i miss the idea of her @syraxsbigfanfr - Tumblr Blog

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love didn’t deserve to be hidden

The last bell rang like it always did—too sharp, too sudden, too loud. But you didn’t flinch. You never did when Paige was the one waiting outside the door.

She stood just across the hall, leaned against the lockers in her Huskies hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, blonde hair tied back like she’d just come from the gym—which she probably had. Her eyes found yours the second you stepped out. Her smile was small, private. The kind meant only for you.

You hadn’t even said anything yet, but she was already grabbing your hand like she’d missed you after twenty four hours of barely being apart.

“You hungry?” she asked, the way she always did.

“Only if you’re paying.”

She rolled her eyes. “I always do.”

You had a diner you both claimed as yours—not because it was particularly special, but because it was halfway between both your houses, and they never carded if Paige wanted to order a milkshake laced with something extra on cold nights.

You sat in the corner booth like always. Paige took the inside so you could stretch your legs across her lap. She absentmindedly played with the hem of your jeans as you talked about nothing—teachers, finals, her points in last night’s game, your latest track mix.

But underneath it all was this tension. Not bad. Not heavy. Just… something pressing up from beneath everything, begging to be said.

Paige was the one to say it.

“So,” she murmured, still twirling the string of your hoodie between her fingers, “we’re both eighteen.”

You knew where she was going before she even looked up at you.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

She took a breath. “And I’ve been thinking about something.”

You tilted your head, giving her that soft, teasing smile she always said made her weak. “Thinking’s dangerous.”

She didn’t smile back this time. She just looked at you. Really looked. And your heart flipped.

“I wanna marry you,” she said. You blinked. “Not later. Not someday,” she continued, her voice quiet but steady. “Now. Before everything else gets big. Before UConn and cameras and agents and expectations. I want… us first.”

You stared at her. Your hand twitched beneath hers. “You serious?”

She nodded. “I know it’s crazy. I know we’re young. But I’ve loved you since we were fourteen and I don’t want a life where I have to pretend I don’t.”

You didn’t answer right away. The waitress came by, dropped off the milkshake, and Paige barely noticed.

You did. You took a slow sip. Set it down. Then you reached across the table, took her hand in yours, and said, “Where do we go?”

You didn’t tell anyone except your closest friends and your families and even then, it took convincing. Paige’s mom cried not because she was upset. Your mom hugged you so tight you almost forgot how to breathe. Your older sister teased you about it for a week, then gave you the necklace you’d wear down the aisle.

The wedding was in the back room of a county office. No flowers or music. Just the two of you, hands tightly clasped, rings you bought at the mall, and the vows you’d written in the parking lot five minutes before.

She whispered her last words just before you kissed her, “You’re always gonna be my home.”

And you didn’t cry, not there, not until later, when you were curled into her side in your childhood bedroom, the door locked and your phones off, both of you whispering “we did it” like kids who’d just stolen candy from a store.

That night, she fell asleep with your wedding ring pressed to her lips. And you fell asleep memorizing the rise and fall of her breath.

You didn’t know what would come next. But for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel scared of the future. You felt like it had finally started.

The first week of June came with heat that stuck to your skin no matter how many showers you took.

You and Paige were home for the summer after your first year at UConn, back in Minnesota, crashing at your childhood house because her family’s place was overflowing with cousins. Your mom had taken a week off work to cook everything Paige loved and subtly remind you both that air conditioning was expensive, so to stop leaving the windows open.

But your favorite part of the summer wasn’t the food. It wasn’t the quiet nights in your backyard, curled up in a hammock, sharing earphones.

It was the mornings.

Because for once, there was no practice, no homework, no press, no deadlines. You woke up to the soft hum of a ceiling fan and the low murmur of Paige’s voice reading news on her phone. She always let you sleep a little longer. You’d roll over, bury your face in her shirt, and she’d kiss your temple without fail.

That morning, she was tracing the lines on your arm, her voice soft.

“I had a weird dream.”

You hummed, half-asleep. “About what?”

“You,” she said simply. “And me. And a little girl. We were walking down the street in matching outfits. She had my eyes.”

Your eyes blinked open.

You shifted just enough to look at her. “Your eyes?”

She nodded. “Yeah. But she talked like you. Bossy as hell.”

You laughed sleepily. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

Paige was quiet for a moment. And then she said the thing that changed everything.

“I kinda want that. Soon.”

You blinked. “You mean like… someday?”

She shook her head. “I mean soon. Like… not next week. But not ten years from now either.”

You sat up a little. “You’re serious?”

She met your gaze, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I know we’re still young. I know we’re not even halfway through college yet. But… we’ve already been married for over a year. We’ve got our own place. I’ve already got more than enough money to provide. I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes with you already. And I want her to see that. I want our kid to grow up with it. With us. With everything we’re building.”

The thought hit harder than you expected.

Because you hadn’t really let yourself go there. Your world had been about balance, handling your studies, keeping your marriage private, supporting Paige through the chaos of early fame, and building your own path. A quieting meaningful path.

You were interning in pediatric physical therapy at the time. Working with kids who were learning to walk again, move again, breathe again. It was quiet work, but you loved it. You loved how healing was slow, deliberate, full of patience and gentleness.

You had that gentleness, too. Paige always told you so.

“I want that too,” you admitted. “But how would we even start?”

And that’s how it began.

With a shared blanket. With tangled legs and early morning breath. With laptops open and tabs pulled up on donor options and IVF procedures. With you pointing at one clinic in Hartford that had strong LGBTQ+ support ratings. With her clicking the bookmark icon like it made things real.

You decided, together, that you’d carry.

It made the most sense. Paige’s schedule didn’t stop. Yours could adjust. And maybe, deep down, you always knew your body was ready to hold something made of both your love and someone kind enough to give you the rest.

You didn’t tell anyone yet. You just made appointments, took notes, talked quietly while holding hands in waiting rooms. You whispered about names and strollers and baby shoes while curled up on couches, too in love to be afraid.

It was still a secret, but it was yours and it was starting to grow.

The leaves in Storrs hadn’t changed yet, but you could feel it coming. A shift in the air, the promise of yellowed trees and wind chilled just enough to make you reach for Paige’s hoodie instead of your own.

Classes had started again. Practices resumed. Your part-time job at the therapy clinic picked back up, and Paige was already juggling media appearances and early-season training. Life was busy again — the kind of busy that swallowed entire weeks whole.

And yet, you knew something was different.

It started small. Subtle. The kind of tired that didn’t feel like school fatigue. The way your appetite shifted, cravings that came and went with no warning. The occasional wave of nausea that swept in too fast to be anything else.

You didn’t want to say anything too soon. Not until you were sure.

So one morning, a Tuesday, the quiet kind, gray skies and soft rain tapping on the windows, you woke up earlier than Paige and slipped out of bed with your heart pounding.

You took the test in silence.

Paige stirred just as you set it on the counter, her voice raspy and barely awake. “Babe?”

“In here,” you called softly.

She padded into the bathroom barefoot, her hair a mess and hoodie slung halfway off one shoulder. Her eyes landed on the stick next to the sink and she froze.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

The silence was heavy. Electric. The only sound was the ticking clock above the door and the patter of rain against the glass.

Then Paige stepped forward and laced her fingers through yours. Three minutes passed like a lifetime. When you finally turned the stick over to read it, your breath caught in your throat. Paige read it first. Her hand tightened in yours. Her voice cracked.

“Positive.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so you did both.

Paige cupped your face, her thumbs brushing away tears before they even fully fell, and you choked out a soft, stunned laugh. “That’s really it. We’re really doing this.”

She leaned in until her forehead touched yours, her eyes closing like she needed a second to breathe through it. “You’re gonna be the best mom,” she whispered.

You touched her chest. “You are too.”

Her arms wrapped around you then, tight, grounding, shaking a little, and she kissed you like the world had narrowed down to just this moment. The mirror behind you fogged from the warmth of your bodies and the wetness in your eyes, and neither of you cared that the toothbrush cup was knocked over or that the test still sat crooked on the counter.

It was real and it was happening.

You sat together on the bathroom floor for nearly an hour after that, Paige behind you, legs wrapped around your waist, hands resting gently over your stomach. Her voice was low as she asked what came next. Doctor visits. Nutrition plans. Telling friends, eventually. Telling her mom, maybe after the second trimester. Keeping it quiet from the public, but letting the people who mattered in.

“I want her to grow up knowing you” Paige said at one point.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Our daughter,” she said. “If it’s a girl, I want her to know you like I do. The way you soften when you talk to kids. The way you look when you read. The way you cry at Pixar movies and pretend you didn’t. I want her to see all of that.”

You kissed her knuckles. “She will. She’ll know everything good starts with you.”

And Paige… confident, composed, unshakeable on court, looked at you then like she might break open from how full her heart was.

She pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Then your neck. Then your stomach.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered softly to the small bump that hadn’t even begun to form. “It’s me. Your mama. I can’t wait to meet you.”

You sat there with her until your legs went numb and the world outside the bathroom stopped mattering. Because everything that mattered was already in your arms.

You always thought time would slow down in moments like this. That the universe might pause in reverence. That the air itself would hush when the world cracked open to let something new in.

But it didn’t.

Time kept ticking. The monitors kept beeping. The nurse kept speaking in calm, practiced tones. Paige kept pacing, back and forth, back and forth, a bundle of nerves wrapped in a hoodie far too big for the hospital room.

You had been in labor for sixteen hours and Paige had not let go of your hand for fifteen of them.

She stood beside you now, gripping your fingers with both hands, her lips trembling just above your knuckles. Her forehead glistened with a sheen of worry, her voice barely audible over the nurse’s countdown.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Just a little more. You’ve got this.”

You didn’t feel like you had it. You felt like you were splitting open, body and soul. But you kept going. Because at the end of this storm was her. Your daughter. Yours and Paige’s.

And when the last push came, and the room erupted with movement, gloved hands, soft gasps, rustling blankets, it was Paige who cried first.

Not loud sobs. Just a breath caught so deep in her chest it came out shaking, broken, overwhelmed.

You barely registered the sound until the nurse placed a tiny, squirming bundle against your chest, and everything else, the pain, the noise, the sterile lights, faded.

There she was. Skin against yours. Eyes closed. Mouth open in a soft wail that cut through you like sunlight.

And just like that, you were someone’s mother.

Paige pressed her forehead to the crown of your head, both hands cupping your cheeks now as if trying to ground herself in the miracle of it all.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered, breathless.

Paige nodded but couldn’t speak. Her hand drifted down to brush your daughter’s back, gentle and reverent, and you felt her chest rise and fall like the weight of the world had landed right on her ribs.

After a moment, you looked up at her, eyes shining. “I want to name her Madison.”

The words slipped out before you could second-guess them. Paige froze. Her eyes, already glossy, widened in stunned silence. “What?”

You offered a small, teary smile. “After you. It’s always been beautiful to me. Strong. Soft. I think it suits her.”

Paige covered her mouth. It took her a long time to speak. When she did, it was nothing more than a whisper, “You want to name her after me?”

You nodded. And Paige completely broke.

She bent down, burying her face into the crook of your neck as she wept quietly, raw and grateful and completely undone. You felt her shoulders shake against you, felt her lips press again and again to your skin like a promise.

“She’s gonna grow up knowing she was wanted,” Paige said finally. “Loved. So loved.” You looked down at Madison, now blinking up at you both, her tiny fist curled near her chin. “She has your nose,” Paige whispered.

“She has your eyes,” you said with a soft laugh.

And she did. Wide, curious, steady.

You watched Paige hold her for the first time, cradling Madison like she was made of silk and wonder. She kissed her daughter’s forehead like it was sacred, whispered something too soft for you to hear, and smiled like her entire life had narrowed to this exact second.

Outside, the sun was setting, streaks of pink and gold across the sky. Inside, you were a family. And nothing else mattered.

It was supposed to be simple. A quiet Saturday. Just a few extra runs with her teammates before the season officially kicked off again. Paige hadn’t played pickup all summer, not since the birth. She’d insisted she didn’t want to miss a single moment with Madison, her first laugh, her first expression, her first babble and that sacrifice never even felt like one.

But this day, Paige was smiling again in her old way, that edge of competitiveness tugging at her mouth as she laced her shoes and looked at you from across the gym. You were sitting near the benches, legs curled under you, Madison bundled against your chest in a soft sling.

“Don’t cheer too loud,” Paige had called, grinning. “I need to stay humble.”

“You’re playing Azzi,” you shot back. “You’ll humble yourself.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and pointed at Madison. “She’s Team Fudd, obviously.”

Madison babbled something incoherent and reached toward Azzi’s direction, and Paige clutched her chest in fake betrayal. “This is what I get for skipping nap time with you, huh?”

You laughed and shook your head, rocking gently as the baby settled into sleep.

The scrimmage started and the gym filled with the familiar sounds, sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, the echo of friendly trash talk. You watched Paige play with a kind of ease that reminded you why everyone called her a generational talent. She flowed. She directed. She smiled when Azzi sank a corner three over her outstretched fingers and talked her way through every possession like the court was a second home.

You weren’t even watching the ball when it happened. You were watching Paige because you always were. And you knew her body language too well. The second she planted her leg, you saw it. Something was wrong. She pushed off, pivoted midair, and… Her scream didn’t sound like her. It was sharp. Immediate. Pain laced with panic.

Your heart stopped. The gym did too. Everything blurred but her.

You stood, too fast, Madison clutched tightly to your chest, and rushed forward. Azzi was already kneeling beside Paige, calling her name, but Paige wasn’t answering, she was writhing, hand gripping her knee, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

“Take her,” you said to Azzi, breathless, already dropping to your knees.

“What—”

“Take her,” you said again, more urgently, passing Madison off as gently as you could. Azzi caught the baby without question, holding her close.

You didn’t care who was around. You dropped beside Paige and cupped her face, your voice tight and shaking.

“Hey, hey-look at me. Look at me, baby.”

Paige’s eyes cracked open, wet with pain, panic swimming in them.

“It’s my knee,” she gasped, her voice thready. “I heard something pop. I-I can’t—”

“Shhh. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” You stroked her hair back, tried to keep your own hands steady even as the worst-case scenarios clawed through your brain.

She was trembling. Jaw clenched. The trainers finally pushed through the group and began assessing her leg, gently instructing her not to move. Paige’s hand found yours again and squeezed until your knuckles turned white.

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. Not yet. Because she needed you more than ever.

They brought the stretcher in minutes later. Paige refused it at first, her pride still louder than her pain, but you kneeled beside her the whole time, whispering soft reassurances that didn’t sound like anything real, just broken pieces of comfort stitched together.

Azzi handed Madison back to you just before they wheeled Paige out.

Your daughter was crying. Maybe because she felt it, the shift in the room, the tension, the way her mama’s arms weren’t the ones holding her anymore. You held Madison tighter and followed them out into the hallway.

Paige kept looking for you, over her shoulder, through tears, through clenched teeth. You were always there. Always.

By the time she was loaded into the ambulance, you had Madison strapped in beside you, hand on Paige’s arm, never once letting go.

The apartment never felt louder than when it was quiet.

The silence after Paige’s surgery was thick, the kind that crawled into the corners of rooms, stretched across ceilings, and settled like dust over every shared blanket and half-sipped mug of tea. She was home. She was safe. The surgery had gone well. But none of that seemed to matter to her in those first few days. She barely spoke.

The woman who once couldn’t go ten minutes without cracking a joke or throwing out a stat or narrating her own highlights in third person was quiet now. Not angry or cold. Just… quiet.

She sat on the couch with her leg elevated, wrapped in layers of gauze and ace bandages. Her crutches leaned against the armrest, untouched. A dull ice machine hummed beside her. She stared out the window more often than she watched TV.

You’d offered everything, her favorite snacks, movies, playlists, back scratches, your terrible jokes. She smiled, sometimes. Even laughed, once. But her spirit had dimmed. Until Madison reached for her.

It was during one afternoon, golden light spilling through the windows, and you had just laid a blanket across the living room floor so Madison could have tummy time. Paige sat nearby, distant, her hand absently resting on her swollen knee.

And then Madison, barely a couple weeks old, still clumsy, still unsteady, wobbled on her elbows, lifted her head, and let out a noise.

“Mmma.”

It wasn’t a full word. It was more like a sound. A syllable made out of instinct. But Paige’s head snapped toward her so fast you nearly dropped your tea.

“Mmma,” Madison said again, tiny hand waving through the air like she was reaching for something she couldn’t name.

And something in Paige just cracked.

She leaned forward carefully, wincing, and lowered herself down to the floor. You moved to help, but she held up a hand. “Let me.”

You watched her settle down slowly, one elbow at a time, until she was lying beside Madison on the blanket, face to face with her daughter.

“Hey, baby,” Paige whispered, voice already thick with emotion. “You saying hi to me?”

Madison babbled nonsense in return and smacked her little hand against Paige’s collarbone. Paige laughed, wet and raw.

You didn’t say anything. You just knelt nearby, watching the girl you loved rediscover a piece of herself in the soft weight of her daughter’s hands.

That became the new rhythm. Paige didn’t return to the court, but she started to return to herself.

She woke up first most mornings to scoop Madison out of her bassinet and hum lullabies while you slept a little longer. She changed diapers, awkwardly at first, like she was defusing a bomb, but she got good at it. She mastered the bottle warmer. She talked to Madison like she was already five, telling her about basketball plays and inside jokes and how much she missed playing with Azzi.

“I think she’s the one healing me,” Paige admitted one night as you both lay in bed, Madison asleep in the bassinet beside you. “Not the rest or the rehab. Just her. Just… being here.”

You turned to her, brushing hair away from her face. “I know.”

“She doesn’t care if I score twenty points or zero. She just lights up when I walk into the room.”

“She knows you,” you said simply. “Like I do.”

Paige kissed you… slow, deep, grateful.

You fell asleep that night with her hand curled around your waist and the soft sound of Madison’s breathing filling the room like a lullaby.

Every evening after that, Paige started a new tradition. Right before sunset, she’d call you and Madison to the front door. With her knee still stiff but improving, she’d wrap the baby against her chest in the sling and lean on you as the three of you went on slow walks around the block.

She’d talk the whole time, to you, to Madison, to the trees. Her voice wasn’t fully steady yet, but it carried more warmth with each passing day. You stopped at the same park bench every night. Paige would sit, Madison would nap, and you would press your head to her shoulder.

One evening, as the sky turned lavender and the wind rustled the leaves above you, Paige whispered, “Maybe this was supposed to happen.” You looked at her and she met your eyes. “The injury. The time off. Being here with you and her. It hurts, but… maybe it’s a gift, too.”

You didn’t need to say anything. You just kissed her softly, tasted salt and sunlight, and held her hand until the sky went dark.

The balloons arrived at 9:00 a.m. sharp, pastel pink, sunshine yellow, mint green, and soft lilac. Paige nearly cried just looking at them.

“You did all this?” she asked, her voice already cracking.

You shrugged, pretending you hadn’t triple checked the delivery time and added the glitter-dipped ribbons yourself at midnight. “She’s only turning one once.”

Madison’s first birthday wasn’t supposed to be extravagant. You and Paige had agreed on something small, intimate, just a few close friends, some cupcakes, a playlist of Disney lullabies. But somehow, like all things involving your daughter, it had turned into something bigger.

Azzi was the first to arrive, thirty minutes early and armed with two giant bags of gifts and a personalized jersey that said “MADISON” across the back in glittery lettering and wore a tiara.

You looked at her, amused. “That for you or the baby?”

Azzi grinned. “Both. I’m her godmother. I take the title seriously.”

Paige rolled her eyes but kissed Azzi’s cheek anyway. “She missed you.”

“She’s not the only one,” Azzi murmured, her gaze softening as she caught sight of Madison toddling along the play mat in the living room, a butterfly clip in her wispy hair.

The others trickled in slowly, a blend of teammates, friends from UConn, and a few chosen family members who had loved Madison from the moment she entered the world. Everyone brought something, toys, snacks, stories. But no one brought cameras.

That was sacred. Still, the moments felt cinematic.

Paige wore a simple white T-shirt with “MAMA” printed across the chest and joggers that had cupcake frosting smudged on the thigh from an earlier kitchen mishap. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, her face radiant in a way you hadn’t seen since before the injury. She moved through the apartment with Madison always within arm’s reach, lifting her onto her hip, blowing raspberries into her stomach, letting her ‘help’ unwrap presents by tearing at the corners with her tiny fists.

You caught her at one point, just standing there. Not moving. Not speaking. Just staring at your daughter like she was something too precious to touch.

You walked up and wrapped your arms around her from behind. “What’re you thinking about?”

She didn’t answer at first. “I’ve never loved anything more than I love you two.”

You rested your chin on her shoulder. “She’s your whole world, huh?”

“She’s the reason I still believe in good things,” Paige whispered.

The party went on around you, Azzi chasing Madison with a sparkly wand, confetti popping out of tubes you forgot you’d ordered, a cake with flowers made of frosting and a single candle that Paige insisted Madison blow out herself, even though she only succeeded in spitting all over it.

When it came time to open the gifts, Madison lost interest after the second box and preferred playing with the tissue paper. Paige didn’t mind. She watched her daughter crumple the paper with such delight that she leaned into your ear and whispered, “We could’ve just gotten her a grocery bag and she’d be thrilled.”

You laughed, tears stinging your eyes from how full the day felt.

Then Azzi stood up, cleared her throat, and said, “Alright, speech time. From the godmother.” The room quieted. Azzi looked at Madison, who was now sitting on Paige’s lap, happily chewing on a wooden block. “I’ve known Paige since we were just kids trying to figure out life while playing basketball,” Azzi began, voice steady but filled with emotion. “And I remember when she first talked about having a family. Not just someday, but really, a family she’d love with everything she had. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her more whole than when she became a mom.” She looked at you next. “And you… I mean, you’re the glue. You held her through everything. Injury. Fame. Fear. Joy. You created this life with her. You gave us Madison.” Azzi’s voice cracked just slightly. “I’m honored to be in her life. To be her godmother. And I promise, no matter what, she’ll always know how fiercely she’s loved.”

Paige was crying by then. You were, too. Azzi sat down and mumbled something about “stupid baby parties turning people into puddles.”

You and Paige cut the cake together, one hand each on the knife, Madison between you, licking icing off her fingers. Later, when the sun set and the guests left and the apartment quieted, you found Paige standing in Madison’s room, rocking her slowly in the dim glow of a nightlight.

“She’s out,” Paige whispered, smiling down at her daughter. “Long day.”

You leaned in the doorway, watching the two of them. “You tired too?”

“Yeah. But in the best way.”

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around both of them, careful not to jostle the baby. Paige rested her head on your shoulder.

“She’s not a baby forever,” she said softly.

“No,” you agreed. “But she’ll always be ours.”

The final buzzer was still echoing when Paige dropped to her knees at half court.

Not in pain, not anymore. But in awe.

Of the moment. Of the journey. Of the five years that had brought her here, back to the top, with gold confetti raining from the rafters and her name echoing through the stadium like a heartbeat. A national champion.

You watched it all from just beyond the barrier, Madison on your hip, her little fists clenching tight around the edge of her hoodie as she blinked up at the falling gold like she’d never seen anything so magical.

Your heart had been pounding all game. Not with nerves, those faded long ago. But with something quieter. Pride. Gratitude. That kind of breathless reverence you feel when someone you love finally comes home to themselves.

When Paige stood, the first person she looked for was you. Not the cameras. Not the crowd. Not the photographers waiting for their shot. She looked for you. And you were already moving before she even raised her hand, slipping past security with a practiced nod, weaving through the sideline chaos until you were there. She didn’t speak. She just pulled you in, burying her face into your neck, arms wrapped around both you and Madison in one long, unshakable hold. Your daughter squealed at the embrace, caught somewhere between laughter and confusion as she clutched a fistful of Paige’s jersey and looked around at the glittering chaos.

“She thinks we’re at a birthday party,” you joked softly.

Paige smiled against your skin. “It kinda feels like one.”

You stood together for a while, letting the team take their photos, letting the crowd cheer, letting the moment live.

Eventually, Paige’s mom made her way over, face red from crying, arms already outstretched. “Gimme that baby,” she whispered, eyes on Madison.

You passed her over gently, brushing your fingers along Madison’s curls. “You sure?”

“Please,” her mom grinned. “You two need a night. It’s been… God, it’s been a while.”

Paige glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

“We’ll meet you at the hotel later,” you told her mom. “Promise.”

That night, the hotel room felt impossibly quiet.

Paige was still in her championship shirt, barefoot now, hair wet from a quick shower and eyes glassy with exhaustion. You lay on the bed, turned sideways, facing each other. The room smelled like soap and leftover champagne. The confetti Madison had stuffed into her jacket pocket earlier was now spread across the dresser like glittered breadcrumbs.

Neither of you rushed to speak. You didn’t need to. Eventually, Paige reached for your hand. Traced your knuckles. Ran her thumb over the faint groove where your wedding ring always sat, even when the world didn’t know.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

You hummed. “Dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes. “Seriously.”

“Okay. Thinking about what?”

She looked at the ceiling. “The draft’s close.”

“I know.”

“I think I’m ready.”

You shifted, studying her. “You sound unsure.”

“I’m not,” she said. “It’s just… everything’s about to change again. New city. New team. New schedule. And for the first time… I’m not scared of it.” You moved closer until your legs were tangled. She kept talking, voice soft. “I think it’s because I know you’re coming with me. Both of you.”

“Of course we are.”

“And I’m tired of hiding,” Paige said suddenly. You blinked. “Not in a public announcement kind of way,” she clarified quickly. “But… if someone sees us holding hands? If a fan catches us at dinner with Mads and figures it out? I don’t care anymore. I want to be seen with you.”

You sat in silence for a beat. “We’ve spent years holding this love like a secret.”

Paige looked at you, eyes burning with something fierce and honest. “Maybe it’s time we hold it like a promise instead.”

Your chest ached at that. The good kind of ache, the kind that only comes from surviving something with someone you never stopped choosing.

“So… Dallas?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Dallas,” Paige confirmed. “A place with sun, space and a guest room for Azzi so she can crash and spoil Madison.” You laughed. Paige reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I want a backyard. I want to teach Madison how to ride a bike. I want to grill and mess it up, and have you make fun of me while she throws marshmallows at me.”

You leaned in. “You’re getting very suburban.”

She grinned. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s always a yes with you.”

The house was still mostly boxes when Paige picked Madison up and twirled her in a circle between the kitchen and the living room.

“Where do you wanna put your toys, baby girl?” she asked, adjusting the toddler on her hip.

Madison tilted her head dramatically, curls bouncing, and pointed at a random corner with absolute confidence. “Dere.”

Paige blinked. “The kitchen?”

“Yah,” Madison declared, nodding.

You laughed from where you were unpacking plates. “She wants to be close to snacks. She’s her mama’s daughter.”

Paige gave Madison a fake stern look. “You’re a traitor.”

Madison squealed, unbothered, and gripped her mama’s cheeks with both hands. “Snack! Paw-cawn! Chee tihhhks!”

You melted at the sound of her voice, her baby babble had sharpened into syllables you could mostly understand, but it was still laced with that innocent chaos only a two year old could conjure. She was always narrating, always chatting, always looking between you and Paige like her world hadn’t extended past the two of you just yet.

You hoped it never would. Paige’s first official practice with the Dallas Wings was three days later.

And from the moment she put on that navy blue warmup set with the new team stitched across her chest, you could feel something settle in her again. Not ego or nerves. Just purpose. Her steps had weight again. Her shoulders sat straight. She kissed your forehead before you left the apartment like it was ritual, then bent down and pressed her lips to Madison’s curls.

“You ready to come meet the squad, little mama?” she whispered.

Madison nodded solemnly and whispered back, “I gonna say hi.”

You chuckled from the door. “She says that until she sees strangers, then she hides in your neck.”

“I do not,” Madison said with a frown.

“You definitely do.”

“Nooo I brave!” she declared, smacking her hands against her chest.

Paige raised a brow. “Who taught her that?”

You gave her a look. “Who do you think? You gave her a full pep talk before a doctor’s appointment last week.”

Paige beamed. “She took the shot like a champ, though.”

“She cried into my shirt for ten minutes.”

“Still a champ.”

The drive to the facility was calm. Madison hummed along to a song that wasn’t playing, a quiet little tune she made up under her breath that consisted mostly of the word “basketball” repeated in three different tempos. Paige drove one handed, the other is gripping your thigh.

The facility wasn’t what you expected—brighter, friendlier, warmer. You had pictured something clinical. But the front desk staff waved when Paige walked in, and one of the assistants was already holding open the door.

And then you stepped into the gym, Madison in Paige’s arms, your hand tucked in hers, and everything paused. Literally.

DiJonai had been mid-dribble and just froze, mouth hanging open slightly. NaLyssa Smith, mid-stretch, sat up straight and stared.

“Um…” DiJonai finally said, eyes wide. “Bueckers?”

Paige gave a sheepish smile. “Hey.”

“Are you holding a baby right now?”

Paige looked down at Madison, who was fully tucked into her side like a koala. “Yep.”

“And that’s your…” DiJonai’s voice trailed off as she tried to do the math.

“My daughter,” Paige said simply, without hesitation. She squeezed your hand. “And this is my wife.”

You gave a small wave, nerves twitching in your gut despite yourself. There was silence for one beat longer, and then NaLyssa stood up, walked over, and grinned. “I’ve got so many questions.”

Paige laughed. “Later. I promise.”

Madison blinked up at the new faces, uncertain. She pressed her cheek into Paige’s neck and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Mama I shy now.”

Paige rubbed her back. “It’s okay, Mads. Wanna say hi?”

“Noooo,” Madison whispered, peeking with one eye. “But I wave.”

And she did. A tiny, tentative little hand raising in the air. The entire gym cooed in unison.

DiJonai’s face melted into a smile. “Oh, you’re done for. She runs this team now.”

“I accepted my fate,” Paige said.

Practice started soon after. You took Madison to sit on the sidelines where some chairs had been set up. She sat in your lap with a sippy cup, watching her mama run drills and shout plays with wide eyes.

At one point, DiJonai jogged over during a water break and crouched in front of Madison. “Hey, little queen. You wanna be my hype woman?”

Madison blinked. “Go, go, gooo!”

DiJonai stood and pointed. “See? She gets it.”

Later, when practice wrapped, and the gym started to clear, Paige walked straight toward you, sweat-slicked and breathless, a towel around her neck.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Better than okay,” you said. “They love you. And her.”

“She didn’t cry once,” Paige said proudly.

“She did,” you corrected. “When you did sprints and left her line of sight for five seconds.”

Paige winced. “Oof. My bad.”

You kissed her shoulder. “She recovered.”

Madison toddled up between you both and lifted her arms. “Up.”

Paige bent, picked her up, and kissed her head. “You my biggest fan?”

Madison nodded. “I yell go!”

You and Paige laughed, and Paige held her close. “You’re the only one I’ll listen to,” she whispered. And then she looked at you. “I mean both of you.” And you believed her.

It was early May, and the sky over Minneapolis looked like it remembered you.

You hadn’t been back in almost a year. Not since before Paige’s last year at Uconn, before the confetti, before the flight that turned your shared dream into something sunlit and real. Now you were here again, home in a new way and you were holding Paige’s hand like it still meant something sacred. Because it did.

The Target Center glowed against the evening skyline. A quiet pulse of light and noise. Inside, the crowd buzzed like a charged wire. Every banner fluttered. Every seat filled. The Wings were here to open the season against the Lynx. And for the first time, Paige was wearing a WNBA jersey, her name stitched across the back, number five gleaming under the lights.

You adjusted Madison’s pink earmuffs gently, making sure they sat snug against her curls. She was bouncing on your lap, kicking her tiny sneakers against the courtside padding, singing something to herself with no real melody and a whole lot of joy.

“Baskebahhhlll,” she murmured. “Go mama. Go mama gooo.” She clapped her hands out of sync with anything in particular, then pointed when she saw the players warming up. “Is dat mama?”

You smiled, following her gaze. “Yep. That’s Mama. And you know who else is here?”

“KK,” she said confidently.

“And Uncle Drew.”

She looked around eagerly, head turning like a radar until she spotted them a few seats down. KK waved dramatically, already holding up a stuffed bear with a jersey on it. Drew gave a goofy double thumbs-up. Madison squealed.

Paige had insisted you all come. Not just because it was her debut or because it was Minnesota. But because this was the game that changed everything, not in some cinematic, game winning shot kind of way, but in the way her name would echo across her home state, this time not as a girl with potential, but as a professional. A woman with her world already built.

The game was tight from tip off. The Wings fought like hell—aggressive, young, scrappy. Paige played like she had something to prove, even if she didn’t need to. Her handles were sharp. Her vision, lethal. She talked on defense. She hit two corner threes and pointed to Drew in the crowd after each one, laughing. You couldn’t stop smiling.

And Madison? She couldn’t stop talking. “Mama runnin’! Mama fasss!”

You hushed her gently when the crowd got quiet, but it didn’t matter, she had no idea she was in an arena. To her, this was still just her mama doing cool things while she watched from your lap with her little bunny tucked under one arm and crumbs on her shirt from the cookies KK snuck her.

The Wings lost… barely. A final turnover in the last minute gave the Lynx the edge, and the buzzer sounded over a restless, roaring crowd. But Paige didn’t look disappointed. She looked… proud. She had played well. She had walked into her home state and given them something to remember.

And the very first thing she did after shaking hands with the opposing team? She looked for you. You stood, already lifting Madison into your arms. The little girl blinked, recognized Paige across the court, and shouted her name with a joy so loud it turned heads.

“MAMAAAAA!”

You saw the exact moment Paige heard her. She broke into a breathy laugh, tilted her head back for a second like she was catching her breath, then made a beeline straight across the court. Security parted instinctively. Cameras turned. But all she saw… all she wanted… was you. And your daughter. She reached you, eyes wet with emotion, and scooped Madison up into her arms.

“Did you see me out there?” she asked her softly, pressing kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, her nose.

Madison nodded. “You go vewy fast. And you jump so good.”

Paige grinned. “You’re the best hype woman ever.”

You stepped closer, brushing hair from Paige’s damp temple. “You were incredible.”

She leaned into your touch. “Only because you’re both here.”

Together, you walked toward the tunnel, Paige holding Madison, you holding Paige’s hand.

Fans waved as you passed. Some smiled. Some pointed. A few phones came up, not many. The whispers hadn’t started. The questions hadn’t formed. But they would. And this time… you weren’t afraid.

Madison waved at the crowd like Paige always did after a win. Paige smiled and whispered, “She’s a natural.” You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Because as the tunnel swallowed you in shadows and quiet, and the arena noise faded behind you, Paige shifted Madison to her other arm, took your hand in hers, and whispered one thing, “I’ve never felt more like myself than I do right now.”

It felt like returning to the place where everything began, only now you weren’t just two girls in love trying to keep it quiet. You were a family, no longer hiding, simply living in the open spaces between who you’d been and who you were becoming.

Mohegan Sun Arena looked the same. The light, the noise, the energy, all pulsing in familiar rhythm. But this time, you weren’t sitting courtside. This time, you were in the stands, nestled among friends who had once been your world and still somehow were.

Azzi clutched Madison in her lap like she’d never let her go again. She was wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and a soft pink baseball cap that Madison had already stolen and returned three times.

“Do you miss her?” you asked, watching the way Azzi kept whispering into your daughter’s curls.

Azzi gave you a look. “I think about her every damn day. Y’all stole my child.”

“She FaceTimed you yesterday.”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “It’s not the same.”

KK sat beside her, a giant bag of popcorn in one hand and a water bottle she hadn’t touched in the other. “Mads,” she said between bites, “when you gonna come live with your aunties?”

Madison blinked at her, unimpressed. “I wiff Mama.”

Azzi laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

The game started quickly, Wings vs. Sun, energy crackling through the packed arena. But you felt something different this time. It wasn’t nerves. It wasn’t pride. It was something else.

Eyes. You could feel them. They weren’t aggressive. But they lingered… sideways glances, whispered words exchanged between rows, curious looks that trailed back to you and Madison. To the way your daughter sat perfectly nestled in Azzi’s lap with her earmuffs on, babbling loudly every time she saw Paige on the court.

“There go Mama!” she shouted at least once per quarter, finger extended dramatically.

Each time, a few people turned. Each time, your heart clenched, not in fear, but in awareness. They were starting to piece it together.

It wasn’t just the resemblance. It was the way Madison lit up every time Paige came near. It was the way Azzi, KK, and the rest of the UConn players treated the child like she was royalty. It was the way you—quiet, observant, low-profile—always looked at Paige like the game was secondary and she was the story.

You felt one girl behind you whisper, “That’s her, right? The girl that’s always at her games? I think she’s, like… her partner or something.”

The word didn’t sting. It echoed. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t react. You just reached over, brushed a curl from Madison’s forehead, and kissed it softly.

“Mama go?” Madison asked again, louder this time.

“Soon,” you said. “She’s almost done.”

The Wings were up by twelve with three minutes left. Paige had played a quiet, efficient game, high percentage scoring, high assists, constant leadership. The kind of game you’d only recognize as excellent if you understood how to read her movements. How she directed traffic. How she passed before her teammate even called for it. She looked up often, eyes scanning the crowd until they found the same row. Yours. And when they did, her entire face changed. Not dramatically. Not in a way that anyone else would notice. But you did. The tension in her shoulders loosened. Her chest rose softer. Her smile tilted just slightly. That’s all it took.

The final buzzer sounded not long after. Wings win their first game. Paige Bueckers still undefeated at Mohegan Sun.

Fans filed out slowly, but your group stayed. A staff member came over and handed Madison a small basketball, something promotional, rubbery, too big for her tiny hands but perfect in her eyes.

“I hold ball,” she declared.

“You better share,” KK warned. “I called dibs.”

“Noooo,” Madison said. “Mama coming?” She said it like it was inevitable. And she was right. A minute later, Paige stepped out of the tunnel, in her warmups, towel around her neck, hair damp with sweat. Her eyes found Madison instantly. The moment the toddler saw her, she screamed, “MAMAAAA!”

And then she ran. Her steps were clumsy, wobbly, loud. Fans still lingering turned to watch, not knowing what to expect. But they knew, the second Paige dropped to her knees in the middle of the hallway and held her arms out like the whole world rested in that moment.

Madison crashed into her.

“Hi, baby girl,” Paige whispered, lifting her easily, spinning her once, kissing her cheeks.

You watched from a few steps back, the clamor of recognition finally starting to ripple around you.

“That’s Paige Bueckers’ kid.” “Wait… is that her girlfriend?” “No way.” “They’ve been together this whole time?”

You didn’t turn around. You just walked forward, placed a hand gently on Paige’s back, and kissed her shoulder. She looked up at you, Madison’s curls mashed against her collarbone, and smiled.

“I missed you,” she said.

“You saw us an hour ago,” you teased.

“I miss you every hour.”

You leaned in, eyes on her, voice low. “Let them talk.”

“I hope they do,” she murmured.

And then, in front of the whispers, the stares, the uncertain eyes, Paige Bueckers, number five, national champion, rookie sensation, pressed her lips softly to your cheek and whispered one last thing, “This is the only team I’ll ever need.”

The morning started the way the best days always did. With sunlight creeping across the hardwood floors, Madison already awake, and Paige pretending she wasn’t.

You were in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, stirring pancake batter while the coffee brewed slowly behind you. The apartment was warm, alive with the sound of Madison’s humming from the hallway. She was dragging her stuffed bunny across the floor by one ear, narrating her morning routine in a half-English, half-toddler dialect that only you and Paige had mastered decoding.

“Mama’s sweepin’. She be sweepin’. Shhh,” Madison whispered dramatically, pointing down the hallway like you weren’t already fully aware.

You crouched down to her level, grinning. “Want to help wake her up?”

Madison’s eyes lit up. “We do da tickles?”

“The tickles,” you confirmed.

Together, you tiptoed into the bedroom like a stealth operation, Madison leading the way, already giggling behind her tiny hand. Paige lay sprawled across the bed in a tangle of blankets, one arm over her eyes, hair a mess, and somehow still the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Madison climbed onto the bed first. You waited. One beat. Two. Then Madison pounced.

“MAMAAAA!”

Paige grunted. “Betrayed. By my own child.”

Madison was relentless, small fingers poking at Paige’s ribs, her sides, her face. “You ‘sweep too wong,” she said with an exaggerated frown. “You miss pancakes!”

“Pancakes?!” Paige’s eyes flew open. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

You climbed in beside them, tossing a pillow over your head. “I told you I’d make them.”

“You did,” Paige yawned, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “But I had a dream you brought them to me in bed.”

You kissed her nose. “Dream smaller.”

By the time the three of you made it back to the kitchen, it was chaos, Madison demanding her pancakes be shaped like bunnies, Paige trying to flip hers with way too much confidence, you pretending not to notice the flour on the floor and the butter in Madison’s hair.

Eventually, you all ended up on the couch, full and warm, cartoons humming softly in the background. Paige was on one end, legs stretched out, Madison on her chest like a tiny human blanket, head tucked under her chin. You sat beside them with a book you weren’t reading, more focused on the way Paige’s fingers absentmindedly traced circles on Madison’s back.

“She’s getting heavier,” Paige murmured.

“She’s growing,” you whispered.

Madison stirred a little, then settled again, clutching a corner of Paige’s shirt in her fist.

“She’s perfect,” Paige said, eyes on her daughter. “We really did this.”

You nodded, resting your head against her shoulder. “You’re pretty perfect too.”

“Please,” Paige scoffed quietly. “I almost burned the pancakes. She called them ‘cwunchy.’”

“They were,” you grinned.

“Hey,” Paige said, squeezing your thigh. “You’re legally required to support me.”

“I’m legally required to love you. Supporting you is extra.”

Paige smiled, eyes closing. “Thanks for the extra.”

The rest of the day passed slowly. The best kind of slow, board games with missing pieces, coloring books spread across the floor, finger paint that somehow ended up on the windowsill, and a dance party that ended with Madison passed out in Paige’s arms before dinner.

You all sat in the dim light of the living room as the sun set, the windows open just enough to let the warm Dallas air drift in. Paige had her arm around you, Madison’s tiny legs tucked over both your laps, the three of you tangled up in each other like roots in soft soil.

At one point, Paige looked down at Madison and whispered, “What did we ever do to deserve her?”

You looked at them both and smiled. “Love each other right.”

And maybe that was the answer to everything.

You saw it before Paige did.

It was a quiet Monday, the kind that slipped in unnoticed. Madison was halfway through a morning nap, sprawled across the couch like a queen with her stuffed animals arranged around her in perfect chaos. Paige had just returned from a team lift, still in compression tights and a cutoff hoodie, sipping a smoothie and humming softly under her breath.

You were folding laundry. Or pretending to, anyway, your phone buzzed once, and you caught the name of the outlet in the notification before you even opened it.

The Athletic.

Your stomach tightened slightly, not out of fear, but out of instinct. You tapped the headline.

“More Than a Point Guard. Paige Bueckers’ Return, Her Growth, and the Family That Grounds Her”

You read the first few paragraphs slowly. Carefully. Each word felt balanced on a thread, written not like a tabloid but like someone trying to understand without invading. There were no names. No specifics. Just quiet observations, pieced together with intention.

“Sources close to the Wings’ locker room say that Bueckers, known for her reserved demeanor and private nature, is often the last to leave practice—but never alone. She’s seen quietly slipping out a side door, a toddler on her hip, and someone always waiting just outside with a smile that could split the sky.”

“It’s not a secret, and it’s not a spectacle. But in a league built on visibility, Bueckers has done something remarkable—she’s created a life entirely her own, visible only to those she chooses. And within that life, there seems to be something steady. Something whole.”

“There’s talk of a marriage. Talk of a daughter. No confirmations. No denials. Just the glint of a ring, the sound of a baby’s laugh echoing across empty gyms, and the warmth in Bueckers’ eyes whenever she glances toward the stands.”

You looked up, your throat dry, and found Paige watching you.

“What is it?” she asked.

You handed her the phone. She read slowly, one hand on her smoothie, the other reaching blindly for yours. When she finished, she was quiet. Her thumb rested against the edge of the screen. Her breathing didn’t change, but something in her expression softened.

“They didn’t name you,” she said.

You nodded. “They didn’t have to.”

She looked at you. “Are you okay with it?”

“I am,” you said. And you meant it.

Because it didn’t feel like exposure.

It felt like a door gently creaking open, not kicked, not forced. Just opened wide enough for the world to see what you’d built. Paige scrolled again, rereading a few lines.

“They were kind,” she murmured.

“Because they saw what you are.”

She looked up at you. “What am I?”

“More than a point guard.”

That night, the internet didn’t explode. It hummed.

Fans tweeted quotes from the article like poetry. Screenshots of highlighted paragraphs. Soft speculation. Questions, yes, but not the kind that demanded answers. Just quiet curiosity, threaded with awe.

“I don’t care who Paige Bueckers is dating or if she has a kid. But the way this article talks about her? It was real respectful.”

“The most Paige thing ever is being married with a child for years and nobody finding out until someone noticed the way she smiles into the crowd.”

Paige read each one slowly, Madison curled in her lap, her thumb brushing along her daughter’s chubby thigh. “Are we… okay with this?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “They see us. Not all of us. Just enough.”

Paige pressed her lips to Madison’s temple. “We still keep it ours, though.”

“Always.”

Indianapolis was alive with light and noise.

Banners lined the streets. Billboards pulsed with orange. Every hotel lobby buzzed with familiar faces, players, coaches, media, fans. The air hummed with something different now. Not just celebration. Not just basketball. But a sense that women’s sports weren’t whispering anymore. They were roaring.

And Paige—your Paige—was walking her first-ever All-Star orange carpet like she belonged there. Because she did.

You were standing a few feet back, Madison on your hip, Azzi just behind you in white wide-leg jeans and a cropped tee, making jokes about how Bob was acting like Paige’s dad slash manager. Paige didn’t complain. Her dad, standing off to the side with quiet pride in his eyes, had spent the morning telling stories about baby Paige crossing over little boys in their driveway. You didn’t miss the way he looked at her now, a little in awe, a little emotional.

She looked unreal.

Cream baggy pants with patches stitched along the legs. A sleeveless cardigan, neckline deep just enough to show her necklace, the one with the little “M” charm tucked against her chest. She’d slipped it on before you left the hotel without saying a word, just looked at you in the mirror and smiled.

You and Madison were both in summer dresses, yours a soft, linen green that made Paige whistle when you walked out of the bathroom earlier, Madison’s white with blue flowers, the straps tied in loose bows on her shoulders. She’d insisted on wearing lip gloss, and you hadn’t had the heart to say no.

The orange carpet was chaos. Cameras flashing, reporters shouting names, fans screaming from the barricades. Paige handled it the way she always did, calm, collected, a half-smirk on her face like she was both part of it and floating just above it.

And then, somehow, like it always happened, you all ended up drifting apart just a little.

Azzi and Drew got stopped by an influencer for something involving TikTok. Paige was off to the side with some of the other players there—Napheesa, Gabbie, Jackie Young, NaLyssa, Dijonai—Maddie balanced on her hip like it was second nature. And you? You were sipping a small water bottle when the girl approached.

“Hi! Sorry,” she said, chipper and confident, holding a mic with a sticker that read WagTalk. “I run an account that does player partner interviews. Would you be down to answer a few fun questions? Just light stuff, like, ‘how well do you know your WNBA girlfriend?’” You blinked. She was already pulling up her camera app. “Totally fine if not, obviously! But you’re kind of iconic. No one knows anything about you two officially, so…”

You hesitated. Then glanced toward Paige. She had Madison on one arm, talking to Phee and cracking up about something, but when she felt your eyes, she looked over, and gave you a single, subtle nod. Not permission, but a sign of trust. So you smiled at the girl and said, “Sure.”

The camera was already rolling. The mic picked up your voice clearly.

“Okay!” she said, clearly relieved. “This one’s called ‘How Well Do You Know Your WNBA Girlfriend?’ Ready?”

You smiled, nodded.

“What college did she go to?”

You didn’t hesitate. “UConn.”

“Easy,” the girl laughed. “What’s your girlfriend’s career high in the W?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Thirty-five points.”

“Correct!” she grinned. “What year did she win Gatorade Player of the Year?”

“2020.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Someone did their homework.”

“I was there,” you said simply.

She smiled, then jumped into the next. “Okay, fourth question—year, pick, and team she got drafted?”

You didn’t blink. “2025. Number one pick. Dallas Wings.”

A soft gasp came from behind the camera. “Okay, okay! Last one—how many national championships did she win?”

“One,” you said.

She nodded approvingly, then leaned in with a cheeky grin. “Girlfriend reveal, it’s…”

You smiled, soft and steady.

“Well—” you said, your voice light, “wife. And it’s Paige Bueckers.”

The girl stepped back, stunned. “That was—wow. Thank you. Seriously. That was—”

You waved gently, already turning to make your way back toward your family.

By the time you reached them, Paige had Madison up on her shoulders, the toddler gripping her mama’s hair with both hands and babbling about “dat big orange thing” she saw on the carpet. Paige was laughing softly, swaying to keep balance, before she spotted you. The look she gave you said everything.

You nodded, slow and sure. “It’s done,” you said quietly.

Paige tilted her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

She leaned down just enough to kiss you—nothing dramatic, just a soft press of lips to temple, then cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“Let them know,” she said.

And somehow, the world already did.

By the time the sun dipped lower and the pre-weekend media cycle picked up, the video was everywhere.

Clips played on Instagram stories. Tweets lit up with screenshots. Slow motion edits of you smiling while saying “well, wife” surfaced with background music. The fans—shocked, thrilled, moved—pieced it together with the old clips. The stares. The glimpses. The quiet devotion.

It had been a long time since you and Paige got to go anywhere without a diaper bag or a crayon-stained snack pouch. You hadn’t worn heels in weeks. She hadn’t worn cologne since Madison had developed a habit of sneezing on command for attention.

But tonight?

Tonight was different.

Her dad had taken Maddie with a proud grin and a wink—“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t convince me to buy another stuffed animal. Or four.”—and Paige had kissed her Maddie's, whispered “be good for Papa,” and turned to you with a look that made your pulse stumble.

She’d worn black tailored pants and a light blue collared zip up sweater, simple but clean. Her hair was pulled back in a slick bun, a silver chain resting against her collarbone, and the second you stepped out of the elevator into the party, heads turned—because Paige Bueckers didn’t just walk into a room, she glided.

You wore a red silk dress, one Paige had picked out without telling you, claiming it matched your mouth when you were about to say something smart. She hadn’t let go of your hand since you’d walked through the door.

The party was alive—pulsing music, laughter bouncing off the walls, neon lights that made every drink sparkle a little brighter. Players mingled in clusters, sneakers traded for heels and platforms, jerseys swapped for crop tops and chains. You spotted familiar faces already dancing with Angel, Sabrina laughing with Aaliyah Boston over something that had both of them nearly doubled over.

You and Paige found a quieter corner, where she ordered two drinks—Dirty Shirleys, both with extra cherry, because you teased her once and she never forgot.

“You trying to get me drunk on sugar?” you asked.

She leaned in. “No, but I’m tryna taste cherry on your lips later.”

Your laugh was soft. Familiar. She knew just how to draw it out.

You barely had time to take a sip before two figures approached with a kind of chaotic energy that made everyone in their path turn and smile.

Courtney Williams and Natisha Heideman.

You’d seen them online, of course—their livestream antics, the way they talked about hoop like it was a love language, the way their chemistry radiated through every screen. And now they were here.

Courtney had a mic in one hand, Natisha had a phone in the other, and both were laughing before they even reached Paige.

“Ayo, Paige!” Courtney grinned, sliding into the space beside her. “Look who finally made it to an All-Star party! You clean up nice.”

Paige smirked, sliding her arm around your waist without a second of hesitation. “Appreciate it. You two good?”

“We better now,” Natisha said, grinning wide. “We on live right now—say hey to the chat.”

Paige looked straight into the camera. “What up, StudBudz Nation.”

Courtney whistled. “She already knows the name! She really is a real one.”

Then T leaned in slightly, her eyes flicking toward you. “And who’s this radiant human?”

You opened your mouth, but Paige beat you to it—her arm tightening ever so slightly around you.

“This is my wife,” she said.

Courtney’s eyes widened, mouth dropping into a slow, impressed smile. “Wife?!”

“Wifey?” T echoed. “Like legal wife? Like rings and vows and all that?”

Paige lifted her left hand and wiggled her ring finger. You mirrored her a beat later.

Courtney turned back to the phone. “Y’all. Y’ALL. The rumors are TRUE. Paige Bueckers is a married woman, and nobody told us?!”

The chat on their stream exploded. You could see it out of the corner of your eye—hearts, “NO WAY,” “I KNEW IT,” and a flood of cherry emojis for some reason you couldn’t quite place.

“I mean,” Paige said casually, sipping her Dirty Shirley, “it was never a secret. Just wasn’t a headline.”

T looked at you with a warm smile. “So how long you been putting up with her?”

You grinned. “Since freshman year of high school.”

Courtney clutched her chest. “THAT’S REAL LOVE. That’s ‘I seen your braces and your awkward phase’ love.”

“You have no idea,” you laughed.

They kept talking—light, fun, teasing. Paige never took her hand off you, her fingers resting against your hip, her thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress like a rhythm only she could hear. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t guarded. You were just there—standing beside the love of your life, the mother of your child, while the world slowly learned what real love could look like.

Eventually, someone called Court and T toward the dance floor. The second they walked away, Paige turned to you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “They’re sweet.”

Paige tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re glowing.”

“You’re the reason.”

She leaned in, pressed her lips to yours, slow and soft, just long enough to forget where you were. And when she pulled back, her smile was lazy and full. “Remind me to thank my dad for taking Maddie.”

You laughed. “Oh, I plan on it.”

And somewhere behind you, a livestream kept rolling. The chat kept freaking out.

But Paige? She was too busy tracing the line of your spine with her fingertips and whispering, “Let’s sneak out of here before anyone else tries to make us viral.”

And you did. Hand in hand.

The crowd was already electric before the tip.

You could feel it from the moment you entered the arena, hand in hand with Maddie, her tiny sneakers lighting up with every step and her curls bouncing beneath the oversized “BUECKERS” jersey she proudly wore like armor. She’d begged to wear the “real one”—the All-Star edition Paige had custom-made for her with a glittery number five stitched on the back and MAMA’S GIRL embroidered just above the hem.

The second you stepped out into the front row, cameras turned, fans pointed, but you were used to it now. The whispers had turned into waves, the curious glances into knowing smiles. People didn’t question anymore. They just nodded, smiled, lifted their phones, and said things like…

“She’s here.” “She brought her.” “They’re real. They’re really real.”

And they were.

You lowered Maddie onto the padded seat beside you, fastening her pink earmuffs gently over her ears. She was bouncing in place, clutching her plush basketball like it had feelings, eyes scanning the court until they locked onto the figure emerging from the tunnel.

Paige.

Hair in a slick back bun, her All-Star jersey tucked into her shorts, every step she took radiating quiet confidence. She looked like she belonged there—not like a rookie, not like someone finding her way, but like someone who had always been meant for this.

She was on Team Collier, and tonight, they were going up against Team Clark—a lineup that had been hyped all week. From the first possession, Paige played like someone who remembered exactly who she was. Fast, fluid, feisty. Pull-up jumpers that kissed the glass. Behind the back dimes that made the crowd gasp. No look passes that threaded through defenders like smoke.

And every time she made a shot, every time she set up a teammate, her eyes scanned the stands, found you, found Maddie. She’d tap her heart. Raise her hand.

Maddie, despite not fully grasping score differentials or offensive sets, clapped like her life depended on it. “MAMA FAST!” she yelled. “MAMA MAKE A BASKET!”

You just held her close, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, your heart rattling in your chest with every smile Paige tossed your way.

Team Collier built a steady lead by the third quarter, and by the fourth, Paige was playing loose—laughing mid-play, dapping up teammates, spinning her defender into the paint for a scoop layup and grinning like she was ten years old again in a driveway with a dream.

When the buzzer sounded the arena erupted. Paige didn’t celebrate with her teammates first. She turned to the sideline. You stood instinctively, already lifting Maddie into your arms as Paige jogged over, sweat-slicked and glowing, hands out.

Maddie shrieked with delight. “MAMA WIN!”

Paige caught her midair with practiced ease, spinning her in a circle right there on the hardwood, laughter spilling out of both of them. Maddie threw her arms around her mama’s neck, little legs swinging, and Paige held her like the trophy she’d always dreamed of. You stayed close, watching it unfold with a kind of awe you never got used to. Not because she’d won. Not because of the crowd or the cameras or the chants.

But because even in the loudest moment of her life… Paige still only had eyes for her family.

“Maddie,” Paige said, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s cheek, “did you see that three pointer?”

“I SAW IT!” Maddie screamed back. “YOU DID A ‘WOOSH!’”

Paige laughed, eyes glassy, head tilted back. “She’s gonna be louder than me someday.”

“She already is,” you said, stepping forward, brushing a curl off her forehead.

Paige kissed you without thinking. Soft, sure. A thousand cameras caught it. A thousand more would repost it. But she didn’t even glance their way.

This moment wasn’t for them. It was for you. For Maddie. For the team that carried her long before the world figured out who she really was.

And in that moment—under the All-Star lights, jersey stained with sweat, daughter in her arms and your hand in hers— Paige Bueckers didn’t just look like a star.

She looked like someone’s everything.

That someone is you.

The afterparty had already started by the time you got there, but in truth, it had been starting all day—from the moment Paige laced up for her first All-Star Game, to the kiss she gave you after the win, to the way she whispered “we’re doing something big, huh?” against your neck during the elevator ride back up to the room.

Madison was tucked away with Paige’s dad again, sleeping soundly after a postgame dinner that ended with three scoops of ice cream and a pink balloon tied to her wrist. She hadn’t even fought sleep—just curled up in Papa’s arms and gone under.

That left you and Paige free.

Free, in the way parents rarely get to be. Free in the way you both had once been before babies and futures weighed heavy on every move. And tonight, the world had caught up to who you were. There was nothing left to hide.

So when you walked into Azzi’s rented out venue—lights bouncing off walls, bodies moving to bass heavy remixes, laughter slipping through the room and the smell of tequila—you felt light in a way you hadn’t in years.

Paige was already there. Already gone, honestly.

You spotted her in the middle of a massive circle of people—players, staff, friends, influencers, some of the league’s most recognizable faces—and at the center of it all was Paige Bueckers, absolutely wasted, one arm wrapped around T, the other flailing toward the ceiling as she belted out the chorus to “Love” by Keyshia Cole like it was the national anthem.

Court held the phone, capturing every second for their stream, howling in the background as Paige leaned fully into the performance—eyes closed, face twisted in earnest pain, free hand over her heart like she’d been through something deeper than a win.

“I used to think that I wasn't fine enough…”

The crowd around her was losing it.

People shouted the words with her, reaching into the circle, phones up, drinks spilling. It was a moment. One of those rare, glowing things that lives half in memory, half in myth.

And then Paige stopped. She turned, unprompted, eyes searching through the haze like she felt something shift. Like her center of gravity had moved.

And then her eyes landed on you. You. Standing just beyond the circle, dress clinging to your curves, lipstick smudged from the second drink you didn’t need, tipsy but glowing. Your body already swaying a little to the music. Your heart already halfway in your throat.

Paige smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. A smile—wide, reckless.

“But I won’t waste my time tryna figure out…”

She turned back toward the camera, locked eyes with Court’s stream, and yelled, “THIS ONE’S FOR MY WIFE.”

The entire place screamed. You didn’t even have time to blush. Paige was already moving—stumbling, maybe, but with absolute determination—pushing through the circle, drink long forgotten somewhere behind her, arms already opening wide.

You met her halfway. Your bodies collided like magnets, her arms sliding around your waist, your hands bracing against her chest.

“LOVE! NEVER KNEW WHAT I WAS MISSIN’ BUT I KNEW ONCE WE START KISSIN’…”

She sang it directly to you. Off key. Loud. Unapologetic. You were laughing, full body laughing, the kind that made your knees weak and your cheeks ache. And then you were singing too, equally off key, both of you spinning in a slow, ridiculous two step as the crowd cheered like you were the main event.

“She gone,” Court shouted nearby, laughing into the phone. “Paige Bueckers is DRUNK IN LOVE. Somebody get Beyoncé on the line!”

Paige dipped you—literally dipped you—almost falling over, but you caught her waist, steadying her just long enough for her to whisper against your cheek, “You’re so pretty.”

“You’re so drunk,” you whispered back.

“I would marry you right now.”

“You already did.”

“I’d do it again.”

You kissed her.

Sloppy, sweet, cherry on her lips from some long gone drink, one of her hands tangled in your hair, the other holding onto you like she never wanted to let go. You felt her giggle against your mouth. Felt her chest shake with joy. Felt the way she held you like she’d waited for this night since the very beginning.

You pulled back just slightly, noses touching.

“Having fun?” you asked.

Paige nodded. “Best night of my life.”

“That’s what you said at the wedding.”

“Every night with you is better.”

Courtney screamed, “Y’all stop being cute, damn.”

The party kept going around you. The music stayed loud. The lights stayed low. But you and Paige didn’t leave each other’s arms for the rest of the night.

And later—after someone handed you water, after Paige dramatically declared her hangover “a tomorrow problem,” after the crowd thinned and the room quieted and the StudBudz signed off with the words “love is real, y’all”—you took your wife by the hand and slipped out into the night.

Still drunk. Still in love.

The sunlight didn’t knock, it barged in.

Bleeding through the hotel curtains in sharp gold stripes across the sheets, it landed directly on Paige’s face like a punishment. She groaned dramatically, one arm flinging over her eyes, the other blindly searching for the edge of the comforter like she could pull herself into darkness.

You were already up.

Not because you weren’t hungover—you were, just a bit—but because years of being a mom had turned your internal clock into something no amount of Dirty Shirleys could unwind.

You stood in the doorway of the bedroom, coffee in one hand, a cold Gatorade in the other, wearing one of Paige’s oversized shirts that barely reached mid-thigh. There was a faint line of leftover lipstick on your upper lip and smudged mascara you hadn’t bothered to fix. You looked like the ghost of last night’s events.

And Paige? Paige looked like she’d been hit by a freight train driven by Keyshia Cole herself.

She was curled up in the middle of the bed, tangled in white sheets, hair an absolute mess, face flushed, and only wearing black Nike Pros and a sports bra—the same one she’d been in when she peeled off her clothes in a sleepy daze a few hours earlier. One sock was still on, the other was god knows where.

She groaned again as you approached, voice gravelly. “Why is it… so bright?”

“Because it’s nine in the morning,” you said, setting the drink down gently on the nightstand. “Drink this.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’re hungover.”

“Same thing,” Paige mumbled, cracking one eye open. “What time did we leave the party?”

“Late. After you said ‘bye’ to everyone.”

Paige’s face crumpled. “Noooo.”

You grinned. “Oh, yes.”

“I did not…”

“You did,” you said, sipping your coffee. “And we’re also viral again.”

She slowly rolled onto her side, curling into herself like a ball. “You’re lying.”

You handed her your phone wordlessly.

She squinted through bleary eyes at the screen. The clip had already hit half a million views overnight.

“Paige Bueckers drunkenly singing Keyshia Cole to her WIFE and it’s everything.”

The comments were even worse—or better, depending on your angle.

“She really said I GOT MARRIED AND I’M GONNA YELL ABOUT IT.”

“WHERE IS THIS KIND OF LOVE FOR ME.”

Paige groaned again and flopped backward onto the pillows. “I’m never drinking again.”

“You say that every time.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You said that last time.”

She reached out blindly and found your wrist, tugging you down into the bed beside her. You landed softly on your side, one leg slung over hers, your face tucked close.

“You still love me?” she asked, voice smaller now.

“Desperately,” you whispered against her collarbone.

“Even though I embarrassed myself?”

“Especially because of that.”

She smiled, slow and sheepish, eyes barely open. “You looked so good last night.”

“I still do,” you teased.

She ran a lazy hand down your bare thigh. “Yeah. You do.”

You were about to kiss her when—

“MAMA LOOOOOVE!!!”

The hotel room door burst open. You both sat up instinctively just as Madison barreled into view, arms outstretched like she was preparing for takeoff. She was wearing one of Paige’s shirt she had clearly begged her Papa to let her sleep in. Her curls were wild. Her face was glowing.

“Mama! Mama!” she chirped, scrambling onto the bed like a girl on a mission. “I saw you was singin’! You was loud!”

Paige groaned again and flopped back dramatically. “Oh no.”

Madison plopped onto her stomach and poked Paige’s cheek with a grin. “You say ‘I in loooove!’”

“I did, huh?”

“I sing too!” Madison announced. “I go ‘LAAAAHVE’ like dis—” and then, at full toddler volume, she screeched a dramatic warble that would’ve made Keyshia proud.

You choked on laughter. Paige looked like she was trying to disappear into the mattress.

Paige cracked an eye open. “I’m gonna be known forever by that moment.”

You kissed her nose. “At least you looked hot doing it.”

She paused, then she smirked—a small, sleepy, very attractive smirk.

“I can live with that.”

Madison curled up between you both, completely unbothered, humming a made-up melody that sounded suspiciously like “Love” but with lyrics about something else.

And as Paige reached for the drink, groaning but grinning, you looked around that hotel bed—tangled hair, sore throats, and your daughter sandwiched between the two of you—and realized…

You wouldn’t trade this hangover for anything in the world.

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