please do a fic where paige is significantly older than reader
between the lines
pairing: vet!dallas wings!older!paige x rookie!dallas wings! younger!reader
wc: 1.7k
summary: they call it mentorship, leadership, professionalism—but some things live in the silences, in the pauses, in the moments where neither of you steps back first.
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paige is already dressed when you walk into the practice facility, and that’s the first thing you learn about her. not her stats, not her accolades, not the way people lower their voices when they say her name—just the fact that she’s always already here.
taped up, warmed up, hair pulled back with practiced efficiency, moving through her routine like she’s done this a thousand times before.
because she has. championship banners don’t intimidate her, and neither does the weight of a franchise that expects leadership from her with every breath she takes.
you, on the other hand, still have your draft night suit hanging in your apartment like proof this is real. like evidence you didn’t imagine it. sometimes you catch yourself staring at it before bed, half-expecting it to disappear.
“rook,” paige says when she hears your footsteps, glancing over her shoulder. not unkind. not teasing. just a statement of fact. “you’re late.”
you check the clock on the wall. three minutes early.
you swallow it anyway. “won’t happen again.”
that earns you a small smile—barely there, gone almost as soon as it appears—but it feels like a reward all the same. like you passed some invisible test.
everyone warned you about her before training camp started. paige is intense. paige is quiet, but she sees everything.
paige doesn’t babysit. what no one warned you about is how carefully she watches you. how, during drills, her voice only cuts through the gym when you mess up—never raised, never sharp, just a low “again,” or “square your shoulders,” like she’s personally invested in you getting it right.
how she steps in front of you during scrimmages, shields you without making it obvious, takes hits so you don’t have to.
she’s a veteran. a leader. a name fans already know, stitched into jerseys and shouted from the stands.
you’re just trying to prove you belong.
the age gap sits between you like an unspoken rule. she’s lived seasons you haven’t even imagined yet—injuries, comebacks, expectations that don’t loosen their grip once you reach the top.
you catch it in the way she stretches longer, ices longer, talks about her body like it’s something she has to manage instead of push. like something precious and fragile and hard-earned.
and yet—after your first preseason game, when your hands are still shaking from adrenaline and the noise hasn’t quite faded from your ears, she finds you in the tunnel.
“you okay?” she asks.
you nod automatically, then shake your head just as fast. “i don’t know.”
she hums, thoughtful, hands resting on her hips. her jersey is damp with sweat, clinging to her shoulders, and she looks effortlessly composed even now. “that feeling doesn’t go away,” she says. “you just learn how to play through it.”
she starts to walk off, then pauses. looks back at you like she almost forgot something important.
“you did good tonight.”
it shouldn’t mean as much as it does. but it does.
slowly, the lines begin to blur. she saves you a seat on the plane without saying a word. hands you extra tape before you even ask. knocks twice on your locker before leaning in to talk, like she’s giving you space even when she doesn’t need to.
the league notices. the media notices. paige mentoring the rookie. paige taking you under her wing.
what they don’t notice is the way her voice softens only with you. the way she stays late when you stay late. the way she looks at you when you laugh—like she’s surprised by it, like she’s trying not to be.
it all comes to a head one night after a road win.
you’re alone in the practice gym, shots echoing off empty seats, frustration bleeding into muscle memory. you miss three in a row and curse under your breath, shoulders sagging as you reset again.
“you’re rushing.”
you turn. paige is leaning against the doorway, hoodie pulled up, hair loose for once, like she forgot to put the armor back on.
“thought you left,” you say.
“thought you did too.”
she steps onto the court and takes the ball from your hands without asking. shows you—slower, steadier, controlled. her hands guide your elbows for half a second longer than necessary.
the air changes.
she notices it immediately. you can tell by the way she pulls back, clears her throat.
“you don’t need me hovering,” she says, softer now. “you’re good on your own.”
you look at her—really look at her. the lines of experience etched into her face, the restraint in the way she holds herself, the distance she’s been so careful to keep.
“then why are you still here?”
she doesn’t answer right away. when she finally meets your eyes, there’s something honest there. something dangerous.
“because i care,” she says. then, quieter, “and because i’m trying not to.”
your heart kicks against your ribs.
nothing happens. not yet.
but from that night on, everyone can feel it. the rookie and the veteran. the future and the steady hand guiding it. two timelines colliding, neither of you sure who’s supposed to step back first.
and paige—always in control, always composed—starts to look at you like she’s already lost that battle.
the thing about paige is that she treats boundaries like muscle memory. she’s spent years building them—between herself and the noise, herself and the expectations, herself and anything that could cost her focus. she knows exactly where the lines are. she respects them. she lives inside them.
so when you arrive in dallas as a rookie—wide-eyed, talented, still learning how to carry yourself like you belong—she keeps her distance. at least, she tries to.
it starts small. harmless. the kind of attention no one questions. she corrects your footwork during drills. stands behind you during walkthroughs, voice low in your ear so no one else hears. she’s careful not to touch unless she has to, and even then it’s quick, professional.
but she watches you more than she should.
in the locker room, she’s always the first to look up when you come in late, hair still damp from the shower, towel slung low on your hips. she looks away just as fast, jaw tightening like she’s annoyed at herself for noticing.
the vets tease you lightly—rookie duties, water bottles, playlists—but they’re kind. still, you feel it sometimes. the way conversations dip when you walk past paige’s locker. the way eyes flick between the two of you.
they see it.
you don’t talk much at first. you’re intimidated by her. everyone is. she’s a franchise player, a leader, someone already settled into who she is. you’re still figuring that out.
after your first bad game, you sit at your locker long after everyone else leaves, box score burned into your brain, missed shots replaying over and over.
“you gonna sleep here?”
you look up. paige is leaning against the lockers across from you, arms crossed.
“maybe,” you say quietly.
she studies you, then sits a few lockers away—not next to you. never next to you. “you can’t let one game eat you alive,” she says. “this league will take advantage if you do.”
“easy for you to say.”
she huffs a soft laugh. “rook, i’ve had whole seasons do that.”
that’s the first time she opens the door. just a crack. stories of injuries. of expectations crushing her at twenty-two, twenty-three. of learning the hard way that talent isn’t enough—you need patience. you listen like every word matters. to you, it does.
from then on, she becomes your quiet constant. she saves the aisle seat. pulls you closer during timeouts. lets her hand rest on your lower back for a second too long before she remembers herself and pulls away.
and every time, you feel it—the wanting, the don’t.
the media notices before either of you are ready.
“paige,” a reporter asks one afternoon, “you’ve been very hands-on with the rookie this season. do you see a bit of yourself in her?”
paige smiles, practiced and controlled. “i see someone who works hard,” she says. “that’s my job as a vet.”
later, in the hallway, she stops you. “hey.” she exhales. “be careful with the media. they like stories more than truth.”
the breaking point comes weeks later. a road game. a tough loss. emotions high. someone bumps you in the locker room, an offhand comment sharp enough to sting. you don’t notice paige watching—the way her shoulders tense, the way her jaw sets.
she finds you outside later.
“you good?” she asks softly.
“yeah.”
she doesn’t buy it. “you don’t have to pretend with me,” she says. then quieter, “i wish you wouldn’t.”
that’s when it hits you. this isn’t mentorship. this is restraint.
“paige,” you whisper.
“don’t,” she says immediately. scared. “i’m older. i’m a leader. you’re a rookie. this—this can’t be a thing.”
“but it already is.”
when she admits, “that’s the problem,” you know she’s already lost.
the first slip-up comes during film. your knee brushes hers. she doesn’t move. afterward, she avoids you completely.
that’s how you know it mattered.
the media scandal follows. the article. the picture. the questions. “nothing has happened,” you say, because it hasn’t.
“i’m sorry,” paige tells you in the garage. “this is my fault.”
“i want you,” you say, simple and terrifying.
“that’s what scares me.”
the moment she stops resisting comes late. quiet. alone in the practice gym.
“tell me to walk away,” she says.
“and if i don’t?”
“then i don’t think i can anymore.”
when you say, “i’m not a mistake,” something in her finally breaks.
when she kisses you, it’s careful. controlled. until it isn’t.
later, forehead to forehead, she laughs softly. “we’re gonna get in so much trouble.”
“worth it?”
“yeah,” she says. “you are.”
