Please please please do something about Paige x reader based off of when did you get hot by Sabrina carpenter!!
when did you get hot? pt. 1
paige bueckers x reader
summary: you grew up with paige bueckers in minnesota, back when she was all scraped knees, oversized basketball shorts, too much confidence, and zero ability to shut up. your families were close enough that she felt less like a girl and more like a childhood habit. then years pass, paige becomes Paige Bueckers, and you convince yourself nothing has changed. until you visit uconn and realize the annoying girl from your childhood got hot. unfortunately, she notices
warnings/tags: childhood best friends to something, tension, flirting, teasing, reader being down bad and in denial, paige being cocky as hell, awholelot of annoying paige, childhood nostalgia, besties grew apart after college
word count: around 9k
part 2 up now! here
You had known Paige Bueckers before the rest of the world learned how to say her name like it meant something.
Before the highlight reels, before the trophies, before the interviews where she sat with a lazy grin and said the most confident thing possible in the calmest voice imaginable, before the white-and-blue UConn jersey made her look less like someone you used to know and more like somebody other people screamed over. You knew her when she was just Paige from Minnesota, the girl who showed up at your house with wind-chapped cheeks and scraped knees, basketball tucked under one arm like it was legally attached to her body, already talking before your mom even finished opening the door.
She was family, basically. Not by blood, but close enough that nobody questioned her walking into your kitchen without knocking, opening your fridge, stealing your snacks, and yelling, “Y/N, your mom said you gotta come outside,” even when your mom had said absolutely nothing of the sort. Her family and yours had been tangled together for as long as you could remember; cookouts, birthdays, lake days, holiday dinners where the adults would sit around talking for hours while you and Paige were shoved into the basement or backyard and told to entertain yourselves. Paige always chose basketball. You always complained. Paige always ignored you.
She was annoying. That was the thing you remembered most clearly.
Annoying in a loud, bright, impossible-to-miss way. Annoying like stealing the ball from you and then laughing when you got mad. Annoying like making everything a competition, even brushing your teeth at sleepovers, even who could get to the car first, even who could finish their ice cream without getting brain freeze. Annoying like calling you slow when you tripped over your own shoelace and then immediately crouching down to tie it for you because she was mean, but not actually mean. Annoying like showing up with that same grin every single time, so sure you would forgive her for whatever she did because you always had.
Back then, Paige was not hot.
Back then, Paige had bony elbows, too much energy, and the confidence of a full-grown NBA star trapped inside a lanky middle schooler who still got Gatorade stains on her T-shirts. Her hair was usually pulled back messily, flyaways everywhere, and her clothes were always some tragic combination of basketball shorts, slides, and whatever hoodie she had stolen from an older cousin. She was cute in the way all kids were cute when adults looked at them and said things like, She’s gonna be something one day. But to you, she was just Paige. Loud Paige. Competitive Paige. Paige who once cried because you beat her in Mario Kart and then demanded a rematch for two hours.
So when your mom told you, years later, that you were going to Connecticut for a few days and that the Bueckers family was going to be there too, you didn’t think much of it.
Not at first.
You were sitting at your kitchen counter, scrolling through your phone, half-listening while your mom talked about flights and hotel reservations and how nice it would be to see everyone again. It was winter break, cold enough outside that the windows had that pale, frosted look around the edges, and your mom was in full planning mode, which meant she was saying a lot of information very quickly and expecting you to catch all of it.
“You haven’t seen Paige properly in years,” she said, tapping her nail against the screen of her phone as if Paige was just another calendar event.
You hummed. “I’ve seen her.”
“On TV does not count.”
“I’ve seen her on Instagram.”
“That definitely does not count.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no bite in it. “Okay, fine. I haven’t seen her in person in a while.”
“A while?” Your mom gave you that look mothers gave when they wanted to make a point but also wanted you to arrive there yourself. “Y/N, the last time you two were really together, you were what, sixteen?”
“Seventeen, maybe.”
“And now?”
You looked up. “Why are you making this dramatic?”
“I’m not.” She smiled into her coffee. “I’m just saying. It’ll be nice.”
Nice. That was the word everyone used when they talked about reconnecting with someone from childhood. Nice, like time hadn’t passed in a way that changed people. Nice, like you could walk into a room and pick up right where you left off. Nice, like Paige hadn’t become Paige Bueckers, the kind of girl people made edits of, the kind of girl strangers argued about online, the kind of girl whose name sat under headlines and whose face lived on posters and whose game had become something bigger than the driveway battles you used to lose by twenty.
Still, you told yourself it would be fine. It was Paige. Just Paige. The same girl who once tried to teach you how to shoot a proper jumper and got frustrated because you kept using both hands. The same girl who ate half your birthday cake before anyone had sung happy birthday and then blamed it on your cousin. The same girl who used to throw a pillow at you when you fell asleep first during movie nights because she considered sleep a form of losing.
You knew her too well to be nervous.
That was what you kept telling yourself when you landed in Connecticut.
That was what you kept telling yourself when your family checked into the hotel and your mom kept smiling like she knew something you didn’t.
That was what you kept telling yourself when you walked into the restaurant that night for dinner with both families and heard familiar laughter from the back of the room.
And then you saw her.
For one second, your entire brain went blank.
Paige was standing near the table with her back half-turned, one hand resting on the chair beside her, the other holding her phone loosely. She was talking to someone — one of her brothers, maybe, you couldn’t even process it — and laughing under her breath, not loud like you remembered, not that wild little kid laugh that used to burst out of her at everything, but something lower now, easier, warm and rough around the edges. Her hair was done in that game-day way you had seen in pictures, slicked back into a ponytail with the two front braids framing her face, clean and sharp like she had walked out of a tunnel with cameras waiting. She wore a fitted long-sleeve top under a jacket, casual but somehow not casual at all, because it sat on her like she knew exactly how good she looked without needing to try. A chain rested at her collar, catching the light when she shifted. Her jeans hung low on her hips. Her posture was loose, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as if the entire room had already given her permission to take up space.
Your first thought was not intelligent.
Your first thought was: Oh.
Your second thought was: No.
Because no. Absolutely not. That was not allowed. Paige Bueckers, the same girl who used to chew with her mouth open until your mom corrected her, was not allowed to stand in front of you looking like that. She was not allowed to have grown into her face like some annoying, unfair magic trick. She was not allowed to have that jawline, that grin, that slow confidence sitting on her like a second skin. She was not allowed to be the same Paige and not the same Paige at all.
Your mom touched your arm. “There they are.”
You blinked hard, like maybe if you reset your vision, Paige would turn back into the skinny kid in oversized shorts.
She did not.
Instead, she looked up.
Her eyes found yours across the restaurant, and for half a second, her expression did nothing. She just looked. Really looked. Like she was taking the years between you and measuring them quietly. Then her mouth curved, slow and familiar and devastatingly smug, and suddenly she was Paige again in the worst possible way.
Because she knew.
You didn’t know how she knew, but she knew.
“Y/N?” she called, and her voice was deeper than you remembered, still light with that Minnesota edge, still her, but older now, smoother. It hit you in the chest before you were ready.
You forced yourself to move. Forced your feet forward. Forced your face into something normal.
“Paige,” you said, and thank God your voice didn’t crack, because you would’ve had to walk into traffic.
She pushed away from the chair and came toward you with that easy athlete stride, like her body had never been awkward a day in its life. Which was a lie. You had proof. You had photos. You had mental evidence of her tripping over a sprinkler at age twelve and pretending she meant to do it.
But none of that helped when she stopped in front of you.
She looked down at you slightly, because of course she had gotten taller too, because apparently the universe had a personal vendetta against your peace. Her eyes dipped over your face, quick but not careless, and her grin widened.
“Damn,” she said. “You look grown.”
Something about the way she said it made heat rise up your neck.
You lifted your brows, trying to recover. “That’s usually what happens when people age.”
“Yeah, but you were always little Y/N to me.”
“Little?” You scoffed. “You were built like a praying mantis until sophomore year.”
Her laugh came out immediately, bright and surprised, and the sound loosened something in your chest that you hadn’t realized had gone tight. For a second, it was almost normal. Almost. Paige threw her head back slightly, eyes creasing at the corners, and you remembered being thirteen and feeling victorious any time you made her laugh hard enough to stop talking.
Then she looked back at you, still smiling, and the almost-normal feeling became dangerous again.
“Okay,” she said, nodding slowly. “Coming in hot already. I see you.”
“You started it.”
“I said you looked grown. That was a compliment.”
“You said it like you were shocked I survived puberty.”
Paige leaned in a little, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you caught the clean scent of her — something fresh, faintly expensive, mixed with the cold air she’d brought in from outside. “Maybe I’m shocked you got pretty.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
It was stupid. It was just Paige. Paige, who had said a million things to get under your skin before. Paige, who used to call you dramatic when you got mad and then follow you around until you laughed again. Paige, who loved winning too much not to notice when she landed a hit.
But this was not the same kind of hit.
This one sat low in your stomach.
You narrowed your eyes because it was the only defense you had. “Maybe I’m shocked you learned how to dress.”
Paige’s grin turned sharp. “You been checking?”
“No.”
“Sounded like it.”
“You’re still annoying.”
“And you still blush easy.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“You are.”
“I’m cold.”
“We’re inside.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She said it like a fact, like something she had known for years and had no reason to question.
Your parents reached the table before you could answer, and suddenly the moment broke open into hugs and greetings and loud parental excitement. Paige’s family pulled you in like no time had passed; her dad gave you a warm hug, her brothers teased you about being taller even though you definitely were not, and your mom and Paige’s family immediately began talking over each other in that comfortable way people did when they shared too much history to bother with polite pacing.
Paige slid into the chair beside you.
Not across from you. Not at the other end. Beside you.
You noticed because of course you noticed. You noticed the way her knee bumped yours under the table when she sat down. You noticed the way she stretched one arm across the back of your chair for a moment as she turned to answer something her dad said, not touching you, not really, but close enough that your body reacted like she had placed her hand directly on your skin. You noticed the chain at her neck again. You noticed her hands, which was insane, because when had hands become something you noticed? Long fingers, short nails, a faint mark near her knuckle. Basketball hands. Hands that had stolen passes, signed autographs, probably held trophies. Hands that used to shove snow down the back of your jacket.
You hated this.
You hated every single part of this.
Paige leaned toward you while everyone else got caught in a conversation about travel delays. “You quiet now.”
“I’m literally just sitting.”
“Yeah. Quietly.”
“Maybe I matured.”
She looked at you, unimpressed. “You?”
You kicked her ankle lightly under the table. “Shut up.”
Her eyes flashed with amusement. “There she is.”
That should not have made your stomach flip. It did anyway.
Dinner was a problem after that.
Not because anything happened. Nothing happened. That was somehow worse. Paige was just there, close enough for your shoulders to brush when servers passed behind you, close enough that every time she laughed, you felt it more than heard it. She talked easily with everyone, slipping between family stories and basketball updates, making your parents laugh, letting her brothers roast her, pretending to be humble for exactly three seconds before ruining it with some smug comment about how she was still the best shooter at the table.
“Best shooter?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “You lost to me in HORSE when we were fourteen.”
Paige’s head turned slowly.
The table went quiet in that delighted, dangerous way families did when old drama was resurrected.
Paige stared at you. “You did not just say that.”
“I did.”
“You won because you made up some ugly backwards shot from behind the trash can.”
“And you missed it.”
“Because it was nasty.”
“But legal.”
“It was not basketball.”
“It was HORSE.”
“It was criminal.”
You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Sounds like something a loser would say.”
Her mouth opened slightly, offended in the most Paige way possible. The table erupted, her family laughing, your mom pointing at you like she had missed seeing you two bicker. Paige leaned back in her chair, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of her cheek, eyes locked on you with an intensity that made the room feel a little too warm.
“Okay,” she said softly.
You tilted your head. “Okay what?”
She reached for her water, still looking at you over the rim of the glass. “Just remembering who I’m dealing with.”
It was casual. It should have been casual.
It was not casual.
Because Paige had always been competitive, but grown Paige wore it differently. As a kid, she had been loud with it, all motion and noise. Now it sat quieter. Controlled. Like she didn’t need to prove she could win because everybody already knew. Like she could take her time. Like she could wait for you to mess up and still enjoy the view while you did.
You looked away first.
That was your mistake.
Paige noticed.
Of course she noticed.
The rest of dinner blurred into a strange mix of nostalgia and self-preservation. Old stories came up one after another, most of them embarrassing. Your mom talked about how you and Paige used to fight over who got the blue popsicle. Paige’s dad mentioned the time Paige slept over and convinced you to wake up at six in the morning to rebound for her in the driveway. You argued that she had tricked you. Paige said you loved it. You said you loved sleep more. Paige said you used to sit on the curb and watch her shoot anyway.
That made you pause.
Because you had.
You had forgotten that part, or maybe you had chosen not to think about it. The early mornings, summer air still cool, Paige in some oversized shirt, shooting and shooting while you sat wrapped in a blanket on the curb, complaining every five minutes but never actually going inside. She would look over after every made three like she expected you to react. You would roll your eyes. She would grin. The ball would bounce back into her hands, and the whole world would feel small and simple.
“You were my rebounder,” Paige said, nudging your knee under the table.
“I was forced labor.”
“You were committed.”
“I was sleepy.”
“You still stayed.”
You looked at her then, and for a second the teasing slipped. Paige’s expression had softened just enough to make you feel unsteady. Her eyes held yours like she was saying something more than the words, something about the years you had both walked away from without ever officially leaving behind.
Then her gaze dipped.
Not far. Just to your mouth, quick as a blink, quick enough that maybe you imagined it.
But you didn’t.
You knew you didn’t.
Your pulse jumped.
Paige looked back up like nothing had happened, but the corner of her mouth moved.
You hated her.
You really, really did.
After dinner, the adults refused to let the night end. There was talk about going back to the hotel lobby, maybe grabbing coffee, maybe sitting somewhere to catch up more. Paige’s brothers groaned. You silently agreed with them. You were exhausted from travel, full from dinner, and emotionally attacked by the fact that Paige Bueckers had grown into someone who could look at you for half a second and make you forget basic language.
But then Paige said, “I can show Y/N around campus for a bit.”
You looked at her immediately. “What?”
“What?” she echoed, too innocent.
Your mom brightened. “That’s a great idea. You two should catch up.”
“I think we caught up,” you said quickly.
Paige smiled. “Scared of campus?”
“Scared of freezing.”
“I got you.”
That made your stomach do something deeply embarrassing.
You crossed your arms. “Do you?”
She stepped closer, and because both families were busy gathering coats and bags, nobody else seemed to notice the way her voice dropped slightly when she answered. “Always did, didn’t I?”
For a moment, you had no comeback.
Paige’s face shifted, satisfaction flickering there. She had found a gap in your armor and looked far too pleased about it.
Ten minutes later, you were outside with her, bundled into your coat, breath fogging in front of you as the cold Connecticut air hit your face. The streetlights painted everything in soft gold, and the campus stretched around you quieter than you expected, all brick buildings and bare trees and patches of snow pushed against the edges of walkways. Paige walked beside you with her hands in her jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, but still somehow moving like she belonged to every inch of the place.
“So,” she said after a minute. “You nervous?”
You glanced at her. “About walking?”
“About being alone with me.”
You almost tripped.
Paige’s hand shot out automatically, fingers closing around your elbow to steady you. The contact lasted two seconds at most, but it went straight through you, warm even through your coat.
You pulled your arm back too quickly. “No.”
“You sure?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“You almost ate pavement.”
“Because there’s ice.”
“There’s no ice.”
“There could’ve been.”
Paige laughed under her breath. “You always got an excuse.”
“And you always have an ego.”
“Earned it.”
That was so Paige that you couldn’t help looking at her. She was staring forward, smiling to herself, the cold tinting her cheeks pink. For a second, you saw the girl she used to be under all the grown-up confidence — the kid who believed she could beat anybody, the teenager who treated every driveway game like a national championship, the girl who had always been certain the world would make room for her because she planned to take it whether it did or not.
Then she caught you staring.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nah, what?”
“You’re just…” You stopped, because the honest answer was dangerous.
Paige slowed slightly. “I’m just what?”
You shoved your hands deeper into your pockets. “Different.”
Her expression changed, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you saw it. The teasing didn’t disappear, but it softened around the edges. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“In a bad way?”
You shook your head before you could think too much. “No.”
The quiet after that was not awkward. It was worse. It was charged, thick with all the things you weren’t saying. Paige walked closer than she needed to, your sleeves brushing occasionally. Every time it happened, you told yourself it was because the path was narrow. It was not narrow. Paige knew it. You knew it. Neither of you moved away.
She showed you the campus like she was trying to be casual and failing in the most charming way possible. There was the gym. There was where she spent way too many hours. There was where the team grabbed food. There was the spot where freshmen almost wiped out in the snow last year. There was Gampel, looming in the distance like a cathedral built for basketball.
“You like it here?” you asked, looking up at the building.
Paige took a second to answer. “Yeah. I mean, it’s UConn. It’s a lot sometimes, but… yeah. Feels like where I’m supposed to be.”
You looked at her. “That sounds very mature.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
“Damn, okay.”
“You used to think maturity was not throwing the controller when you lost.”
“I did not throw it.”
“You launched it.”
“At a pillow.”
“At my head.”
“You moved.”
“Because survival instincts kicked in.”
Paige grinned, and the streetlight caught her face in a way that made your throat go dry. She was too pretty like this, relaxed and cold and amused, eyes bright with the kind of trouble you used to recognize instantly. Except now the trouble felt different. Older. Sharper. Like if she stepped closer, you would not know whether to shove her away or let her.
“You remember everything, huh?” she asked.
“Unfortunately.”
“What else you remember?”
You should have known better than to answer. “I remember you being shorter.”
“Everybody was shorter.”
“I remember your Justin Bieber phase.”
Her face dropped. “Don’t.”
“Oh, so you do have shame.”
“Y/N.”
“I remember the purple hoodie.”
“Stop talking.”
“I remember you thinking you could rap.”
Paige stepped in front of you then, blocking your path, and you almost walked straight into her. You stopped with barely any space left between you. The air shifted instantly. Your teasing smile faded because she was close now, close enough that you could see the tiny details of her face, the way her lips curved even when she was trying to look threatening.
“You done?” she asked.
Her voice was light, but her eyes were not.
You swallowed. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“You gonna do something about it?”
The words came out before your brain approved them.
Paige’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
For one awful, electric second, neither of you moved.
Then her grin returned, slower this time. “You got bold.”
You wanted to disappear. You wanted to stay exactly where you were. “You got annoying.”
“I been annoying.”
“You got worse.”
“You got prettier.”
Your breath caught again, and this time Paige was close enough to see it.
Her eyes flicked over your face, satisfaction and something warmer mixing in her expression. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one you keep giving me.”
You tried to laugh, but it sounded weak even to you. “You’re imagining things.”
“Nah.” Paige tilted her head, studying you with the patience of someone who had spent her whole life reading defenders and finding the smallest openings. “You looked at me in the restaurant like you forgot who I was.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was surprised.”
“By what?”
You stared at her, completely trapped.
Paige knew exactly what she was doing. Her hands stayed in her pockets. Her body didn’t touch yours. She wasn’t doing anything obvious enough for you to call her out. That was the problem. She didn’t need to. The closeness did it for her. The lowered voice. The way she looked at you like the answer was already written across your face.
You looked away. “You just don’t look like you did when we were kids.”
She hummed. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
“It’s a weak one.”
“Paige.”
“Y/N.”
You hated the way she said your name. Like she still knew it. Like years apart hadn’t made it unfamiliar. Like your name belonged in her mouth because it always had.
You forced your eyes back to hers. “Fine. You grew up.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t become…” You stopped.
Paige leaned in a fraction. “Become what?”
Your heart was beating way too fast for someone standing outside in freezing weather.
“Annoying,” you said.
Her smile turned wicked. “Liar.”
You pushed past her before she could see your face properly, walking toward the entrance of Gampel like you knew where you were going. You did not. Paige let you get two steps ahead before following, laughing quietly behind you.
“You walk fast when you’re flustered.”
“I’m trying to get away from you.”
“You invited yourself to my campus tour.”
“You literally offered.”
“You said yes.”
“My mom said yes.”
“You could’ve said no.”
You could feel her catching up, and then she was beside you again, shoulder brushing yours. “But you didn’t.”
You kept your eyes forward. “Because I’m polite.”
“Because you missed me.”
That shut you up.
Paige didn’t say it teasingly. Not fully. There was a smile in her voice, sure, but underneath it was something else, something careful enough that it made you look at her despite yourself.
She was watching you, waiting.
And suddenly you remembered that Paige had not only been annoying. She had also been everywhere. In your childhood home, sprawled across your couch, eating cereal from your bowls. In your backyard, yelling your name until you came outside. At your birthdays, in your family photos, in your memories so naturally that you had forgotten she was someone you could lose contact with. Then life got bigger. Paige got busy. You got older. Calls became texts, texts became comments, comments became silence with occasional likes on Instagram stories that felt too small to count.
You had missed her.
That was the worst part.
You had missed her before she got hot. You had missed her before tonight, before the fitted shirt and chain and slow grin and all the things your body had unfortunately decided to notice. You had missed the girl who knew your worst angles and your childhood bedroom and how you liked your hot chocolate. You had missed having someone who could annoy you into feeling known.
So you said, softer than you meant to, “Maybe.”
Paige’s face changed.
Just slightly. But you saw it.
The smugness dipped, and for a second she looked younger, caught off guard in a way you hadn’t seen all night. Then she looked ahead, jaw shifting like she was trying not to smile too hard.
“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
The words sat between you, simple and warm against the cold.
You walked for a while after that without trying to fill the silence. Paige took you around the outside of Gampel, telling you random stories about practices and games, about teammates and Geno and how Connecticut fans were a different level of intense. You listened more than you spoke, partly because you liked hearing her talk, partly because every few minutes she would glance over and catch you looking, and each time it felt like getting caught doing something far more intimate than staring.
Eventually, she led you inside.
The building was quieter than you expected at night, the halls mostly empty, the air warmer and carrying that faint gym smell of polished floors and old sweat and something metallic from the arena. Paige seemed different indoors too, more settled, like the building recognized her. She brought you through with easy familiarity, nodding at someone working late, swiping into areas you probably weren’t supposed to be in, then looking back at you with a grin that said she knew exactly that.
“Are we allowed to be here?” you asked.
“I’m allowed everywhere.”
“That is definitely not true.”
“It feels true.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that like it’s not your favorite thing about me.”
You gave her a look. “My favorite thing about you was your parents’ snack cabinet.”
Paige laughed. “Cold.”
“You asked.”
She brought you to the edge of the court.
The arena opened up around you, dim and huge, seats rising into shadow, the court glowing under partial lights. You stopped without meaning to. You had seen basketball courts before, obviously. You had been around Paige enough growing up that basketball had always felt like background noise. But this was different. This was hers. This was the world that had taken the kid from your driveway and made her into the girl standing beside you now, into the name people chanted, into the person with cameras following her and kids wearing her jersey.
Paige watched you take it in.
“Cool, right?” she said.
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s cool.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I am.”
“Careful. I might get used to that.”
“You already are.”
She smiled, then walked onto the court. Her sneakers squeaked softly against the floor. You stayed near the sideline, watching as she grabbed a ball from a rack nearby and bounced it once. Twice. The sound echoed. She spun it in her hands with that absent ease of someone who had done it more times than she had breathed.
Then she looked at you. “You wanna shoot?”
You laughed. “Absolutely not.”
“Scared?”
“Of embarrassing myself? Yes.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“You tried that when we were thirteen. You said I had the shooting form of a wounded bird.”
Paige winced, but she was smiling. “I was a harsh coach.”
“You were a bully.”
“You were bad.”
“I was a child.”
“You were still bad.”
You crossed your arms. “This is why I don’t miss you.”
“Yes, you do.”
She bounced the ball toward you. It came slow, controlled, rolling until it tapped against your shoe. You looked down at it, then back at her.
“No.”
“One shot.”
“No.”
“For old times.”
“That phrase is how people get manipulated.”
“Y/N.”
The way she said it made you pick up the ball. You hated yourself for it.
Paige grinned like she had won something, which she had. You stepped onto the court, feeling immediately out of place. The ball felt too large in your hands, familiar only because childhood had forced familiarity onto you. Paige stood near the free throw line, watching with open amusement.
“Don’t laugh,” you warned.
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re already laughing internally.”
“Can’t control my thoughts.”
“You can control your face.”
“Not around you, apparently.”
That did not help.
You positioned yourself awkwardly, trying to remember anything she had taught you years ago. Paige’s gaze moved over you, not in the obvious way, but enough that your skin warmed beneath your coat. You lifted the ball. She made a small sound.
“What?” you snapped.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Your elbow.”
“My elbow is fine.”
“Your elbow is fighting for its life.”
You dropped the ball to your hip. “Do you want me to shoot or not?”
“I want you to make it.”
“You want to make fun of me.”
“Both can be true.”
You glared at her.
She walked toward you, still smiling, and your stomach tightened with every step. “Here,” she said. “Let me fix it.”
“No, I remember.”
“You do not.”
“I do.”
“You’re holding the ball like it owes you money.”
“Maybe it does.”
Paige stopped in front of you. “Can I?”
It was such a simple question. Two words. But it landed differently because her voice had gone softer, because she wasn’t touching you yet, because she was actually asking.
You nodded before you trusted yourself to speak.
Paige stepped closer.
Her hands came up, not quite touching yours at first. “Relax,” she said.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re gripping the ball like you’re about to fight it.”
“I’m cold.”
“You use that excuse a lot.”
“It’s versatile.”
She laughed quietly, then placed her hands over yours.
Everything in you went still.
Her hands were warm. That was the first thing you noticed. Warm and sure as she adjusted your grip, fingers guiding yours into place with casual precision. She stood close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed your chest, close enough that you could see the small curve of concentration between her brows as she focused on your form. You tried to listen as she explained where your shooting hand should be, how your guide hand wasn’t supposed to push, how your elbow needed to come in, but the only thing your brain understood was that Paige’s hands were on yours and her voice was low beside you and the entire empty arena suddenly felt like a locked room.
“Y/N,” she said.
You blinked. “What?”
Her eyes flicked to your face. “You hear anything I just said?”
“Yes.”
“What’d I say?”
“Basketball.”
Paige stared at you.
You stared back.
Then she laughed, not loud, but close enough that you felt the breath of it. “You are so unserious.”
“You’re distracting.”
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.
Paige’s laughter faded.
Her eyes moved over your face, and there it was again — that shift, that little spark of recognition, like she had been waiting all night for you to slip. Her hands were still on yours. Neither of you moved.
“I’m distracting?” she asked.
You swallowed. “You talk a lot.”
“That’s what you meant?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep lying.”
Her thumb brushed lightly against the side of your hand. Maybe by accident. Probably not. Your grip tightened around the ball, and Paige noticed that too. Her gaze dropped to your hands, then back to your face.
“You nervous?” she asked again, quieter.
The teasing was still there, but now it had heat under it.
“No,” you said.
“You sure?”
“You ask that a lot.”
“You keep giving me reasons.”
You wanted to say something sharp. Something funny. Something that would put space back between you. But Paige was looking at you like that, and the arena was empty, and the court lights made everything feel unreal, and suddenly the years between you didn’t feel like distance at all. They felt like a fuse.
You forced yourself to raise the ball. “Are you going to help me shoot or keep flirting with yourself?”
Paige’s mouth curved. “So you admit I’m flirting.”
“I said with yourself.”
“Still heard flirting.”
“You hear what you want.”
“Right now?” she said, stepping slightly behind you to adjust your stance, her hands hovering near your waist before settling carefully at your elbows. “Yeah, maybe.”
Your breath caught.
Her chest was not touching your back. There was space. Barely. But you could feel the warmth of her behind you, the shape of her presence, the way her voice came from over your shoulder now.
“Bend your knees,” she said.
You did, badly.
Paige made a sound like she was trying not to laugh. “Not like you’re about to sit in an invisible chair.”
“I hate basketball.”
“No, you hate being bad at it.”
“I hate you.”
“You keep saying that too.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
Her hands adjusted your elbows, gentle but firm. “You always this mouthy now?”
You turned your head slightly. Mistake. Her face was closer than you expected, close enough that your noses were almost aligned, close enough that the rest of the sentence died in your throat. Paige’s eyes dropped to your mouth again, slower this time. Not a blink. Not imagined.
Your entire body forgot how to be casual.
Paige looked back up. “What?”
You whispered, “Nothing.”
She smiled faintly. “You sure?”
You looked forward quickly. “I’m shooting.”
“Go ahead, ma.”
The nickname hit like a shove.
You shot the ball.
It missed everything.
For one full second, silence.
Then Paige lost it.
She doubled over laughing, hand over her mouth, trying and failing to contain herself as the ball bounced uselessly off to the side without touching rim, backboard, net, anything. You stood frozen, humiliated, betrayed by basketball and by your own nervous system.
“Oh my God,” Paige choked out.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry—”
“You’re not.”
“I’m not, that was crazy.”
“You distracted me!”
Paige pointed at herself, eyes bright. “I didn’t shoot it!”
“You were standing behind me whispering like some evil basketball demon.”
“Evil basketball demon is insane.”
“You sabotaged me.”
“You airballed from ten feet.”
“I said don’t.”
Paige was still laughing when she jogged after the ball, ponytail swinging behind her. You tried to be mad, genuinely tried, but the sound of her laughter filled the arena in a way that made it impossible. She looked happy. Not interview happy. Not camera happy. Real happy. The kind you remembered from being kids, when making you angry was the funniest thing in the world to her.
She came back with the ball tucked against her hip, still grinning. “Okay. Redemption shot.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, I’m retiring.”
“After one airball? Weak career.”
“I’m protecting my legacy.”
“What legacy?”
“My childhood HORSE win.”
Paige pointed at you. “Fraudulent.”
“Still counts.”
“Run it back then.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
“One game of HORSE.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“In UConn’s arena?”
“You scared?”
“You’re literally Paige Bueckers.”
“And you’re the alleged champion from 2015.”
“That was different.”
“Because I wasn’t hot then?”
You froze.
Paige froze too, but only because she was waiting for your reaction.
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.
The smile that spread across her face was criminal.
“Oh,” she said softly. “That’s what it is.”
“No.”
“That is exactly what it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You just glitched.”
“I didn’t glitch.”
“You fully stopped working.”
“Because you said something stupid.”
“Because I said hot.”
“Because you referred to yourself as hot, which is embarrassing.”
Paige walked closer, dribbling once. “But you didn’t disagree.”
You looked anywhere but her face. “I don’t need to respond to everything.”
“You respond to everything.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Nah.” She stopped in front of you again, ball balanced against her side, eyes fixed on you with that slow, merciless amusement. “You still can’t lie to me.”
Your heart thudded.
“I can lie to you,” you said.
“Try.”
“You’re not hot.”
Paige stared at you.
You stared back.
It lasted maybe three seconds before her mouth twitched.
“That was terrible,” she said.
“Shut up.”
“No conviction.”
“I had conviction.”
“You looked like you were in pain.”
“I am. This conversation hurts.”
Paige leaned down slightly, just enough to make your pulse spike. “Say it again then.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Say I’m not hot.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t take orders from you.”
“You used to.”
“You used to be less annoying.”
“You used to be less obvious.”
Your face burned. “I’m leaving.”
You turned, but Paige caught your sleeve gently, not enough to stop you if you really wanted to go, just enough to ask you not to. The softness of it made you pause more than force would have.
“Y/N,” she said, and this time her voice wasn’t teasing.
You looked back.
Paige’s smile had faded into something smaller. Still confident, still her, but not mocking. Her fingers slipped from your sleeve, and she shifted the ball under one arm. “I’m playing.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You let out a breath. “I know.”
The quiet returned, but it had changed. Less sharp now. More vulnerable, which somehow made it scarier. Paige looked at you like she wanted to say something, then didn’t. You could almost see her deciding against it, locking it behind that easy grin she wore so well.
Then she stepped back and tossed you the ball.
“HORSE,” she said. “No mercy.”
You caught it against your chest. “You’re challenging me after I just airballed?”
“Yeah. I like my odds.”
“You’re such a loser.”
“I’m a winner, actually. Public record.”
“Your ego needs medical attention.”
“And your jumper needs a funeral.”
You gasped. “That was personal.”
“That airball was personal to basketball.”
You laughed then, because you couldn’t help it, and Paige smiled like she had been trying to get that from you all night.
The game was ridiculous.
You lost badly, obviously. Paige didn’t even try at first, which offended you more than if she had destroyed you properly. She made lazy shots from the elbow, casual floaters, one-footed nonsense that still went in because the universe loved her too much. You made two shots total, one of which Paige generously called “valid” even though it barely survived. Every time she missed, which was rare, you celebrated like she had lost a championship. Every time you missed, which was constant, she made a face so dramatically pained that you threatened to throw the ball at her.
At some point, you forgot to be nervous.
Almost.
Because then Paige took off her jacket.
It was not dramatic. It should not have been dramatic. She just got warm from moving around, pulled her jacket off, and tossed it onto a chair near the sideline. Underneath, the long-sleeve top fit her even better than you had realized. You looked away instantly, but not fast enough.
Paige caught the ball after a made shot and turned, eyes narrowing with delight. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Stop asking me that.”
“You keep looking like you need medical assistance.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’ve shot four times.”
“Emotionally tired.”
“From losing?”
“From your personality.”
She laughed and walked toward you, spinning the ball on one finger because of course she could do that too, because apparently she had decided to be insufferable in every possible category tonight. “You know what’s funny?”
“Unfortunately, you’ll tell me.”
“You used to talk so much trash.”
“I still do.”
“Not like before.”
“I’m being polite.”
“You’re being careful.”
That landed too close.
You looked at her sharply. Paige’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes did. They were watching you in that way again, not teasing now. Reading.
“I’m not,” you said.
“You are.”
“You don’t know me like that anymore.”
The words came out harsher than you intended.
Paige stopped.
For a second, you wished you could pull them back. Not because they were untrue, but because they were. Because she did know you once, maybe better than anyone, and now there were years she had missed, things she didn’t know, versions of you she had never met. And maybe that was why tonight felt so strange. Because she was familiar enough to hurt and unfamiliar enough to want.
Paige lowered the ball slowly. “You’re right.”
You swallowed. “Paige—”
“No, you’re right.” She looked down, nodding once, then back at you. “I don’t know everything anymore.”
The vulnerability in her voice made you feel awful.
Then she added, softer, “But I still know when you’re lying.”
Your chest tightened.
She stepped closer, not crowding you this time, just closing some of the space. “And I know you do that thing where you act annoyed when you don’t know what else to do.”
You stared at her.
She smiled faintly. “You’re doing it tonight.”
You wanted to deny it. You wanted to say something sharp enough to make her back off, but she was right, and you hated that she was right. You had been acting annoyed because annoyed was safe. Annoyed was familiar. Annoyed was what you and Paige had always been. It was easier to roll your eyes than admit that seeing her again had knocked something loose in you.
“It’s weird,” you admitted quietly.
Paige’s face softened. “What is?”
“You.”
Her brows lifted.
You rushed to fix it. “Not you. I mean—this. Seeing you. Being here. You’re still Paige, but you’re also…”
“Hot?” she supplied.
You groaned. “Oh my God.”
She grinned. “Sorry. Keep going.”
“No, I’m done.”
“Wait, I was locked in.”
“I doubt that.”
“I was listening.”
“You ruined it.”
“I’ll behave.”
“You don’t know how.”
Paige’s smile lingered, but her eyes stayed soft. “I can try.”
That was worse.
You looked at her, really looked, and the words came before you could stop them. “When did that happen?”
Paige tilted her head. “What?”
You gestured vaguely at her, immediately regretting every life choice that led you there. “This.”
Her grin returned slowly. “This?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really wanna hear you say it.”
“I’m not saying it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll be unbearable.”
“I’m already unbearable.”
“Exactly.”
Paige stepped closer again, and this time you didn’t move away. The ball rested against her hip. Her shoulder was bare of the jacket now, the fitted fabric of her shirt catching lightly across her chest and arms, and you hated that you noticed, hated that your gaze betrayed you for half a second before snapping back up.
Paige’s eyes darkened with amusement.
“Y/N,” she said softly. “When did what happen?”
Your pulse beat in your throat.
You could lie. You could dodge. You could make a joke and escape, which was what you had done all night. But something about the empty arena, about the years between you, about the way Paige was looking at you like she wanted the truth not just because she could tease you with it, but because she wanted to hear it, made you tired of pretending.
So you looked at her and said, “When did you get hot?”
For once, Paige Bueckers went quiet.
Not for long. Barely a second. But enough. Enough for you to see the words land. Enough for her smugness to flicker into surprise, then pleasure, then something deeper that made your stomach twist.
Her tongue pressed briefly against her cheek.
Then she smiled.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
You rolled your eyes, but your face was burning. “And there it is.”
“What?”
“The ego.”
“Nah.” Paige stepped closer, close enough now that the ball between you was the only thing keeping your bodies apart. “That wasn’t ego.”
“No?”
“No.” Her voice dipped. “That was patience.”
Your breath caught.
The air between you changed so fast it almost scared you. One second you were teasing, the next you were standing in the middle of an empty basketball court with Paige looking at you like the game had become something else entirely. Her eyes moved over your face, slow and careful, like she was checking for permission without saying the word. You hated how much you wanted her to find it.
“Paige,” you whispered, though you had no idea what you meant by it.
Her gaze dropped to your mouth.
The ball slipped slightly between you as her grip loosened.
Somewhere outside the arena, a door opened and closed.
Both of you snapped back like you’d been caught.
Paige stepped away first, clearing her throat as she tossed the ball lightly from one hand to the other. You turned toward the seats, heart racing, even though nobody had come in. The sound had been distant, probably from another hallway, but it was enough to shatter whatever had almost happened.
Almost.
That word would kill you.
Paige looked at you again, and the grin was back, but it wasn’t as steady as before. “You scared?”
You laughed breathlessly. “Of what?”
“Me.”
You should’ve said no. You should’ve teased her. You should’ve said something normal.
Instead, you looked at her and said, “A little.”
Paige’s expression shifted.
The honesty sat there, exposed.
Then she nodded once, slow, like she understood more than you had meant to give her. “Good.”
Your eyes widened. “Good?”
“Yeah.” She spun the ball once, then caught it against her side. “Means I got a chance.”
You stared at her. “A chance?”
Paige smiled, but this one was softer. Less performance. More real. “To make you nervous on purpose.”
Your stomach flipped so hard it was embarrassing.
“You are unbelievable,” you said.
“You already knew that.”
“I knew you were annoying.”
“Now I’m hot and annoying.”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed, and the tension loosened just enough for you to breathe again, though it didn’t disappear. It stayed under everything after that. Under the jokes, under the last few shots, under Paige walking you back through the empty halls with her jacket over one arm and her shoulder brushing yours every few steps. It stayed when you walked outside again into the cold, when she looked at you and asked if you were warm enough, when you said yes even though your hands were freezing.
Paige noticed, because of course she did.
She stopped near the hotel entrance, where the lights spilled gold onto the sidewalk. Your families were probably inside somewhere, still talking, still assuming the two of you were just catching up like old friends. Maybe you were. Maybe this was what catching up felt like when the person in front of you had once known your childhood and was now making you think things you had no business thinking.
“You’re cold,” Paige said.
“I’m fine.”
“Y/N.”
You sighed. “A little.”
She held out her hand.
You looked at it. “What?”
“Your hand.”
“Why?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I ask normal questions when people randomly demand my hand.”
Paige gave you a look. “You trust me or nah?”
That was unfair.
Because you did.
Even now. Even after years. Even with your heart doing strange, stupid things in your chest. You trusted Paige in a way that felt older than attraction, older than tension, older than whatever had sparked to life tonight. You trusted her because a part of you still remembered scraped knees and stolen snacks and her tying your shoelace while calling you dramatic. You trusted her because she was Paige.
So you gave her your hand.
She took it between both of hers and rubbed warmth into your fingers. The gesture was practical. Almost innocent. Almost. Except her hands were too warm, her touch too careful, her eyes too fixed on yours.
“You still get cold easy,” she murmured.
“You still act like you’re in charge of everything.”
“I am right now.”
“You’re warming my hand, not running a country.”
“Same skill set.”
You laughed softly, and her thumb brushed over your knuckles.
The hotel doors opened behind you, voices spilling out, and you both pulled apart just before anyone could see. Your mom appeared first, smiling, coat over her arm. “There you are. We were wondering where you two went.”
“Campus tour,” Paige said easily.
Your mom looked between you, eyes bright in a way that made you deeply suspicious. “That was nice.”
“Yeah,” Paige said, glancing at you. “Real nice.”
You gave her a warning look.
She smiled like an angel. A fake one.
Everyone began organizing rides and room keys and breakfast plans for the next morning. You stood slightly apart, trying to look normal, trying not to stare at Paige while she talked to her dad. You failed twice. Maybe three times. The third time, Paige looked over and caught you.
She didn’t smirk.
That was somehow worse.
She just held your gaze for a second, eyes soft and knowing, then looked down with a small smile like she was keeping something to herself.
Your phone buzzed in your coat pocket.
You pulled it out.
A text from Paige.
paige: still got my number? you: clearly paige: good you: why paige: so next time you wanna call me hot you don’t have to wait ten years
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.
Across the lobby, Paige watched you read it, her own phone loose in one hand, expression far too pleased.
You typed back.
you: next time? paige: yeah paige: unless you scared
You looked up at her.
She lifted her brows slightly.
You should not have smiled.
You did anyway.
you: goodnight paige paige: night y/n paige: dream about my jumper, not the airball
You looked at her with pure betrayal.
Paige laughed silently, shoulders shaking, and for one second it was childhood again. For one second she was still the girl who existed to bother you, to make you laugh when you were trying to be mad, to turn every ordinary moment into a competition she planned to win.
Except now your heart was racing.
Except now her eyes dropped once to your mouth before she looked away.
Except now you were standing in a hotel lobby thinking, with complete horror and no real desire to stop it:
Paige Bueckers got hot.
And worse than that—
she knew exactly what it was doing to you.
