. Overhead bins open and slam shut. Voices overlap. For a moment, it feels like youโre in the middle of a very slow, very crowded fast break.
You stay seated, letting the first wave of chaos move around you. Youโve learned this from flying back and forth between Spain, Portugal, and France your whole life: no matter how desperate people act, the door never opens faster. Planes move on their own time, not yours.
You unlock your phone. The screen lights up your face with a pale glow.
Text me once you get through immigration. Remember, breathe. You belong there.
You smile before you even realize youโre doing it, your shoulders loosening a fraction. The tight knot under your ribs eases. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, not quite sure whether to write in French, Spanish, or English.
Je suis arrivรฉe. I haveโฆ landed? Alive. I think.
You stare at the message, then your fingers move again.
My legs feel like jelly flan but is okay.
You read it once, decide itโs very you, and hit send.
Then you finally unclip your seatbelt, the metal buckle clinking softly, and stand upโand immediately slam the top of your head into the overhead bin.
โPutaaaโฆโ you hiss under your breath in Spanish, wincing as a sharp throb blooms across your skull. You rub the spot, fingers sliding into your curls to press against the sting.
โCareful there,โ the guy behind you says with a soft laugh. His American accent rounds the edges of the words, lazy and amused.
You throw him a crooked smile, cheeks warming. โFirst timeโฆ uhโฆ here,โ you answer, fishing for the right phrase. โI am learning to stand in airplane, apparently.โ
He chuckles, shaking his head, and turns back to wrestling with his backpack. You can feel his curiosity lingering, but he doesnโt ask more, and youโre grateful for that small mercy.
You reach up again, more carefully this time, and pull down your carry-on duffelโblack canvas with soft, worn edges, covered in ink doodles and the ghostly outlines of old stickers you peeled off years ago. Little planets, stray hearts, a wolf, a crooked basketball hoopโpieces of your brain scattered across the fabric. You sling it over your shoulder, adjusting the weight until it sits comfortably against your back.
Inside are your sketchbook, your paints, your brushes, a few folded canvases, and your worn-out basketball shorts with the fraying drawstring. For some reason, that bundle of color and fabric feels more important than your passport.
You step into the aisle and join the slow-moving line inching toward the front of the plane, shuffling forward as the bodies ahead of you stop and start in small, impatient waves. Your legs buzz with tired adrenaline, joints stiff from hours of sitting. Your boots squeak faintly on the narrow carpet.
The air in the jet bridge is cooler, brushing against your overheated skin. It carries a faint metallic tang and the smell of old coffee and recycled air. You draw in a deep breath, feeling the difference immediatelyโthis isnโt the closed-in, cabin pressurized air anymore. This is airport air. America air, your brain adds dramatically.
You follow the stream of passengers into the terminal, carried along on a slow current of rolling suitcases and shuffling shoes.
The first thing that hits you is the language.
American Englishโeverywhere. Rapid and warm, flat and sharp, layered over itself until it becomes a kind of background music. An announcement crackles overhead. A man near you is on the phone, laughing too loudly. Two kids argue about something called mac and cheese like itโs a matter of life or death. You catch words, phrasesโโbro,โ โfor real,โ โoh my Godโโbut the cadence is different. Not slower, not faster. Justโฆ tilted, like the rhythm shifted half a beat to the side.
โPlease follow signs for Baggage Claim and U.S. Immigration.โ
ARRIVALS / BAGGAGE CLAIM โ
GLOBAL ENTRY / U.S. CITIZENS / NONโCITIZEN โ
Your stomach tightens, a small, clean knot under your ribs.
This is the part that matters.
You move into the NonโCitizen line, shuffling forward with your crossbody bag pressed against your chest like armor. Ahead of you, a family speaks rapid Spanish, syllables tumbling over each other in a familiar rush. Behind you, two businessmen murmur in quick, clipped English so fast it almost dissolves into static. You catch fragmentsโโmeeting,โ โdeadline,โ โtrafficโโand nothing else.
You bounce lightly on your heels, trying not to let the nerves show.
Technically, youโve done this before. Other countries. Tournaments. Airports blurred into hotel lobbies and bus rides. But this is different. This isnโt just visiting. This isnโt a weekend, or a month, or a polite goodbye at Departures.
Youโre not going back to your parentsโ mansion in a few days, to polished floors and quiet hallways and a life planned down to the minute.
Youโre going to a penthouse Isa arranged for you.
The thought unspools the memory: Isaโs assistant handed that matte-black business card in the hallway four years ago. It had felt heavier than it lookedโthick stock, crisp edges, the surface cool against your fingertips. On the front: a number. An email. Nothing else. No name, no company, no address. On the bottom right, an embossed logo that caught the light when you tilted itโclean intersecting lines, something between a half-court diagram and the unfurled outline of a wing. Subtle. Precise. Dangerous.
When Isa spoke to you that day, you collected every word like you were starving. You still remember them, every sentence etched into you. You didnโt call her right away. You were scared. You couldnโt risk your parents finding out, deciding theyโd had enough of your โphaseโ and shipping you off to another isolated boarding school in the middle of nowhere.
But the weight at home had become suffocatingโexpectations, rules, restrictions stacked so high you could barely breathe. Eventually, drowning in all of it, you made the call.
And now youโre here. In America. The word still feels unreal in your head, like something from a movie. This whole moment hums at the edge of a fever dream, unreal and almost too bright to look at directly.
It took four years to reach this pointโtournaments, regional championships, endless training camps. Long nights in empty gyms. Tutors correcting your English while you fought to keep your eyes open. Every drill, every game, every โagainโ turning into a step toward this line, this airport, this new life.
Your phone buzzes in the pocket of your black zip-up jacket, jolting you out of your thoughts. The sound startles you enough that your fingers fumble with the zipper before you manage to fish it out.
You swipe the screen open.
Hey!! This KK btw. Iโm at the airport ๐
just got here super early cuz Iโm annoyinโ like that
text me when you get thru immigration!!
A second later, another message pops up: a photo. A selfie:
A Black woman fills the screen, twists pulled back neatly from her forehead. Her complexion is a warm, rich brown that looks soft even under harsh airport lighting. Her features are defined yet gentleโstraight brows, steady almond-shaped eyes, a smooth nose, full lips curved in a careless almost-smile. A small hoop earring glints at one ear. Her UConn Nike navy zip-up is zipped halfway, the logo clear at the chest. In one hand, she holds a neon marker and a blank white poster board in whatโs obviously the arrivals area behind her. Sheโs halfway sticking her tongue out at the camera, expression half goofy, half confident.
Also what do you look like??
Cuz rn Iโm going off pure vibes and faith ๐
You huff out a quiet laugh right there in the immigration line. Your shoulders drop a fraction, some of the tightness easing.
KK Arnold, you assume. Youโve seen the name beforeโattached to UConn clips, stats, articles you read late at night when you were supposed to be studying something else. Now sheโs in your phone like a small, chaotic storm of friendliness.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, then you type:
I am tall. 5โ11. Reddish brown curls, hazel eyes.
I have duffel bags and I look very tired.
Also I speak weird English so do not laugh too much, oui?
The reply comes almost immediately.
omg ur tall tall and dw i only laugh medium amount
Imma make your sign EXTRA dramatic
Your lips curve before you can stop them.
The line inches forward, drawing you closer to the immigration boothsโglass partitions, fluorescent light, officers in dark navy uniforms scanning passports with practiced, unreadable faces. The air smells like recycled air, coffee, and a dozen different perfumes.
You swallow hard, tuck your phone back into your pocket, and tighten your grip on your cross body bag.
en itโs your turn, you step up to the counter. The officer is a middle aged man with tired eyes and neatly trimmed beard. He gestures for your passport.
โAfternoon.โ He says. โPassport, please.โ
You just opened your cross-body bag with slightly trembling fingers you were nervous because this was America a place you never thought you would be coming here to play basketball or even go to school here. You just pulled out your passport and you hand it over with both hands like itโs an offering.
He flips it open, glancing between your photo and your face. You resist the urge to make a silly face just to throw him off and you probably wouldโve made his day with that one.
โAnd your resident card.โ
You dug into your crossbody bag with ease as you pull out your resident card and you slide it across perfectly. He picks it up, eyes scanning the information, fingers tapping softly against the countertop. You also just pull out your paperwork, the letters from the university, the authorization form to be here and forms from Isa that she gave you. You can feel your heart beating in your throat.
โFirst time in the States.โ He asks, looking up.
โYes.โ You say quickly with a thick accent. โPremierโah, first time. In America.โ
He nods, typing something into his computer. โPurpose of your travel, Msโฆ Rios.โ
You roll your shoulders back a little. โI come toโฆ study. To play basketball. Forโฆ ummโฆ UConn Huskies. Isโฆ the college team.โ
He glances at your resident card again, then at the paperwork that is lying against the countertop neatly and organized properly. As he picks up one of the papers and skims through it.
โScholarship athlete.โ He says, mostly to himself. โAnd youโll be living inโฆ Hartford?โ
You hesitate for the tiniest second. You remember Isaโs voice. โYou donโt need to explain everything. Let the paperwork do the talking.โ
โYes.โ You say. โHartford.โ
He looks at you a beat longer, assessing. You hold his gaze calmly, your polite mask smooth, your heartbeat roaring.
Then he stamps your passport with a heavy thunk, slides everything back to you, and gives the smallest hint of a smile.
โWelcome to the United States, Ms. Rios. Good luck with your season.โ
You blink. Then you smile, real and bright, your pearly white teeth showing.
โMerci. Gracias. Thank you,โ you say, the three languages tumbling out at once before you can pick just one.
You gather your things with care, sliding your passport, documents, and crumpled boarding pass back into your cross-body bag. The strap crosses your chest in a familiar line, grounding you a little. You move past the booth and push through the frosted-glass doors into baggage claim.
The lights are brighter here, almost too bright, beating down from long fluorescent panels above. They bounce off the polished floor, turning it into a pale, shiny mirror. The air smells like coffee thatโs been sitting too long and cleaning products. You follow the signs againโBaggage Claim 3โyour boots knocking softly against the tile as you make your way to your carousel.
The belt is already moving, groaning to life as luggage slams down with a steady, mechanical rhythm. You take your place near the edge and plant your feet, eyes trained on the stream of bags like a hawk watching a field. Your entire life is somewhere in that slow-moving processionโclothes and shoes, your sketchbooks, your pencils, a worn basketball youโve had since you were thirteen. The first ball you ever touched. You still donโt know how you kept it intact all these yearsโthrough arguments, training sessions, sneaking out late at nightโbut itโs survived, same as you. Itโs one of the few things thatโs yours, not chosen for you.
A navy suitcase rolls past. Not yours.
A bright pink one covered in cartoon stickers. Definitely not.
Another black one, too clean, too new.
Your fingers tighten on the trolley handle. Just when you feel your nerves starting to rise, one of your duffel bags appears. Black canvas, strap a little frayed, with a small Spanish flag patch you stitched near the zipper years ago.
โAh, enfin,โ you mumble, stepping forward.
You pull it off the belt and nearly dislocate your shoulder in the process. The weight yanks you forward, and you let out a quiet grunt, setting it down beside you. You wait again. Another duffel. Then a large hard-shell suitcase you recognize by a single long scratch down the side. Then another oneโheavier, stuffed with shoes, hoodies, and things you refused to leave behind.
By the time youโre finally done, you look like a one-person moving company. Two duffels stacked onto a trolley. Two suitcases rolling behind you. Your backpack resting on top of the largest suitcase in a way that doesnโt make sense, but somehow it stays put. Youโre not questioning it.
You catch your reflection in a dark window as you pass and take in your own appearance: simple, casual, but put together. Youโre wearing a loose black jacket over a plain white crew-neck T-shirt, the fabric soft from a lot of wear. Your jeans are baggy, vintage-washed blue denim that hang low on your hips but are held in place by a black leather belt. On your feet, tan Timberland boots that make you feel steady and solid.
Your reddish-brown curls are pulled back into a messy low bun, a few strands escaping and framing your face. You look exactly like someone who has just crossed an ocean and is about to start a new chapterโtired, but present. Ready enough.
You inhale slowly, set your hands firmly on the trolley, and push toward Customs.
The line moves in small jumps. The officer at the front looks half-bored, half-tired, waving people through one after another with the same flat motion. When itโs your turn, you step up, heart beating a little faster even though you have nothing to hide.
โAnything to declare?โ he asks, gaze flicking from you to your bags.
โDeclare?โ you repeat, then hurry to fix it. โNo. I haveโฆ clothes. Sketchbooks. Basketball shorts and a basketball. Noโฆ how you sayโฆ fruits? Weapons? No.โ
The corner of his mouth twitches, just a little. It might be a laugh.
โAll right,โ he says. โYouโre good. Welcome.โ
You walk past him and through another set of sliding glass doors. They open with a soft hiss, and the airport shifts again, unfolding into a new kind of chaosโArrivals.
The space feels larger here. Louder. More alive. Families crowd against metal barriers, craning their necks, searching for familiar faces. Some people hold flowers wrapped in plastic. Others scroll on their phones while they wait, bags parked at their feet. Kids run in circles, weaving between legs and suitcases, their laughter echoing.
The air smells like fresh coffee from a nearby cafรฉ, perfume drifting from passing travelers, and the faint, salty scent of fast food. Itโs messy and busy, but in a strange way, it feels warm.
Your heart starts pounding again, but this time itโs not fear. Itโs something sharper, lighterโexcitement sneaking up on you.
KK is out there somewhere.
One of your new teammates.
Maybeโฆ if youโre luckyโฆ a friend.
You slow down and start scanning the crowd, trying to remember the selfie she sent you: her easy smile, warm brown skin, twist-dreads, and eyes that looked like trouble in the best way. You search for that face in the sea of strangers.
Then you notice a cluster of people holding signs.
SMITH FAMILY REUNION 2022
You skim over themโuntil your gaze catches on something you couldnโt miss even if you tried.
A huge white poster board, bright and loud and chaotic, held high by a girl standing on a low metal railing like she refuses to be ignored. Her twists are styled in a half-up, half-down look, and her warm brown skin glows under the overhead lights. She waves the sign like a flag and shouts with zero shame, voice carrying across the hall.
On the board, in colorful, messy marker, it reads:
IF THIS IS YOUR NAME, COME HERE RIGHT NEOWWW!! I SWEAR IโM NOT A STALKER JUST A FRIENDLY UCONN HYPE GIRL
WITH SNACKS & QUESTIONABLE DRIVING SKILLS
The rest of the poster is covered in doodlesโtiny basketballs with smiley faces, a UConn Husky that looks more like a fluffy, confused cat, and two rough flags labeled โFRANCE??โ and โESPANA???โ with arrows pointing at them and a big โSORRY IF WRONG I TRIEDโ scrawled next to them.
Every few seconds, the girl cups her hand around her mouth and yells:
โLUCIAAA! WHERE YOU AT, GIRL? DONโT BE SHY! IโM ONLY A LITTLE CHAOTIC!โ
Heads turn. People stare. Some laugh. A few kids point at the sign, giggling, their eyes wide.
A laugh escapes youโloud, sudden, and real. It breaks out of your chest before you can hold it back, surprise crashing into pure happiness. You press a hand over your mouth, but it doesnโt matter. Your smile is already there, stretching wide, and the joy is already spilling out, impossible to hide.
You take a steady breath, wrap your fingers more firmly around the trolley handle, and guide your overloaded cart through the crowd toward her. Wheels squeak, bags wobble, but you keep moving, drawn in by the girl with the ridiculous sign.
As you get closer, her gaze locks onto you. Her eyes run over you quickly but carefullyโyour height, your reddish-brown curls pulled back into a messy low bun, the faint exhaustion on your face, your hazel eyes, and the literal mountain of luggage trailing behind you.
She breaks into a wide, bright grin and hops down from the railing.
โHold up,โ she says, marching straight toward you, squinting like sheโs trying to confirm your identity in a police lineup. โTall, pretty, tired, curly hair, hazel eyes, looking like she fought the entire airplane and wonโฆ You gotta be Lucia.โ
Your hand drops from your mouth, your amused, soft smile still fixed in place.
โDepends,โ you say, your accent wrapping around the word. โYou areโฆ not a stalker, oui?โ
She gasps dramatically, slapping a hand over her chest.
โWow. Accusing me of crimes already. We just met. Thatโs crazy.โ
Her grin only widens. โIโm KK. KK Arnold. Officially your teammate. Unofficially your chaotic tour guide, driver, and snack dealer for, like, the next few hours.โ
She sticks her hand out, waiting.
You glance at her hand, then at her face, then decide a handshake feels too stiff for someone who made a sign like that. Youโre not usually quick to hug peopleโbut something about this moment, this welcome, feels right. You shift your duffel slightly and step forward, looping one arm around her shoulders in an awkward but genuine hug.
She lets out a small surprised โoof,โ then laughs and hugs you back without hesitation, arms wrapping around you like youโve known each other longer than thirty seconds.
โOkay, weโre hugging,โ she says into your shoulder, sounding pleased.
You pull back, raising an eyebrow, suddenly unsure if you oversteppedโbut she just tugs you right back into a quick second hug.
โRelax, French-Toast,โ she teases lightly. โWe can hug. Just caught me off-guard, thatโs all. I like it. Weโre a hugging team. I respect that.โ
You finally step back for real this time, cheeks a little warm but your smile still in place.
โI am very happy to meet you,โ you say, then narrow your eyes playfully. โWaitโdid you just call me French-Toast?โ
She nods, already grinning again. โYeah. It fits. Youโre French, and your skin tone kinda matches French toast. Golden, you know? Toasted.โ
You let out a quiet laugh, giving a small, amused nod like youโre not sure if you agree, but youโll allow it.
โBut youโre smaller than I imagined,โ you add, studying her.
Her mouth falls open in mock offense. She glances down at herselfโ5โ9โ, solid, athletic buildโthen looks back up at you.
โSmaller?โ she repeats. โOh, nah. First of all, Iโm above average height. Youโre just cheating.โ She gestures up and down, taking in your tall, lean frame. โSecond of all, wait โtil you see me on the court. Youโll be like, โOh wow, KK is actually the sun, a star, the main character.โ Promise.โ
You laugh again, the sound easier now, loosening something in your chest. โIn your dreams.โ
She steps back and finally gives your luggage situation her full attentionโtwo duffels, two suitcases, one backpack clinging to the top like itโs holding on for dear life.
โDaaaamn, girl,โ she says, drawing the word out. โYou moving here or you invading?โ
โI like to beโฆ prepared,โ you reply, lips twitching. Then, with your accent slipping through stronger, you add, โAlso, I did not know what weather is here. People say it is cold. But also not. And then there isโฆ how you sayโฆ snow.โ
KK snorts. โWelcome to Connecticut, baby. Itโs every season, every day. You did the right thing. Pack all your clothes and maybe a flamethrower.โ
You shake your head, amused. The French slips out before you can stop it. โTu es vraiment folle,โ you mutter under your breath.
She tilts her head. โWas that French? Did you just call me something mean? I feel like you did.โ
โNon, non,โ you say quickly, eyes sparkling with mischief. โI say you areโฆ umโฆ crazy, but in a good way.โ
โAha!โ she crows, pointing at you like sheโs won something. โI knew it. Crazy in a good way is my brand, actually. Thank you.โ
She lifts the sign again and spins it so itโs facing you fully, like a grand reveal.
โDo you like it?โ she asks, eyes bright. โI was gonna draw, like, a realistic husky, but then I remembered I canโt draw realistic anything, so we gotโฆ that.โ She points at the confused little blob-animal near the corner.
You take a second to really look at itโthe lopsided ears, the uneven eyes, the tail that could belong to at least three different species. Your lips press together as you fight a smile, then you tilt your head slightly.
โHe isโฆ special,โ you say quietly, voice smooth.
KK stares at you for one beat, then bursts into laughter so loud a few people nearby turn their heads. One kid actually points at the sign and starts giggling too.
โโSpecial,โโ she repeats, wiping under her eye like sheโs crying. โWow. Youโre an artist, right? That sounded like an insult wrapped in a compliment with a tiny bow on top.โ
You lift one shoulder in a small shrug, your smile all innocence. โI would never insult the art of my teammate. Jamais,โ you reply, letting the French roll off your tongue.
โMm-hmm. Iโm watching you, French-Toast,โ she says, wagging a finger at you dramatically. โOkay, letโs get you outta here before you fall asleep standing up.โ
Before you can react, she steps forward and grabs the handle of your trolley with both hands.
โI got this,โ she says.
You automatically reach for it too, fingers closing around the metal. โNon, it is okay, I canโโ
โNope,โ she cuts in, giving you a look from the side. โYou just flew across the ocean. I did not. My legs are fresh. Look at me, Iโm thriving.โ She bumps her shoulder lightly into yours. โAccept the help. This is step one of American friendship.โ
Thereโs a small, tight knot in your chest that always appears when someone tries to carry your weight for you. Depending on people has never been your habit. Not on your parents, who were always gone. Not even fully on your older brother, even though he was there more than anyone else. You learned how to handle things aloneโbags, pain, problems. Itโs safer that way.
But KK is looking at you like this is simple. Like itโs not a test or a trap, just a girl holding a trolley for another girl whoโs exhausted.
You let your fingers slip from the handle.
โDโaccord,โ you say, your accent thickening around the word. โI accept the American friendship.โ
KK kicks the trolley into motion like itโs light as air, weaving through the crowd with dramatic, completely unnecessary flair. She swerves around a stroller, cuts between two guys in suits like sheโs running a fast break, and doesnโt miss a beat.
โSo,โ she calls over her shoulder. โHow was the flight? Anyone weird? Anybody try to trauma-dump about their cat for nine hours straight?โ
You walk beside her, one suitcase rolling behind you, the other kept close to your leg.
โIt was long,โ you say, your accent dragging out the word. โThere was a guy who tried toโhow you sayโflirt with me. He said he is very important on TikTok.โ
โI told him I do not have TikTok,โ you continue calmly. โHe looked at me like I killed his puppy.โ
โYeah, that tracks,โ KK says. โYou didnโt just reject him. You deleted his whole personality. Iโm so proud of you.โ
You shrug, then your mouth curves into a wicked little smile. โHe asked why I come to America. I say to play basketball. He asked if I know LeBron James personally.โ You roll your eyes. โI say yes, of course. We do brunch every Sunday.โ
KK actually stops walking for half a second. โNo, you did not.โ
โI did,โ you say, completely straight-faced. โHe believed me. I did not correct him.โ
KK bursts out laughing, loud enough that a few people glance over. โOh my God. Youโre a menace. I love this. Rebellious. Tiny bit evil.โ
โOnly a tiny bit,โ you agree solemnly.
She gives you a side-eye. โYeah, likeโฆ fun-sized evil.โ
You snort, shaking your head.
Around you, the airport moves in constant motionโfamilies colliding into hugs, people dragging bags, phones ringing, wheels clattering on tile. Announcements echo overhead, one blending into the next. Your eyes drink in everything: the neon sting of a coffee sign, a little girl hauling a unicorn suitcase, an older couple bickering softly over a map.
Everything feels sharp, a little too bright, like someone turned the saturation up on reality.
You pass more signsโExit, Ground Transportationโuntil the automatic doors slide open with a soft whoosh. A wash of cooler air hits your face, tinged with exhaust, rain on concrete, and too many different perfumes at once.
Outside, cars line the curb, brake lights glowing red. Doors slam, trunks pop open, people shout quick goodbyes and helloโs over idling engines.
KK rolls the trolley down the ramp toward the pickup area, then pauses and turns to you with a sudden look of fake seriousness.
โOkay, real quick,โ she says. โI got a question. Just one. But it is extremely important. Like, program-changing important.โ
You arch a brow. โDโaccord. Ask.โ
She points at you, then makes a slow circle around your face with her finger. โCan I post you?โ
You blink. โPost me?โ
โYeah, like on Instagram,โ she says. โNothing wild. Just a โLook, our new tall French-Toast sniper finally landedโ type post. Coach loves when we hype the team. But if you donโt want that yet, no pressure. We can pretend youโre our secret weapon.โ
You think about it. Being seen. Being judged. That part is unavoidable. But this doesnโt feel like a spotlightโit feels like sheโs excited you exist.
โYou may post me,โ you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. โBut one condition. I must approve the photo. I cannot lookโฆ how you sayโฆ crusty.โ
KKโs eyes go huge. โCrusty,โ she repeats, delighted. โOh, you definitely did your English homework.โ
You lift your chin. โI did a little bit of homework.โ
โA little bit?โ She scoffs. โYou came in here saying โcrustyโ and โTikTok identity crisis.โ Thatโs advanced level. Okay, dealโno crusty pics. Only elite photos.โ
You press your hand to your chest. โMerci. My reputation thanks you.โ
She grins and nods toward the row of cars. โCome on, Princess Crust-Free. Your ride awaits.โ
You follow her to a sleek black SUV parked halfway down the line. The paint has that soft shine that makes it look expensive without trying too hard. She pops the trunk and starts lifting your bags like theyโre nothing.
You reach for one of the suitcases, but KK smacks your hand away lightly. โNope. Absolutely not. Passenger princess today. Non-negotiable.โ
You frown, more confused than offended. โPassengerโฆ princess?โ you repeat slowly. โI am not a princess.โ
โToday you are,โ she insists. โYouโre tall, youโre pretty, youโre tired, and you have mysterious European backstory energy. That is textbook princess behavior.โ
โI do not have backstory,โ you protest. โI just haveโฆ life.โ
โThat,โ she says, pointing at you, โis exactly what someone with a dramatic backstory would say.โ
You try to hold back a smile and fail. โYou are very annoying.โ
โThank you,โ she replies sweetly. โNow get in the car before I revoke your princess privileges.โ
You huff, but thereโs no real heat behind it. You climb into the passenger seat like youโre obeying a royal decree.
Inside, the SUV smells faintly of vanilla and something bright and citrusy. A hoodie is thrown over the backseat, a pair of slides lie half under your feet, and two empty water bottles rattle in the door pocket.
You buckle your seatbelt and glance back at the airportโpeople moving in every direction, tiny stories crossing paths like brushstrokes in a painting that never stops shifting.
The driverโs door opens a moment later. KK hops in, shuts it with a solid thud, then looks over at you with a quick, bright grin.
โWelcome to America, Passenger Princess,โ she says, starting the engine. โYou ready to see your new kingdom?โ
You let out a slow breath, nerves and excitement folding together in your chest.
โYes,โ you say, your accent softening the word. โDrive before I change my mind.โ
โYes, Your Majesty,โ KK says, giving you a dramatic salute like youโre a general and sheโs about to be deployed. It makes you laugh, the sound low and surprised, as she slides the key into the ignition and turns it.
The engine rumbles to life. A beat later, music explodes from the speakersโupbeat hip-hop, bass thrumming under your feet, vibrating lightly through the seat.
โToo loud?โ KK asks, already reaching for the volume knob.
โItโs okay,โ you murmur. โI like when it isโฆ lively.โ
โAye, say less,โ she replies, but she still turns it down a notch. โWe gotta ease you into American chaos. Canโt blow your eardrums out on day one.โ
She pulls away from the curb, checks her mirrors, then merges into the slow, steady stream of cars leaving the airport. The cityโor at least the outskirts of itโunfolds gradually around you. Highways curling over each other, low concrete walls, a distant line of bare trees standing like dark pencil marks across the sky.
Billboards flash past: giant smiling faces selling insurance, greasy burgers, injury lawyers who look weirdly thrilled about car accidents.
You lean your head lightly against the cool window, watching the foreign landscape slide by in long, uninterrupted strokes.
โSo,โ KK says after a moment, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. โHow much do you actually know about UConn?โ
You hesitate. Lying would be pointless. โThere isโฆ team,โ you say slowly. โThere is basket. There isโฆ dog mascot.โ You pause, then add, โAlso, I have seen clips of Azzi Fudd and Paige Bueckers. They are very good.โ
She lets out an offended gasp. โWow. Of course my passenger princess has seen the two star players and not one single clip of me. Tragic.โ
You lift your hands, palms up. โI know, I know,โ you say with a small laugh. โBut I kind of stumbled on them by accident. I know WNBA more, okay? I watchedโฆ many games. But college, I kind of buzzed through. Not really taking my time to know it.โ
โThatโs fine,โ she says quickly, already hyped. โIโm gonna fix that. Iโm forcing you to watch my clips and highlights later. No escape.โ
You roll your eyes, amused. โForced education.โ
โExactly,โ she says. โUConn History 101. Legendary program, old coach who yells but in a loving way, banners everywhere, a bunch of players in the league. Itโs a whole thing.โ
โYelling in loving way,โ you repeat, the phrase tasting strange on your tongue.
In your world, yelling has never worn kindness. Every raised voice meant anger, disappointment, control. Not guidance. Not care.
โThat exists?โ you ask quietly.
โHere it does,โ she says, no hesitation. โYouโll see. Genoโll yell at you, and then ten seconds later heโs praising you for a good read or telling someone else youโre special when he thinks you canโt hear. Itโs likeโฆ tough love with a side of drama.โ
You hum, unconvinced but curious. โWe will see.โ
KK glances at you, then changes the subject with the same ease she changes lanes. โAnd you?โ she asks. โWhatโs your spot on the floor? Your basketball position.โ
โSmall forward,โ you say. The answer comes easily; itโs the one thing thatโs always made sense. โBut I also like to handle the ball. To createโฆ chaos.โ
She grins, eyes lighting up. โOh, you like chaos?โ
You nod once. โA little.โ
โOh yeah, weโre gonna get along just fine,โ she says. โI already see it. Besties.โ
The word makes you smile, warm and slow. It feels oddly new in your mouth, like slang from a language you havenโt quite mastered yet, but you understand the meaning: chosen closeness. Chosen loyalty.
You let your gaze drift back to the window. The sky hangs low and pale, clouds pressed tight together like someone smudged gray chalk across the horizon. Your reflection ghosts faintly over the glassโtired eyes, the faint shadows of sleepless travel, but beneath that, a small, steady glow.
Belonging. Determination. Something quietly defiant.
For a moment, your mind slips sideways.
You see marble floors polished to a shine, high ceilings echoing with your motherโs heels. Her voice, cool and sharp, telling you basketball is a distraction, a dead end, that it will rot your brain and ruin your future. That if you want power, you must be a businesswoman, not some girl chasing a ball around a court.
You see your father, always half-turned toward a phone, a screen, a document. A workaholic shadow. He never needed to raise his voice; when he spoke, it was calm, clipped, final. You never hated himโbut he never really saw you either. Not the real you.
Youโd learned early that arguing didnโt change anything. So you stopped wasting words.
You justโฆ did what you wanted in secret.
You remember the first time they left town for a โbusiness retreat.โ The house had felt bigger without them, full of empty echoes. Youโd grabbed your gym bag, slipped out the side door, and didnโt come back until dawn, sweat-damp, sore, and more alive than youโd ever felt at one of their glittering parties.
Heat stirs in your chest now, that old irritation mixing with something sour and metallic. You push it down, gently but firmly, like sliding a drawer shut.
You focus on the present insteadโthe road hum beneath the tires, the blur of trees, the billboards, the soft thud of bass.
Beside you, KK starts humming along to the chorus, completely off-key but fully committed, tapping her thumb against the steering wheel like sheโs on stage.
โSo,โ KK says casually, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she gives you a quick side-eye. โBy the way, your English is really good. Like, actually good. You lied when you said it was weird.โ
Your lips twitch. โI did not lie. Sometimes it isโฆ how do you sayโฆ scrambled.โ
โScrambled is cute,โ she decides instantly. โI like scrambled eggs. So scrambled is officially good. Iโll help whenever you need it, okay? If youโre stuck on a word, just make a face at me and Iโll translate. Thatโs, like, step two of American friendship.โ
You tilt your head, amused. โStep two?โ
โYeah,โ she says. โStep one is sharing snacks. Step two is emotional translation services.โ
You nod slowly, playing along. โOkay. But you must let me teach you French and Spanish also. It is only fair.โ
โOooh, bet,โ she says, eyes lighting up. โIโve always wanted to say something fancy in French thatโs not just โcroissant.โโ
A mischievous smile curves your mouth. โWe will start with insults. They are the most fun.โ
She slaps a hand over her heart dramatically. โOh, absolutely. This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship. You bully me in three languages, I drive you around and translate your scrambled eggs. Balance.โ
You both drift into a comfortable silence for a moment. The highway curves, and the view opens up. Clusters of low buildings rise in the distance, a church steeple cuts into the pale sky, and a bright orange Dunkinโ sign seems to appear on every other corner like some kind of local landmark.
โThis is Hartford,โ KK says, gesturing lazily with one hand as she drives. โKinda small, kinda chill, kinda weird sometimes. But youโll get used to it. Campus is like its own little world anyway.โ
You nod, eyes tracking each exit, each storefront, trying to quietly build a map in your mind. You latch onto anything you canโsteeple, overpass, neon coffee signโas if naming them might help you belong faster.
โSpeaking of,โ she adds after a beat, glancing your way. โWhatโs your housing situation? Coach told me you werenโt in the dorms. You got, likeโฆ an apartment or what?โ
Your chest tightens, just a fraction.
You keep your expression even. โI haveโฆ a place off campus,โ you say slowly. โAโฆ penthouse.โ You try to make it sound casual, like youโre saying โsmall studioโ instead of top floor of the building.
KKโs head snaps toward you so fast the car wobbles in the lane. โA penthouse?โ
Your hand flies to the door handle. โPlease watch the road.โ
โRight, rightโmy bad,โ she says quickly, correcting the car and fixing her eyes on the windshield again. โBut alsoโฆ a penthouse? Girl. Who are you?โ
Heat crawls up the back of your neck. You look down at your hands, picking at an invisible thread on your pants to avoid her eyes.
โI have a sponsor,โ you say carefully. โShe helps with many things. Housing. Resident card. Basketball. It isโฆ part of our arrangement.โ
โDamn,โ KK says quietly. โMust be nice.โ
You lift one shoulder in a small shrug. โIt isโฆ complicated.โ
You can feel her curiosity like a warm pressure in the air between you. You donโt blame her. If one of your new teammates showed up with a mysterious sponsor and a penthouse, youโd be curious too.
โSo this sponsor,โ KK says, drawing out the words. โShe likeโฆ an agent? Or one of those rich people in movies who get bored and decide to fund talented people instead of buying another yacht?โ
You let out a tiny huff of laughter. โSomething like this.โ
โOkay, mysterious,โ KK says, but thereโs no judgment in her voice, only interest. โI respect your secrets. For now.โ She points a playful finger at you. โBut if we ever have a sleepover and you just casually pull out a Picasso or some crazy rich-people art, Iโm gonna have questions.โ
โI do not own Picasso,โ you reply, amused, your accent lingering on the name. โI only own my own art.โ
She pauses, then grins. โAnd thatโs actually way cooler. Okay then, penthouse girl. Weโll see what this place is talking about.โ
You turn back to the window, and the tension in your shoulders loosens by a degree. She didnโt push. She could have, but she didnโt. Youโre quietly grateful for that.
Traffic thins as you leave the busier stretch of the city behind. The landscape shifts againโbuildings growing taller, cleaner, more modern. Glass and steel, sharp lines, reflective surfaces catching the dull light. KK takes an exit, following the soft instructions from the GPS on her phone clipped to the dash.
โSoโฆโ she mutters, dragging the word out like sheโs about to admit something. โTiny confession. I invited Nika to your new place to meet you.โ
Your head snaps toward her. She gives you a quick, nervous smile, like sheโs not sure if sheโs just done you a favor or accidentally stepped on a landmine.
Youโve been here beforeโnew team, new faces, old reputation following you like a shadow. You werenโt always a team player. Not really, not until you were around seventeen. Before that, you played for yourself, for your pride, for the need to prove that basketball wasnโt a โdistraction,โ that you were better than your opponents and, if you were honest, better than your teammates too. You wanted the crown. You wanted everyone watching you.
It took time to see how selfish that was. How arrogant.
On new teams, girls had already watched your old highlightsโthe way youโd celebrated alone, the way youโd barked at teammates, the way some of your former teammates talked about you afterward. You didnโt blame them for not liking you right away. They had receipts.
Your sponsor didnโt yell, didnโt sugarcoat. She told you point-blank that if you kept treating your teammates like stepping stones, you wouldnโt go far. Not really. Maybe youโd stack stats, but youโd be alone. No real trust. No real team.
It was the first time someone you respected said it so clearlyโand the first time you really listened.
KK cuts her eyes toward you again, reading your tension like itโs game filmโyour shoulders stiff, fingers still worrying the strap of your bag.
โHey,โ she says, voice easy. โYou donโt have to be scared, okay? Nika already loves you, I promise. Sheโs chill, fun-lovingโฆโ KK smirks. โIโm just funnier.โ
You huff out a small breath, some of the pressure in your chest easing. Youโve known her less than an hour, but something about her feels solid, safe.
โAlright,โ you murmur. โI trust you, KK.โ
Your words come out soft but certain, wrapped in your rich accent. KKโs grin widens, like youโve just confirmed something she already knew.
The GPS announces a right turn, and KK smoothly guides the car onto a narrower street framed by taller buildings. You straighten in your seat, eyes roaming over glass balconies, trailing vines in potted plants, and the soft glow spilling from lobby windows. The city feels closer hereโneater, more polished, almost staged.
She follows the directions to a sleek, modern tower that rises higher than the rest, its mirrored glass catching the last of the light.
KK lets out a low whistle. โOh, wow. This you?โ
You look up, your throat going dry. The building is all reflective glass and clean stone lines, a doorman in a dark coat posted by the entrance, people in tailored coats slipping in and out like theyโre on a schedule youโre not invited to understand.
A woman leans casually against the front of the building, dark brown waves spilling over her shoulders. Her face is all clean lines and quiet confidenceโdark lashes, neatly shaped brows, a softly defined jaw that balances her features. Sheโs in a simple windbreaker, black leggings, black sneakers, eyes focused on her phone like she has all the time in the world.
You figure that has to be Nikaโthe friend KK invited for you to meet.
The building itself looks like the kind of place your mother would approve of on sight.
โYes,โ you say quietly. โThis isโฆ my building.โ
KK eases the SUV up to the curb and cuts the engine. The sudden quiet feels almost heavy after the steady hum of the drive.
โLux,โ she says, turning toward you in her seat.
You meet her eyes, bracing without meaning to.
โYou know you donโt gotta explain anything, right?โ she says, voice gentler than before. โNot to me, not to Nika, not to anybody. You being sponsored, living hereโฆ itโs all part of your story. But you tell it when youโre ready. Or never. Whatever you choose is fine.โ
The softness in her tone catches you off guard. For a second, you forget how to breathe.
Most people want the whole storyโevery dark corner of it. They ask and ask until you finally open the doorโฆ then either step back, or disappear. You learned a long time ago to keep things locked away instead: your past, your hurt, your mess. On the outside, you stayed charming, pretty, easyโsomething pleasant to look at and not too dangerous to hold.
โI know,โ you say quietly. Your voice wobbles, just enough that you hear it. You clear your throat and look away, blinking hard. โMerci.โ
She bumps your shoulder with hers, light and warm. โAlso,โ she adds, tipping the mood back upward, โthis just means your place is automatically the team hangout. I donโt make the rules. Fancy building? Thatโs game night central now.โ
You let out a startled laugh. โYou are already inviting the whole team to my home?โ
โAbsolutely,โ she says, dead serious. โWe gotta baptize it with chaotic energy. Thatโs step three ofโโ
โAmerican friendship,โ you finish for her, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation. โOui, I understand.โ
She beams. โYou catch on fast.โ
You both climb out of the car. The air outside is softer than at the airportโcool, with a light breeze that brushes over your skin and carries the faint scent of concrete, rain, and something floral from a nearby planter.
โNow,โ KK announces as she circles around to the trunk, โtime to meet the Croatian point guard.โ
You move to help as she pops the trunk, reaching for one of the bags, but she flaps a hand at you like youโve just violated a law.
โI said passenger princess, French-Toast,โ she reminds you. โThe title doesnโt expire just because we parked.โ
You make a face at her. โI do not like this title,โ you mutter, but you still let her drag most of the heavier bags out. You grab the handles of your suitcases instead, stacking your backpack neatly on top of one. Between the two of you, you juggle duffels, rollers, and straps, moving in clumsy but efficient tandem toward the entrance.
The building looms above youโglass, metal, and polished stone, clean lines cutting up into the sky. As you approach the main doors, you spot someone leaning against the wall near the entrance, scrolling through her phone.
Nika looks up the second she hears you coming. Her whole face lights up like someone flipped a switch.
โBeba!โ she calls, voice bright with joy and warmth.
Before you can decide whether to wave or say hello, sheโs already movingโpushing off the wall and rushing toward you with zero hesitation. She hits you with a hug at full speed, arms wrapping around you so tightly it knocks a bit of air from your lungs. You stumble back a step, a duffel bag slipping from your hand, the suitcase handle sliding out of your grip as you scramble to steady yourself.
You tense for a split second, more from exhaustion and jet lag than anything elseโbut then instinct takes over. You wrap your arms around Nikaโs neck and hug her back, rocking with her like youโre childhood friends who finally found each other again after years apart.
Her hair smells faintly like shampoo and gym, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
โIโm so happy youโre finally here,โ she murmurs into the crook of your neck, her voice soft but full of energy. โCoach has been talking about you since the summer.โ
You smile, the expression pressed against her shoulder. You were supposed to be here in the summer. But your parents. Their lawyers. The endless back-and-forth over visas, authorization, signatures. All those delays wrapped in polite emails and cold voices.
Before you can answer, someone clears their throat.
The doorman straightens from his stool, smoothing down his tie like heโs on cue. โGood afternoon, ladies,โ he says, his gaze moving from you, to KK, to Nika, then down to the mountain of luggage surrounding you. โMoving in?โ
Nika reluctantly lets you go, still grinning, and you step forward, patting at your jacket pocket for the slim keycard Isaโs assistant mailed you. For a second your fingers fumble, then you find it and slide it out, holding it up.
โYes,โ you say. โI amโฆ new resident. Lucia Rios.โ
He takes the card with practiced politeness and scans it with a small handheld device, then taps at a tablet on his stand. You can feel KK and Nika just behind your shoulderโsolid, quiet, like theyโre forming an invisible wall at your back.
โAh, yes,โ the doorman says finally, his expression warming into a professional smile. โPenthouse unit. Welcome, Ms. Rios. If youโd like, I can have someone assist you with your luggage.โ
Your first instinct is to say no. Youโve been hauling your own bags through airports, train stations, and gyms for years. Youโre used to the weight. Used to proving you can carry everything yourself.
Then KKโs voice floats through your mindโyou donโt have to do everything alone anymore.
You hesitate, just for a heartbeat.
Then you nod once. โYes, please. That would beโฆ helpful.โ
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch KK giving you a tiny approving nod, like youโve just passed a test she didnโt tell you about.
The doorman gestures, and a bellhop appears almost instantly with a large luggage cart and a polite, neutral smile. Between him, KK, and Nika, your bags start lifting off the ground one by oneโsuitcases stacked, duffels and backpacks arranged neatly.
KK gently takes the duffel off your shoulder; Nika unclips your cross-body bag and sets it on top of the cart like itโs something delicate.
You stand there for a moment, hands suddenly empty, watching other people carry the pieces of your lifeโcompressed into fabric, zippers, and worn handles.
Youโve never felt more strange and more seen at the same time.
When everything is finally stacked and balanced on the cart, the bellhop straightens and gestures toward the lobby.
โIf youโll follow me, Ms. Rios. Ladies.โ
You step through the glass doors first, KK and Nika flanking you like an accidental escort. Warm air and soft lighting wash over you. The lobby is beautifulโmarble floors with a subtle sheen, modern couches arranged in clean lines, and a huge abstract painting splashed across one wall in layered strokes of deep blue, gold, and charcoal. You can already imagine yourself sitting there one day with a sketchbook, trying to translate its shapes into your own language.
Itโs quiet in that particular expensive way, where footsteps seem to instinctively soften and every sound feels like it should be muted.
This could be one of your parentsโ buildings.
You push that thought away before it can settle and focus on the present instead. On the weight of your sneakers on the marble. On KKโs soft whistle. On Nikaโs curious gaze taking everything in.
The elevator arrives with a muted chime. You step in with the bellhop, KK, and Nika crowding in behind you, bags still rattling faintly on the cart. The doors slide shut and the numbers begin to climb: 10. 15. 20. 25โฆ
KK lets out a low whistle under her breath. โPenthouse,โ she says, shaking her head. โYou really skipped โstarter apartmentโ and โslightly depressing dorm room,โ huh? Straight to the top. No tutorial level, just final boss.โ
You elbow her lightly in the side. โStop.โ
She groans dramatically. โOw. Abuse. See, Nika? Iโm trying to support her and sheโs elbowing me. This is what I get.โ
Nika snorts. โYouโll live. Drama queen.
โNever,โ KK fires back immediately, hand pressed to her chest.
The elevator dings softly, cutting her off. The doors slide open onto a short, private hallway with just one door at the end.
The bellhop leads the way, pushing the cart forward. The wheels click softly over the carpet as you follow, your heart thudding a little louder with each step. The hallway smells faintly like clean linen and something floral.
At the door, you lift the keycard and tap it against the reader. It beeps, then clicks open as smoothly as if itโs been waiting just for you.
You step into your new life.
The first thing that hits you is the light. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, the city unfurling below in a scatter of buildings, streets, and distant lights. The late afternoon glow spills across polished floors, making everything look almost unreal.
The space itself is open and carefully curatedโa sleek kitchen to the left with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances that look barely touched, a living area to the right with a low sofa, a glass coffee table, and a rug in soft neutral tones. A hallway disappears deeper into the unit, presumably toward the bedrooms and whatever else waits out of sight.
It feels like walking into a catalog page. Cool. Perfect. Impersonal.
You hover just inside the doorway, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, with your body, with the fact that this is yours. Your world has mostly been gyms and classrooms, hotel rooms and that tucked-away bedroom in your parentsโ mansion where you tried to make yourself small and quiet.
โDaaaaamn,โ KK breathes, stepping in behind you, eyes widening as she spins slowly in place. โThis isโฆ nice nice.โ
Nika lets out a low whistle of agreement. โYeah, okay, French-Toast. I see you.โ
You exhale a breath you didnโt realize youโd been holding. โIt isโฆ okay,โ you say lightly, because you donโt have the right word yet for what this really feels like.
The bellhop pushes the cart inside and parks it neatly near the entryway, keeping everything contained in one tidy corner.
โIf youโd like,โ he says, turning back to you with a courteous smile, โI can have housekeeping send up a welcome packet with building information. Amenities, contact numbers, that sort of thing.โ
You nod automatically, slipping back into polite mode. โYes. Thank you. That would be helpful.โ
โOf course, Ms. Rios.โ He inclines his head slightly, then steps back toward the door. A moment later, heโs gone, the soft click of the latch.
Suddenly, itโs just you, KK, and Nika standing in the middle of a big, echoing penthouse.
You turn in a slow circle, taking everything inโthe couch positioned just so, the soft rug under your sneakers, the empty glass coffee table, the closed balcony door with the city glowing faintly behind it. It all feelsโฆ unfinished. Like a stage set waiting for someone to decide who lives here.
โYou okay?โ KK asks quietly, picking up on your silence, on the way your shoulders have gone a little stiff.
You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again, and a small laugh slips out at your own confusion. โI amโฆ overwhelmed,โ you admit softly. โIn my head, this was allโฆ smaller. Less real. Nowโฆโ You gesture vaguely at everything.
โNow itโs a lot,โ Nika finishes for you, stepping in easily. โYeah. Makes sense.โ
KK wanders toward the windows, Nika right beside her. They both press their hands lightly to the glass, looking out over the sprawl of the city. Nika glances back at you with a wide grin.
โYou got a crazy view, though,โ she says. โThis is perfect for brooding dramatically at night.โ
You snort. โI do not brood.โ
โOh, you definitely brood,โ KK calls out. She turns, counting on her fingers. โTall. Pretty. Mysterious. Sponsored. Artist. Refuses to talk about her past? Thatโs top-tier brooding material.โ
You fold your arms over your chest, trying to look offended and failing. โMaybe I will brood just to spite you both.โ
โExcellent,โ KK says without missing a beat. โI fully support your spite. Healthy choice.โ
You drop your arms with an exaggerated sigh, and in that small motion you feel some of the tightness in your body start to ease. The adrenaline fades, and the jet lag hits you like a slow, heavy wave. Your head swims; your limbs suddenly feel too heavy.
KK notices in an instant. So does Nika.
โOkay,โ KK says, clapping her hands together once, like sheโs starting a huddle. โGame plan. You are about two minutes away from face-planting on this very expensive floor. So weโre moving quick. Me and Nika are gonna get your main bags into your room. You are gonna shower, put on something comfy, maybe eat a snack. Then youโre gonna sleep for, like, four hours.โ
You yawn mid-sentence as you stretch your arms above your head, your accent thickening with exhaustion. โWhy only four hours? Why can I not sleep the whole day away?โ
โUhhh, yeah, seeโฆโ KK drags out the words, suddenly fascinated by a spot on the ceiling. Her hand comes up to scratch the back of her neck.
Nika just rolls her eyes and steps in, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets. โBecause,โ she says plainly, โwe kind ofโฆ planned a little welcome party for you.โ
Your brain, wrapped in fog and fatigue, takes a second to process that. You stare at her, blinking.
โโฆHuh?โ you manage.
โA WELCOME PARTY!โ KK shouts, hands flying up like sheโs announcing a championship win.
Nika immediately shoves her with her shoulder. โWhy are you yelling?โ she mutters. โSheโs right here. Not in another country.โ
You blink. โWaitโwhat? A party? When? Where? For how long?โ The words tumble out of you fast, your accent thickening with every question. โI just landed in America for the first time. Can a foreigner not catch a break?โ
KK starts giggling, the sound bright and delighted. โOh my God, the way you said thatโฆ โfo-reigner.โ I love you.โ
You give her a flat look, but the corner of your mouth twitches.
Nika steps forward, more measured. โWe were thinking,โ she begins, her tone softer, โof inviting the team over here. If thatโs cool with you. If not, weโll find another spotโno big deal.โ
She pulls her hands out of her jacket pockets and rests one on your shoulder, her grip warm and grounding. โWe just wanna hang out, do some fun stuff, maybe DIY some ice cream or whatever, chill, get to know you better. Youโre a Husky now. Youโre one of us.โ
โBut what if they donโt like me?โ you murmur, eyes dropping to the floor. โI am an outsider. What if I donโt fit in with the team?โ
Your mind drifts, uninvited, back to old gyms and old teammates who watched you like you were a problem to manage, not a teammate to trust. Back then you were stubborn, sharp, too focused on proving your mother wrongโproving basketball wasnโt a distraction, proving you were better than everyone else. You chased your own shine and didnโt care who dimmed because of it.
โGirl, boo.โ KK cuts in, snapping you out of it. โThey already like you and they havenโt even met you yet.โ
โTheyโve been eager to meet you since the summer,โ she continues, leaning casually against the back of the couch. โTheyโre hyped to have a new player. Fresh energy. New weapon. Butโฆโ She lifts a finger. โBe ready, French-Toast. Paige might be a tough cookie to crack.โ
โToughโฆ cookie?โ you repeat slowly. โWhy is Paige Bueckers a tough cookie to crack?โ
KK exhales, nodding like sheโs been waiting for that question. โOkay, so. Last year, she tore her ACL,โ she explains, hands already moving as she talks. โBig injury. Bad timing. Coach basically banned her from practice and the gym so she could actually heal and not sneak in workouts like a maniac.โ
Nika snorts. โShe still tried.โ
โObviously,โ KK says. โShe was pissed. Missed the whole season. Had to sit and watch. And trust me, nobody takes basketball more seriously than Paige. Nobody. Sheโs crazy competitive. So now sheโs back, and sheโs locked in.โ
She looks at you directly. โYou come inโnew small forward, big rep, sponsored, cocky clips on the internetโand yeah, sheโs probably gonna see you as a threat. A rival. One of those โIโm-here-to-take-your-spotโ types.โ
You wince a little at how accurate that sounds.
โSheโs guarded,โ KK adds. โReserved, quiet. Except with the people she actually fucks with. With them, sheโs soft, funny, loud, all of it.โ
Nika nods in agreement. โSheโs got layers. Like an onion. Or a very moody cake.โ
KK snaps her fingers. โExactly. A moody cake. But listenโonce she meets you, actually knows you, youโll crack that cookie wall. It might take some time, but you two? Youโre gonna end up tight. Besties, rivals, all of the above.โ
She pantomimes cracking something in half, her hands telling the whole story like a puppet show.
You just blink at them, your brain struggling to keep up: a welcome party, a legendary guard with moody-cake energy, a team that allegedly already wants you, and the surreal fact that you are standing in a penthouse in America like this is normal.
It doesnโt feel normal.
But it does feelโฆ possible.
You take a slow breath. โOkay,โ you say at last, a small grin tugging at your lips despite the swirl in your chest. โYou can invite them over. Letโsโฆ meet the team.โ
Nikaโs face lights up. KK claps her hands together so loudly you and Nika both jump.
โHer Majesty has spoken!โ KK declares. Then she glances at her watch and her eyes go wide. โOh, shit. Nika, we gotta go. After we get Luxโs things into the bedroom, we have practice in an hour and her royal apartment is, like, thirty minutes away.โ
โWhereโs your bedroom?โ Nika asks, eyebrows lifted like you should know the answer.
You shrug, palms up. โI have no idea. I just walked in and tried not to pass out on the floor.โ
Nika snorts. KK actually doubles over, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings.
She takes the lead down the hallway, dramatic coach-walk and all, Nika trailing behind her with your carry-on rolling crookedly. KK starts opening doors like itโs a game show reveal.
โLaundry room,โ she announces, shutting one door. โMystery closet. Guest bathroomโdamn, this is nicer than my whole apartment.โ
Finally, she swings open the last door on the left and lets out a low whistle. โBingo. Master bedroom.โ
You step in and feel, for a second, like youโve walked into someone elseโs life.
The room is as pristine as the rest of the apartment, justโฆ bigger. A king-sized bed sits centered against the far wall, dressed in crisp charcoal-gray sheets that look almost too perfect to touch. Another wall of floor-to-ceiling windows frames the city, night lights scattered across the skyline like someone spilled a handful of stars. A walk-in closet opens off to the side, easily big enough to fit the bed from your old room back homeโplus a desk and probably your ego on a good day.
โOkay, baller,โ Nika says, stepping in behind you. โWe see you.โ
โRelax,โ you mumble. โI didnโt pick it. I justโฆ exist here now.โ
KK and Nika haul your main suitcase and duffel onto the bed. KK pats the mattress twice, like sheโs settling a player on the bench. โThere. Base camp. You can organize later. For now, mission: survive.โ
You sit on the edge of the bed, and itโs like gravity triples. Your body suddenly feels heavier than it has any right to be. The thought of a shower flickers through your mind, but so does the image of you falling asleep standing up and drowning against the tile.
Youโre just about to fall backward and let the bed swallow you when Nikaโs voice cuts in.
โDonโt die yet,โ she says, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. Thereโs a small grin tugging at her mouth. โYour American debut needs proof.โ
KK steps closer, already holding her phone out like a weapon. โOkay, real quick, before your brain shuts down completelyโpicture.โ
You groan, the sound dragging out of you. โNow?โ
โYes, now,โ KK insists, eyes wide and pleading. โJust one. For the โWelcome, Luciaโ post. Zero crust, I swear. Iโll Facetune your soul if I have to. Then Iโll leave you alone to bond with your pillows.โ
โSheโs not lying,โ Nika adds. โShe once turned my eye bags into a work of art.โ
You consider saying no. It would be so easy to just flop back and disappear into the mattress. But another part of youโthe part that sketches on napkins, that hides ticket stubs in notebooksโlikes having proof. Proof of moments. Fleeting expressions. Evidence that you were somewhere, that you existed.
โFine,โ you mutter, pushing yourself up again. Your knees protest like you just played four overtimes. โBut we take it by the window. The light is better.โ
โArtist brain,โ KK says, already amused. โI respect it. Lead the way, Picasso.โ
You drag yourself back to the living room with them trailing behind. You stop in front of the windows, the city lights glittering behind you like a scattered galaxy. Your reflection stares back at you from the glassโtired eyes, curls twisted into a messy low bun, sweatshirt still rumpled from the flight.
You pull your hair out of the messy low bun, fingers working through the airplane mess before you twist it back into a slightly neater bun at the nape of your neckโsomething vaguely photogenic, or close enough.
โHonestly, the tired look is working for you,โ Nika says, dropping onto the couch. โVery tortured creative. Very โI only sleep during Mercury retrograde.โโ
โYouโre not helping,โ you say, but a corner of your mouth turns up.
KK comes to stand beside you, angling the phone, furrowing her brow in concentration. โOkay,โ she says. โSerious one first. Then we can do something stupid for the story.โ
โSomething stupid is her specialty,โ Nika calls from the couch.
You roll your eyes. โRude.โ
โNot inaccurate,โ Nika replies.
KK ignores both of you, hyper-focused. โAll right. On three. One, twoโโ
You lean in at the last second and make a ridiculous face, crossing your eyes just a little and puffing your cheeks out like a fish. KK gasps mid-laugh, and the camera clicks. In the photo, her head is tilted toward you, mouth open, eyes crinkled. Youโre caught mid-chaos.
โHEY,โ she protests, already laughing as she taps through the shots. โWhy are you like this?โ
โNatural talent,โ you say.
โLet me see!โ Nika demands, getting up and wandering over.
KK flips the phone around so you both can see.
The photo is chaotic and imperfectโand somehow, exactly right. Your exhaustion is obvious in the slump of your shoulders and the faint shadows under your eyes, but so is your smile, your mischief. KKโs joy is loud even in the still frame, her arm pressed against yours, the city lights bursting behind you both like a backdrop someone designed on purpose.
Nika snorts. โThis is so unserious. I love it.โ
You look at it for a long second, longer than you meant to. Something in your chest loosens.
โI like this one,โ you say quietly.
KK glances up, surprised. โReally? I thought youโd want a moreโฆ polished one.โ
You shake your head. โNo. This feelsโฆ real. It feels likeโโ You pause, searching for the right word. โIt feels true.โ
She studies the picture again, eyes narrowing in concentration, then nods. โYeah. Okay. True it is.โ
She starts tapping quickly, thumbs flying over the screen as she types out a caption.
โโNew sister in town,โโ KK mutters as she works. โโYโall say hi to Lucia, our tall European bucket-getter. Be nice or I fight you.โโ She adds a few emojis with a satisfied little hum. โThere we go.โ
From the couch, Nika leans over just enough to peek. โYou forgot the crazy face emoji,โ she says. โGotta let them know youโre serious.โ
KK laughs. โGood point.โ She adds it in, then flashes the screen at you both like a finished product.
You snort, a tired smile tugging at your mouth. โYou threaten the internet for me now?โ
โObviously,โ KK says, as if this shouldโve been clear from the start. โYouโre my teammate now. I gotta protect you. Thatโs likeโฆ step four.โ
โFour of what?โ you ask, brow lifting.
She winks, tucking her phone closer to her chest. โYouโll find out.โ
You shake your head, amused despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbsโthen yawn so wide your jaw actually cracks.
โOkay, thatโs my cue,โ she says, finally pocketing her phone. Her voice softens a notch. โIโm gonna let you crash. Iโll text you all the info you needโpractice times, group chat, Coachโs favorite inspirational quotes, all that.โ
Nika moves first, like itโs instinct. She crosses the space between you and pulls you into a quick hug, her hand squeezing your shoulder in a quiet promise before she heads for the door to slip her shoes back on.
KK steps in right after, looping you into a warm, fast squeeze that smells like vanilla and gym and airport air. When she pulls back, she gives you a mock-formal salute.
โAs your loyal servant, I take my leave,โ she says lightly.
Nika waves from the entryway like sheโs going off to war instead of practice. โBye, Beba! Try not to overthink everything while weโre gone.โ
They step out into the hallway, and the door closes behind them with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
You donโt always like it, but right now your body is begging for it. You turn toward the hallway, ready to crawl to your actual bed, when the front door opens again and KKโs head pops back in like a cartoon.
โOh, andโโ she says, pointing at you. โWelcome to America again, Lux. Text me if you get bored, or if you forget how to work the stove.โ
She throws you one last tiny salute and disappears again. The door shuts for real this time.
Silence settles over the penthouse, gentle but heavy. Your footsteps sound softer as you drag yourself down the hall, every part of you jet-lagged, nervous, wired, and utterly exhausted all at once. You push open the first door you see and walk inside without thinking.
You shrug off your jacket and let it slip from your shoulders, hitting the floor in a soft, careless heapโyouโre too drained to care where it lands. Your tan Timberlands come off next, toes nudging them aside at the foot of the bed in a lazy shove that says youโve given today everything you had.
Your fingers, clumsy with exhaustion, fumble at your belt until the buckle finally gives. You push your pants down and kick them away, letting them land wherever gravity decides to claim them. With nothing left in you, you simply tip forward and collapse onto the mattress, a low, weary groan leaving your chest as the bed catches your weight and, for the first time all day, you finally let yourself exhale.
The sheets are warm from the afternoon light and impossibly soft, like theyโve been made to catch people exactly like thisโhalf-awake, half-broken from travel.
Youโre left in just your white crewneck T-shirt and white Calvin Klein boxers, your legs stretched out along the bed, long muscles finally allowed to relax after hours of sitting, standing, waiting, moving.
You manage to wriggle under the covers, tugging them lazily up to your chest. Your eyes are already sliding closed when a thought cuts through the fog.
You never texted her after you cleared immigration.
Another thought bumps into the first.
You didnโt text your brother either. No โI landed.โ No โIโm safe.โ
You grope blindly across the bed like your phone might magically be there, even though you know itโs still in the pocket of the pants you just discarded somewhere on the floor. You can already picture the missed calls, the messages waiting for you later.
You know you should get up. You know you should shower, should unpack, should text back, should act like a functioning human being.
In America. In your own place. On a bed that belongs to you, in a life that doesnโt feel borrowed or stolen this time.
And for the first time in a long time, it feels like the story might finally be yours to write.
Your phone buzzes faintly in the distanceโonce, twice, then again. The sound barely reaches you through the haze settling over your mind. The weight of sleep presses down, thick and irresistible.
You think, just for a second, about forcing yourself to move.
Your eyes finally surrender, closing completely as you let yourself fall into the quiet, into the warmth, into the sweet, heavy pull of sleep.
