What We Let Go, What We Choose
(What We Couldn't Be Pt.3)
Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Ex! Reader x Caitlin Clark
Word Count: 1.9k
Summary: When a long-overdue goodbye with Paige is mistaken for something more, heartbreak and jealousy push Caitlin to pull away—until a stormy confrontation forces buried love into the open, ending in a choice that finally lets the past go and something real begin.
Author's note: a very very very loooong overdue chapter, srry for that loves. but i hope this last final chapter makes up for it :v
PIAGE DOESN'T STOP TRYING.
At first, it’s subtle—small, almost invisible attempts that would’ve slipped past anyone who didn’t know her the way you once did. She waits near the edge of places she knows you’ll be. Not close enough to cause a scene, not far enough to feel accidental. A figure lingering by the exit of the practice facility. A familiar laugh you hear in passing that makes your spine stiffen before you remind yourself to breathe.
Then it becomes impossible to ignore.
She leaves notes with staff, folded carefully like they matter. She asks teammates how you’re doing, pretending it’s casual when it’s anything but. She shows up at a charity event she knows you’ll attend, standing awkwardly by the refreshment table like she’s afraid one wrong move will shatter whatever chance she has left.
You keep telling yourself you don’t owe her anything
.
But closure is a hunger. And it grows.
At the same time, the world has already rewritten your story.
Everywhere you go, it’s you and Caitlin. On the court, commentators marvel at the way you read each other without looking, how your timing feels instinctual instead of practiced. Off the court, PR leans into it just enough to make fans feral—shared smiles during interviews, side-by-side photos posted at calculated angles, headlines that toe the line between basketball analysis and speculation.
You don’t deny it.
Because something between you and Caitlin is happening.
She still jokes with you, still bumps her shoulder into yours after drills, still texts you late at night when the noise in her head won’t quiet. But there’s a difference now—an undercurrent of something unsaid, something waiting. The line between friendship and love stretches thinner every day, fraying under the weight of what you don’t dare name.
And then, without warning, it shifts.
Caitlin pulls back.
It’s not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… quieter. She stops waiting for you after practice. Her replies come slower, shorter. When you reach for her hand without thinking, she hesitates before letting you take it—just long enough for doubt to bloom.
You feel it like a bruise you keep pressing.
You want to ask her what’s wrong. But before you can, Paige finally gets her moment.
She looks… smaller than you remember. Less sure. Like someone who has been living in regret instead of hope.
“Please,” she says quietly. “Just talk to me. I’m not asking for anything else.”
You stare at her for a long moment, your chest tight. Then, finally, you nod.
You agree to meet her because you’re tired.
Tired of unfinished sentences. Tired of the way her name still echoes in places it shouldn’t. Tired of wondering whether silence is kinder than truth.
You meet somewhere small and quiet, tucked away from cameras and fans and everything that ever tried to turn your heart into a headline. Paige looks different up close—not worse, just… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying regret instead of certainty.
She doesn’t sit right away. She stands there, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, eyes flicking up to yours and then away again.
“Thank you,” she says finally. “For coming.”
You nod once. “I can’t do this more than once.”
“I know.” Her voice cracks just slightly. “I won’t waste it.”
There’s a long pause. Too long.
Then she exhales. “I’m not here to ask for you back.”
That gets your attention.
“I lost the right to do that,” she continues quietly. “And honestly… I don’t think that’s what either of us needs.”
You study her face, searching for the familiar patterns—deflection, charm, confidence—but they’re gone. What’s left is honesty stripped bare.
“Bug, I loved you,” Paige says. “In the way you love someone before you understand what love actually costs. And I hurt you because I didn’t know how to stay without breaking us.”
That damn nickname.
She looks at you then—not with longing, not with possession—but with something softer. Sadder. “I loved you, so so so much. You know that.” she says. “I think a part of me always will. But love isn’t enough when you don’t know how to protect someone.”
The words land gently, but they still bruise.
Your throat tightens. “You made me feel replaceable.”
Her eyes glisten. “I know. And that’s something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”
Silence stretches again, but this time it doesn’t suffocate.
“I forgive you,” you say at last. The words feel heavy—but freeing. “Not because what you did was okay. But because I don’t want to keep carrying it.”
Paige swallows hard. “I’m glad you found someone who looks at you the way you deserve.”
Your chest twinges. “This isn’t about finding someone.”
She nods. “I know. That’s how I know it’s real.”
When she steps forward, it’s hesitant, careful. You let her hug you, just once. It’s brief. Not desperate. Not clinging.
Two people setting something down instead of picking it back up.
It’s an ending.
You don’t realize someone is watching.
Caitlin sees it from across the street.
She sees everything.
She sees Paige’s arms around you. Sees your head tilt forward, your body softening into the embrace. She doesn’t hear the words exchanged, doesn’t feel the closure settling between you and Paige like something finally at peace.
All she sees is what she’s been afraid of.
Her chest tightens painfully.
Of course, she thinks. Of course they found their way back, her mind insists.
She turns away before you notice her. Leaves without saying a word.
You feel the distance almost immediately.
Caitlin avoids you—not rudely, not openly—but with the kind of precision that hurts worse than anger. She keeps conversations surface-level. Professional. Safe. When you laugh, she smiles politely instead of lighting up the way she used to.
You try to catch her eye. She looks away.
It gnaws at you.
You catch yourself replaying moments—wondering when it changed, what you did wrong, whether you imagined the closeness you thought you shared. The silence between you feels louder than any argument ever could.
Finally, after practice one evening, the sky breaks open. Rain pours down hard and unforgiving, soaking the pavement in seconds. You spot Caitlin heading for the parking lot, shoulders hunched, hood pulled up like armor.
The rain comes down harder, relentless, unforgiving, soaking through your clothes until you can’t tell where the cold ends and the hurt begins.
“Caitlin—wait!” you call again, voice breaking despite yourself, running to her, hands above your head to shield yourself from the rain, but it’s useless against the harsh wind and the pouring drizzle of the rain.
She stops so abruptly that you almost run into her.
When she turns, her expression is nothing like the calm, joking Caitlin Clark the world knows. Her jaw is clenched so tightly you can see it tremble. Her eyes are blazing—not with tears yet, but with fury barely contained.
“What?” she snaps. “What do you want? Does it ever occur to you that I don’t want to talk to you?”
You falter at her pissed tone, “I want to know why you’ve been acting like I don’t exist.”
A bitter laugh tears out of her. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
“I don’t,” you insist. “I would never just—”
“I saw you with her,” Caitlin cuts in sharply, stepping closer, rain dripping off her lashes. “And don’t insult me by lying about what that looked like.”
Oh my god. She saw us with Paige, of all people.
Shit.
“That wasn’t—”
“It looked like you chose her,” she interrupts, voice rising now, cracking with something dangerous. “It looked like everything I was afraid of finally came true.”
You feel the words slam into your chest. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”
“Because I was tired,” she shoots back. “Tired of feeling stupid for hoping. Tired of pretending I wasn’t standing in the middle of something I was always going to lose.”
“Lose?” Your voice shakes. “Caitlin, I never saw this as a competition.”
“Well, I did,” she says harshly. “Every damn day.”
She drags a hand through her wet hair, pacing like a caged animal. “Do you know what it’s like to fall in love with someone who’s still bleeding from someone else? To watch you flinch every time her name comes up and tell myself it doesn’t mean anything?”
Your throat tightens. “You never told me.”
“Because I was angry,” she snaps. “Because I didn’t want to be that person. The one who demands space in a heart that isn’t empty yet.”
She turns back to you suddenly, eyes burning.
“I stepped between you on that court because I couldn’t stand watching her touch you like she still had the right. Because I wanted—no—I needed to be the one you leaned on.”
Her voice rises, raw now.
“And when I saw you hug her last week? After everything? I felt like a damn fool.”
“That hug was goodbye,” you say desperately. “I was letting go, we were letting go!”
“Well, it didn’t look like letting go,” she fires back. “It looked like history winning again.”
Silence crashes between you, heavy and electric.
Then she laughs, broken and angry all at once. “Do you have any idea how much I hate this? How much I hate that I care this much?”
Rain streaks down her face like she’s crying even when she refuses to.
“I’m in love with you,” she spits, like the words have claws. “And I tried to suffocate it. I tried to turn it into friendship, into teamwork, into jokes and late-night texts. But it didn’t work.”
Her voice breaks completely now.
“I fell anyway.”
Your chest aches painfully. You step closer, voice shaking but firm. “Then why didn’t you stay?”
“Because I didn’t want to be second,” she says fiercely. “Because I didn’t want to be the rebound. Because I didn’t want to hear you say her name in your sleep and realize I was always going to be standing in her shadow.”
You reach for her hands. This time, she doesn’t pull away.
“I chose you,” you say, voice thick. “I didn’t just walk away from her—I closed that door. That hug wasn’t love. It was closure.”
She searches your face like she’s afraid to believe you.
“Say it again,” she demands. “Say it like you mean it.”
“I choose you,” you repeat, louder, stronger, firmer. “Not because you’re safe. Not because it’s easy. Because I want you. Because you’re the one who stayed.”
Her breath stutters.
“You don’t get to say that unless you’re sure,” she whispers angrily. “Because if you break my heart—”
“I won’t,” you interrupt. “But I won’t lie to you either.”
Something in her finally gives.
She grabs your jacket, pulling you into her, kissing you like she’s been holding back for far too long—angry, desperate, consuming. The rain soaks you both, the world dissolving into heat and breath and truth.
When she finally pulls back, forehead pressed to yours, her voice is softer—but no less fierce.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
You smile, tears mixing with rain. “I won’t.”
And for the first time, love doesn’t feel quiet or careful.
It feels chosen.
