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honey bee ꫂ❁

paige bueckers x azzi fudd — 10.9k words

4 times Azzi related to song ‘honey bee’ by olivia rodrigo and 1 time Paige did too.

i don’t know how to explain this, but when i first heard this song. i immediately thought of paige in azzi’s POV. please watch the visualizer’s before reading here : one and two

content warning! : emotional vulnerability, overwhelming feelings, relationship anxiety, fear of loss, hurt/comfort, the feeling of loving someone so deeply and intense it saddens you sometimes, but in the absolute best possible way. happy ending obviously.

anyways, happy reading loves & tell me your thoughts as always 💭💝

—。Presented and written by, azzidefender.

ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶˚̣ ྀི︶

connenicut, 2022.

— pick me up, walk me home. would you sit and keep me company?

#c’s universe 🧸#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #pazzi #uconn huskies #uconn wbb #wbb #paige x azzi #wnba #pazzi fics #pazzi fan fic #pazzi fic #wlw #lesbian

&&&. PAIGE BUECKERS x ACTRESS!READER

❛ THE MET GALA ❜

summary. the met gala reunites you and paige for the first time since your one night stand. why not make it two? includes. 20.3k words. sexual content. links. my masterlist. a/n. this is a part two to my old one shot the tonight show … could be read as a standalone but probably more fun together. have fun freaks

PAIGE IS AFRAID she might actually fall asleep sitting up. Definitely not in a graceful way, either. Like, she feels as if her head might tip forward, makeup artist mid-blend, and just completely clock out in a room full of people who are being paid to pretty her up and send her off. It would be humiliating. A headline, probably. WNBA Rookie of the Year passes out before Met Gala. Something of the sort; they're all about their headlines lately.

Instead, she just blinks hard, trying to fight it off.

Her phone glows dimly in her hand, brightness turned all the way down because anything more would feel like a violent against her retinas right now. Her thumb scrolls with no intention, switching from Instagram to iMessages, then back to Instagram, then somehow she's staring at a photo she doesn't even remember clicking on, something in her suggested. It's a courtside shot from her final season at UConn, from one of the games during their infamous March run. She looks younger in it.

"Can you tilt your chin up a little for me?"

She hums something that's supposed to be a yes and does it automatically, muscles moving before her brain is even consciously telling her to do so. There's a brush at her cheekbones, soft but precise, and something powdery floats into the air. It smells expensive. Everything here smells expensive. Floral and warm and like money.

God, she wants to nap.

Her eyes drift from her phone to the window instead, to the stretch of New York laid out clean in front of her, something that looks straight out of movie. It's too clean and structured; it looks almost cinematic. Tiny cars, yellow cabs threading through traffic, looking like they're part of some simulation. People moving in quick, purposeful lines below.

Paige exhales slowly.

Last night feels like it happened a week ago.

Moody Center, loud and alive and real and fun in a way this honestly isn't. Sneakers squeaking against hardwood, the thud of the ball, the way the game was really just flowing. That is the kind of tired she likes—earned and buzzing, adrenaline still flickering under her skin even after the final whistle, her knees and shoulders aching a bit from so much use.

This is a much different kind of tired. It's the type that sits heavy behind her eyes, makes them want to droop, makes everything feel a half-second delayed. The flight out of Austin was just brutal. It was too early, depriving her of any real sleep, her body still wired from the game but also begging her to shut down. She didn't even get to go back to Dallas. Straight from the arena to the airport as if she's some sort of machine.

She kind of is sometimes, honestly.

Paige shifts in the chair, rolling her shoulders slightly. One of the many people around her immediately steadies her head.

"Stay still, babe."

"Sorry," she mumbles, though she's not even sure who she's apologizing to.

Her thoughts drift again, back to the game, because basketball is the one true thing always at the forefront of her mind. It was good, actually. Like, really good. And not just for her, but for the team. For maybe one of the first times since she's played for the fucking Dallas Wings, things began to click, like they weren't all just on survival mode, hoping to not get completely blown out.

Last season had been hell. A good learning experience, sure, but for someone like Paige who's so desperately competitive... it had been hell, no other way to put it. Injuries staked on injuries, lineups changing every other game, a useless coach that did more harm than good, and Paige—the rookie—doing her damnedest to hold it all together while it crumbled between her fingers. It had genuinely felt like dragging a broken body through a season that wouldn't end.

This year is different, though. She already knows that and she thanks God for it. She knows it's still just preseason and the only two games they've played in have been exhibitions, but she can just tell. They've got Alanna, and Azzi, and Jess, and a healthier Rike, and several other pieces that fit much, much better than last year's did.

She's excited. She really is.

And tonight—her lips twitch faintly at the thought. Tonight is just surreal, something made out of a dream or a bucket list, not her real life.

The fucking Met Gala, her first one ever. Even thinking it in her head feels kind of ridiculous. She's seen it her whole life the same way everyone else has: clips online, red carpet photos, people arguing about outfits like it's life or death. That always seemed distant, not a part of her world which revolved around smooth courts and flimsy nets.

And now she's sitting in a luxury hotel room in Manhattan, getting her makeup done by a luxury-level team, wearing something custom from the luxury brand Coach.

If she had told herself three years ago that she would be here, she'd have probably laughed in her own face. Sure, women's sports were growing and she had a following back then, of course. But this is different. Like, this is the Met Gala. This is where celebrities like Rihanna, and Beyonce, and the Kardashians, and—well, you—congregate, not basketball players like her.

That last one sticks in her head a bit longer, stupid and slightly infecting.

You might be there tonight.

It's dumb. Like, seriously, it's not a revolutionary thing for you—of all people—to attend the Met Gala. You've done so before, several times actually. Paige has seen the red carpet photos. And still, her gut warms a bit at the idea, mind flicking back to last year about this time. It's just idiotic, considering she's had several one night stands and she's sure you have, too.

But sue her, honestly. It's not often you get to fuck your celebrity crush. And she likes to think about the time she did, and the possibility of it happening again.

She's delusional, probably. Sure, she remembers the noises you made and the gushing of your cunt on her tongue and fingers. But you've definitely had other people just as hot and famous as her, if not more. She can't be sure she stuck out—though, if she's honest, the small band of cockiness that sits at the back of her brain, not often displayed, can't help but think that maybe she did.

Still, all of that doesn't mean anything. It's just mere curiosity. That's all.

"Okay," Hayley's voice cuts through, interrupting her thoughts. "We're basically done."

Paige blinks, focusing back in. "Yeah?"

Hayley smiles down at her, warm and familiar. They've known each other for a while now, her having done both Paige's and Azzi's hair several times, someone she can trust. "Take a look."

She hands Paige the mirror, and for a second the blonde merely stares, caught slightly off guard.

"Damn," she says before she can stop herself, eyebrows lifting a little.

It doesn't even really look like her. Or—no, it does, but it's like a version she's not used to seeing, one that's sharper and darker. The smoky eye is the first thing she's drawn to, black and smudged, looking just slightly messy but also entirely intentional. The liner is heavier than anything she'd ever do herself (because, honestly, what can she even do herself besides mascara?), but it works. It makes her eyes look brighter, bluer, a pop of ice in a sea of storm clouds. Her skin looks smoother, too, more even, and a bit paler than usual though not in a bad way. Just different, her tan swiped off some. There's a highlight catching the light on her cheekbone when she tilts her head, something subtle but noticeable.

Paige almost laughs as her eyes rove over her appearance in the mirror. "Y'all got me lookin' like a whole different person."

Hayley grins. "A hot different person."

Paige shakes her head, but she's smiling now, lips tilting up, gumminess poking through a bit. "Nah, this is actually kinda crazy."

She turns her head to side to side, taking the hair in now. The extensions feel a little weird. She's only had them in a couple times before: her draft night last year and then New York Fashion Week in 2024. It's just something to get used to, with it being so much longer, brushing her shoulders and back differently. The blonde is brighter, too, catching the light in a way that's almost flashy, contrasting with her skin tone a little less.

It's not her usual at all, not even close. But...

"I fuck with it. Seriously, did your big one," she admits, not surprised, but, like, a little surprised.

"Good," Hayley drawls, clearly pleased. "Because you didn't really have a choice."

Paige snorts, hanging the mirror back. "Yeah, figured that."

Just then, there's a knock at the door, and before she can even guess who it might be, Dmitry, who did her makeup, opens the door wide, gesturing in. Stuart—one of Coach's creative directors who Paige has been working with over the last few months, a sweet man, really—steps forward carefully, as though he's carrying something fragile (which, to be fair, he kind of is). The garment bag in his hands is zipped all the way up, white and pristine, holding the most important thing for Paige tonight.

"Ready?" he asks, smiling at her, lifting the bag a little.

Paige straightens slightly in her chair, suddenly more awake. "Yeah."

Thankfully, they give her some space to change (they wanted to help her with that, too, but Paige has gone through this enough. It is not that hard to put on pants and a vest on her own), the room clearing out just enough to make it feel less suffocating and chaotic for a second, no eyes boring into her at every single moment, no hands touching her. There's a silence—a rarity of today—resting in the room as she stands up, stretching slightly, rolling her neck.

Her body still feels heavy and tired, that underlying ache beneath her knee still flaring a bit from last night. But, there's something that rests beside all of that now, too. A low buzz, a mix of anticipation and excitement. The latter because she's never been to an event this big and it's certainly going to be an incredibly cool experience. The former because she only knows a handful people going—Angel, A'ja, Stuart, Steph, kind of you but also not really at all, maybe a few influencers here and there—and as much of an extrovert as she is, the prospect is daunting and enough to light a flare in some of her nerves.

She unzips the bag slowly, taking in the suit. It looks the same as the last time she saw it, a few weeks ago for the final fitting. She actually likes it a lot, is glad they didn't put her in something completely horrendous like she knows some brands will probably do tonight.

She steps into the pants first, pulling them up, adjusting the fit. They're tailored perfectly, as they should be. The vest goes next and she buttons it carefully.

When she lets the team know that she's dressed, they immediately come filtering back in. Hands are everywhere again, prodding every which way. They put the blazer on her, adjust the collar, smooth the fabric, fix tiny little things she wouldn't even notice. Then, they start with the jewelry—just some rings and earrings, pieces on her ears and fingers.

Paige stands there, letting them do their things, her eyes staying on the mirror as they go.

It's black, the whole suit, but not plain. There are splashes of paint that streak across it to fit the theme, a bit chaotic but in a way that completely works. Miniscule rhinestones catch the light when she shifts, small flashes that make her shimmer. The pants are bell bottoms, which, truthfully, she normally doesn't fuck with, but tonight she can make an exception. There's a 5 embroidered on her wrist, too, something to make it feel like it really is meant for her.

She likes it. She looks good.

Paige can't help but grin a little. "Y'all did great. I look like... I'on even know."

"A rockstar," Hayley offers, running her fingers through Paige's hair a couple times, probably making sure the extensions are all good or something.

The blonde huffs, but she doesn't disagree. "Yeah. Some seventies shit."

They finish up with Paige and for a moment, she thinks she may just have some peace and time to sit before she needs to leave. Clearly, she was very wrong. As soon as they're done, they inform her it's photoshoot time. As if she won't be getting a million photos on the red carpet. Nevertheless, she complies, gracious, knowing it's for Coach and she wouldn't be here without them. She lets them have their fun, lets however many different people tell her where to put her hands like she's an action figure somebody carefully removed from expensive packaging.

"Chin down a little."

She does it.

"Eyes left."

Does that, too.

"Don't smile."

She can do serious. Basketball teaches you that pretty early, what with cameras in your face after losses, press conferences where everybody wants you to explain why things went wrong as if you personally caused the collapse of society, walking into away arenas full of people who hate you. Not to mention all the media day theatrics where the photographers tell you to look tough, stoning your expression for the cameras. Learning how to make your face unreadable does have its uses.

So, she settles into it. She clenches her jaw, just slightly, letting it sharpen like a blade. Her eyes go heavy and her face turns into stone.

The photographer immediately perks up. "Yesss. There it is."

They move her into the hallway next, to get more angles and different poses. Paige easily goes along with it, leaning against the wall, looking over her shoulders, hands in her pockets. One shot has her sitting on the floor in the hallway while some poor young boy—probably a hotel guest—awkwardly waits twenty feet away trying to get to the elevator.

"Sorry," Paige mouths to him, giving a gracious smile.

He looks terrified to even make eye contact and she almost loses it.

Eventually, after what feels like a million photos, someone finally announces they're done for now. Paige grins at the words, and it rests on her face as they head downstairs, before she's once again reminded she can't smile outside either. According to Hayley, tonight's entire vibe is: mysterious lesbian rockstar who maybe smokes cigarettes in alleyways and breaks hearts recreationally. Which is funny because Paige can't sing for shit—she tells people she can, but she knows the truth when it comes down to it—and she thinks cigarettes are disgusting. Sure, give her a vape—that's fine. But cigs are a hard no for her.

Still, when she and Stuart step out of The Carlyle, she flips the switch again automatically.

Flash.

Flashflashflash.

The cameras outside are intense, even more so than she remembers any being at either of the WNBA Drafts she's attended or even the ESPYS. She supposes she gets why—this is the real deal. And this isn't even the red carpet yet. God, she's bound to get a headache tonight.

They shout her name, energized. She just keeps her expression schooled, her shoulders relaxed, trying to pretend as if this happens to her everyday. She turns when they ask her to, pauses when they tell her to, letting them get all their shots. It's part of; she knows that. This entire night is essentially just organized overstimulation.

Eventually, though, Paige is ushered toward the car, sleek and black and shiny beneath the city lights. Stuart slides in beside her once the door shuts, and for the first time in the last twenty minutes, it's actually quiet.

Well. Mostly quiet. They're in New York, after all. There's always going to be a hum of sound, honking somewhere in the distance, sirens faint and constant. It's the city that never sleeps.

Paige exhales slowly, leaning back into the leather seat. Almost instantly, she becomes aware of her heartbeat again. It's pounding. And not in a cute nervous way, either. It's got a pace of genuine physical anxiety. Her chest actually aches slightly from how fast her heart's running, which seems a little dramatic wondering the fact that she quite literally plays professional basketball in sold-out arenas for a living.

But this is just different. Sports famous and celebrity famous are completely different universes. She's done her best each time she's been integrated into them, like that time a few weeks ago when she was fucking papped at LAX. But being able to be cordial and somewhat normal doesn't mean she's not a bit starstruck at the entire prospect of the night ahead, the people she imagines seeing. There are levels to fame and, tonight, she feels very aware of where hers sits.

"Are you excited?" Stuart asks beside her.

Paige glances over. He seems calm and unfazed, maybe a bit excited himself, which makes sense because he's probably done this several times.

She shrugs a little, aiming for nonchalant. "Yeah," she replies. Then, after a beat, wiith a tiny grin, she adds, "I wanna see what Beyonce's wearin'."

Stuart laughs loudly at the statement, shaking his head. "Don't we all?" he offers.

Weirdly enough, those words actually help, making the whole thing feel a little less intimidating for a second. Because underneath all the fashion and the cameras and whatever else, everybody's still just curious about Beyonce. Figures.

The drive itself is short. Painfully short, honestly. Paige barely has enough time to mentally prepare before the car starts slowing and the view comes into place.

The Met, bright and massive and completely swarmed in its glory.

"Ah, shit," Paige mutters under her breath.

Stuart hears her and laughs again.

When the door opens, noise hits immediately. There's flashes and shouting and so many people. Paige steps out of the car carefully, one hand adjusting the front of her blazer on instinct, and everything suddenly feels ten times brighter than before.

There are cameras everywhere. Actual walls of them.

It's disorienting for a long second. Paige could compare it to stepping out of an arena tunnel except everybody's holding big professional cameras with blinding flashes instead of just phones. Nevertheless, she keeps her face composed. She goes for what they told her to: fierce, serious, cool. Or, at least hopefully cool.

The thing she learns pretty quickly is that there's a lot of waiting involved with the Met Gala. Way more than she expected. Because, after the initial chaos, attendees basically end up standing around in lines for a long time waiting for their turn on the carpet. It feels a little normalizing, oddly enough. Like, sure, there's a woman wearing a dress that certainly costs more than Paige's first car standing ten feet away, but she's still stuck waiting in line like everyone else.

Paige passes the time by people-watching. Really, how could she not?

The outfits alone are insane. Some are beautiful, some are confusing, others are just genuinely concerning.

She spots Tyla—who she's actually met before, a couple years ago at fashion week, nice girl—looking impossibly tiny and gorgeous in something teal and shimmery, a dress with the torso bejeweled silver. Then, there's who Paige thinks is Charli XCX in a long black gown, looking as cool as she probably feels. There's also Amanda Seyfried, Gigi Hadid, a lot of really fucking famous people.

And then Paige spots Angel. Or at least who she thinks is Angel from a distance. She's tall and confident and in something bright pink.

Yeah, definitely Angel.

Paige smiles faintly to herself, glad that there's at least one person here she can actually go bother without feeling somewhat weird about it.

By the time it's finally her turn on the carpet, Paige feels more settled, more locked in. The nerves are still there, but now they're buried beneath the adrenaline. Besides, she had a long time waiting to prepare.

The staircase stretches up in front of her, and, once more, cameras begin exploding, sending fireworks of flashes her way.

"Paige, center!"

"Right side!"

"Paige, over here!"

She listens somewhat, moving her angles slowly, looking at different lenses, unsmiling through all of it. She commits to the bit, staying stone-faced, expression as cold as the stormy eye makeup she's got on. Judging by the photographers screaming louder every time she barely shifts positions, apparently it's working.

She knows she looks good, too, which helps. It's just factual, not even really cocky. The suit looks best under bright lights, the rhinestones catching every flash. The dark makeup makes her eyes stand out even more. She looks older tonight, sharper, and she thinks like somebody who belongs here.

Eventually, though, it's over, too. She climbs the staircase, takes the final few photos, and then she's suddenly inside.

Done.

True to her word, she finds Angel pretty quickly afterward. The taller girl looks incredible, truthfully. The pink dress is huge and dramatic and soft-looking at the same time, layers of fabric spilling around her. It works ridiculously well against her skin.

Angel spots Paige as she's approaching and grins widely. "P!"

Paige laughs as she's pulled into a hug. It's nice to see her; she hasn't since Team USA over a month ago.

"You look good as hell," Angel gushes, pursing her lips and nodding in approval as she holds Paige at arm's length to look at her properly.

"Says you," the blonde replies, touching briefly at the fabric of her dress.

They fall into easy conversation fast after that, talking about flights and schedules and how annoying it is that both of them have to be back in their own cities tomorrow morning to make it in time for practice tomorrow afternoon. The Met couldn't be early April, instead?

"I got a seven AM flight," Angel complains, shaking her head in disgust. "Why do they do this to us?"

Paige groans immediately at the thought of her own flight tomorrow. "Mine's at eight. It's sick."

"Athletes deserve their sleep, I'on get it."

"Exactly."

Paige is mid-laugh when something behind Angel catches her attention. Her eyes automatically flick behind her shoulder, curious and drawn.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Paige's brain stalls, neurons firing in a million different directions.

There you are. Just behind Angel's shoulder, across the room. And Jesus fucking Christ—like, seriously? Is the universe out to get Paige tonight or something? She tunes out what Angel is saying almost immediately, her brain fully rerouting itself, because you look...

Fuck, it's actually irritating how good you look. It's as if somebody sat down in a lab and genetically engineered a face and a dress and a body specifically designed to ruin Paige's ability to function like a normal person. You're talking to someone she doesn't recognize, smiling wide, laughing at something they said, and Paige's gut warms at the sight.

It's a pretty smile, one that she knew before she ever even technically knew you. She remembers first seeing it back when she was seventeen and bored and watching a movie. That was before championships and the league and all of this. Back when you were just this insanely pretty actress Paige developed a stupid celebrity crush on without meaning to.

And now you're here, again, real, again, standing just twenty feet away.

Your hair falls in soft curls over your shoulders, shiny beneath the bright lights. The dress is long and flowy and almost watercolor-looking, pastel blues and greens and purples melting together like wet paint. Sparkles catch every movement you make, tiny flashes like light hitting water. It's off-the-shoulder too, exposing your collarbones and the smooth line of your neck, and Paige suddenly becomes hyperaware that she has functioning eyes.

Which is incredibly unfortunate because she cannot stop staring.

Technically, this is only the second time she's ever seen you in person. The first time ended with her in your bed and between your legs, which—

Like, yeah, hard to top that introduction, honestly.

Her stomach flips a little at the memory. It wasn't even just the sex, exactly. Though, obviously, the sex was great. You were great and perfect and pliant and she knows she'll never forget the feeling of your pussy sliding against hers. But there was also everything else, too. The subway ride. Your life. The lazy morning after where both of you had barely slept enough to qualify as rested.

Nothing ever happened after that, obviously. You'd mentioned something briefly that night about filming in Dallas, but that never turned into anything. You didn't have her number and she didn't have yours. She briefly thought about dming you on Instagram—to say what, she doesn't know—but one look at your account told her that you certainly didn't run it. It was mere promo stuff, photoshoots, movie trailers, pictures from premieres, that sort of thing. You were even one of those celebrities that followed zero people. All of that being said, it told Paige enough. If she tried from there, she doubts she ever would have heard back.

So, she didn't dwell on it much. Life moved incredibly fast within the past year; Paige feels like she's lived a million lives since she met you. She got drafted and went to Dallas, had that treacherous first season in the W. Won Rookie of the Year. Went to Turks and Caicos. Learned Dallas better, really lived there. Then lived in Miami for a few months for Unrivaled, where she built deeper relationships and improved on her game and herself. Played for USA basketball at the senior level. All within the span of twelve months. A lot happened.

All that being said, though, it's not like she never thought about that night or you. In fact, one night in Dallas, when she was alone and bored in her apartment and had nothing to do, she watched a movie. A new and a big one that all of her friends had sworn was good, one that you happened to be in as one of the three main characters. You did great in it, what Paige would call 10/10 acting. You also looked great in it, what Paige would call a 10/10 girl. (Not to mention the fact that there was a sex scene in it that included you. Paige would be lying if she said she may or may not have replayed it, watched it over, remembering what it was like to fuck you for real and how you sounded similar but not quite like that. A little more desperate, a little more shaky with her. She feels mildly creepy whenever she thinks about how did she that, though, so she pretends it never happened.)

But now you're standing there looking like that. And, Jesus Christ, there's only so much self-control a person can realistically be expected to have.

Paige isn't so sure she's going to have enough tonight.

YOU'RE FEELING GOOD now. Finally.

Loose in your own body again, warm all over in that perfect way where the champagne and vodka and exhaustion and adrenaline have all melted together into something pleasant rather than overwhelming. The hard part of the night is over. The carpet, the screaming, the pretending you're deeply invested in conversations with people you barely know and probably won't speak to again until this exact event next year. Or maybe the Golden Globes. Or Fashion Week. Or the Oscars. Something of the sort.

Overall, all of that—and the Met—has never really been your thing.

You appreciate it, obviously. You appreciate fashion and art and spectacle and all the effort that goes into it. You understand why people love it. Hell, sometimes you even love it. But there's always a moment on that carpet where the cameras are flashing so violently in your face that you genuinely feel like a zoo animal being documented for scientific purposes. Everyone yelling your name at once, shouting every which way. You'd once left the carpet with a migraine so bad you sat in the back of the care with your eyes closed all the way back to the hotel.

Still, it's part of the job. And your job is good. Better than good. Your job is ridiculous and glamorous and fulfilling and absurdly overpaid. You get to play pretend for a living and wear couture and travel the world and kiss pretty people on camera while somebody hands you millions of dollars afterward.

There are far worse fates.

So, you do the events. You smile and pose and make conversation with celebrities that all know each other through this bizarre web of fame where everybody's dated somebody or worked with somebody or vacationed with somebody in Ibiza once.

And, honestly, tonight wasn't even bad. The dinner especially could've gone so much worse.

You still have mild trauma from last year, trapped between two painfully serious actors who spent forty-five straight minutes discussing practical effects in indie war films while you nodded along like you had literally anything to contribute. At one point, you'd escaped to the bathroom and stayed there long enough that your publicist texted asking if you were alive. You still don't know what the planners were thinking when they assigned your seat next to those men.

This year was far easier. You've been seated between Anne Hathaway and Alysa Liu, with Kylie Jenner across from you. A win on all ends.

Anne is lovely, genuinely. You already know her well enough from filming The Odyssey together last year, a Christopher Nolan film that comes out this summer. She has this ease to her that makes conversations feel natural, even in rooms where everyone's constantly trying too hard. At one point, she learned over and whispered commentary about someone's absurd headpiece across the room that nearly made you choke on your drink.

Alysa was unexpected in the best way, too. She's cute and funny, way funnier than you anticipated. You'd ended up asking her about the Olympics and she'd gushed about it with this animated excitement that made you laugh multiple times throughout dinner. There was something so refreshing about her. No weird Hollywood performance to her personality yet. She still felt real.

And Kylie was Kylie. You've known her long enough know, gotten closer within the past couple of years. Her and Timmy have gotten super serious and he's been one of your best friends for a long time now.

All in all, the dinner had actually been fun. And Sabrina Carpenter's performance during it definitely added to that.

Now is the real good part, though: the afterparty.

Or, more specifically, one of the afterparties. Because of course there are multiple. There are always multiple. But this one's younger and louder and less painfully formal—thank God. The second you walked in, the whole atmosphere of the night changed from curated elegance to rich twenty-somethings trying to get drunk in designer clothes, which is significantly more your speed. The room glows with expensive lighting and far too much money. Champagne towers line near the walls, music pulses through the floor beneath your heels, everything sparkles a little under the lights—jewelry, sequins, glasses, eyes.

You feel good tonight. Hot.

Obviously, you've changed out of the Versace gown you wore to the actual event. Now, the dress you've got on is a short, one-shoulder cocktail piece made entirely of silver sequins and beads that catch the light wonderfully. The bodice is fitted and structured, sculpting your waist before flaring slightly with fine metallic fringe that shimmers whenever you move. The asymmetrical strap curves over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, and the overall effect is sleek, modern, and glamorous. You like it a lot.

You don't like the stilettos as much, but you can handle it. Years in this industry have conditioned you into functioning through foot pain like a soldier.

Your hair's still in curls from earlier, soft around your shoulders, makeup slightly more lived-in now after hours of sitting on your face beneath cameras and lights. There's a pleasant buzz in your bloodstream, enough alcohol to smooth out the sharper edges of your thoughts without fully dulling them.

And currently, you've also got a very attractive man standing beside you at the bar, which certainly doesn't hurt.

Joe Burrow is tall. Tall and broad and muscular without seeming obnoxiously aware of it. Blonde, too, annoyingly enough. Clean jawline, nice smile, nice voice. Very nice forearms, if you're being honest. And he's funny, something you didn't exactly expect. Athletes are kind of a gamble socially. Some of them are charming. Some of them have the conversational abilities of drywall. But Joe's easy to talk to, smooth.

You can tell he's into you. He's not exactly being subtle about it. His body's been angled toward yours for the last twenty minutes, one of his large hands occasionally brushing your waist or lower back when he leans in to say something over the music.

It's enough to consider going home with him, back to The Carlyle, turning the idea around in your brain. You're single. He's hot. You're tipsy. And you haven't gotten fucked properly in a bit, so that would be great, too.

Right now, he's saying something about one of the absurd celebrity interactions he had earlier, deadpan enough that your jaw literally drops. You laugh, leaning toward him instinctively as you do so. "No, she did not."

"She literally did," he enthuses, grinning. "Swear to God."

"That's fucking insane."

"I know."

You're still smiling up at him, amused by his little anecdote, when you feel a body step up beside you at the bar.

"Can I get a Dirty Shirley, please?"

The voice hits first, dragging along an axon terminal until it flares off a nerve signal in your brain. It's low and familiar, rough just around the edges, tainted with a slight Midwestern accent.

Your stomach flips before you even fully turn your head, because you already know.

Paige Bueckers leans casually against the bar to your left as though she hasn't quite literally just short-circuited your brain a little, having left your nerves fried. It's unfortunate that she looks even better up close tonight.

You'd seen her on the carpet earlier and may or may not have already had a small moment over it then. She'd looked sharp out there, cool in a different way from most of the celebrities tonight. She looked less manufactured, much more natural, as if she was dressing up because it was fun, not because she needed everyone in the room to worship her for it—though a lot probably did anyway.

But now you can actually look at her, and it makes your stomach flutter and fumble slightly. Her blonde is brighter than you remember, longer, too, sleek down her back in a way that immediately makes you suspect extensions. It suits her, though. Really suits her. And her makeup—you don't think you've ever seen Paige in makeup like this before. The dark eyeliner sharpens her face beautifully, makes those blue eyes look even lighter somehow. Icy and magnetic and probably a little dangerous. Not to mention the fact that she changed after the carpet, too. Her suit's gone, replaced now with black dress pants and a white button-down that shimmers subtly whenever any ounce of light hits it. Sparkles woven into the fabric, maybe. Whatever it is, it works.

She looks expensive now. Expensive and relaxed. A little tipsy, too, if you had to guess.

And, immediately, unfortunately, your brain betrays you by dragging you straight back to last April. To your apartment. To Paige sprawled between your thighs with those stupid blue eyes looking up at you while her finger pumped and her mouth sucked and—

Okay, you've got to calm down.

Heat rushes across your face almost instantly at the subject of your thoughts and you pray it just looks like alcohol. Which, to be fair, probably helps. Everybody's flushed in here.

Paige lifts her drink once the bartender hands it over, then turns fully toward you. Her eyes land on your face and her pink lips tilt upwards in a slight smirk. It's deeply irritating considering Joe Burrow's hand is literally resting against your lower back right now.

"Hey," Paige greets, nonchalant. She nods at you first, then at Joe. "How're you?"

Her eyes are already roving over you before you even get to answer. It's the least subtle thing maybe ever, though you don't think she's trying to be. The blue travels a path down your dress, to the expanse of your thighs and legs, then back up again, lingering just long enough to make your stomach tighten pleasantly. You suddenly remember that Paige Bueckers is quite confident. The one night you spent with her let you know that it's a natural trait. Still, you don't think it's enough to be quite this bold stone cold sober. The alcohol must be helping.

"I'm good," you reply, lips tilting upwards slightly. "And you?"

Her grin widens just a little around the straw of her drink. "Great."

Joe glances between the two of you curiously before asking, "You two know each other?"

You look up at him. "Yeah, we met last year."

Beside you, Paige hums in agreement before taking another sip of her Shirley. There's something almost smug in the way she just stands there, shoulder brushing lightly against yours at the crowded bar, like she knows at the very least she's already piqued your interest. Or reminded you of the last time you saw each other.

You glance between them, curious yourself. They're both two young and famous athletes. You wonder. "Do you two know each other?" you repeat Joe's question.

"We sat next to each other at dinner," Paige supplies, looking at Joe for the slightest second before turning her attention fully back to you.

Joe nods. "Yeah."

"Ah," you respond softly.

Interesting. Very interesting, actually.

You finish off the last sip of your vodka soda, ice clinking quietly against the glass, and try to maintain at least some level of decorum by staring ahead toward the alcohol lining the bar walls instead of directly at either of them. It would probably work better if you couldn't physically feel both of their attention on you. Joe's hand still rests against your back, and Paige's eyes keep drifting over your body shamelessly every couple of seconds.

If you're honest? You kinda like it.

Sure, if you were sober, you'd probably be awkward about this. Overthinking every little thing, wondering if you looked stupid or obvious or messy.

But drunk-you is significantly more fun. And there's really nothing not fun about standing between two tall, hot, blonde professional athletes who both very clearly want you right now.

However, you can quickly tell that Joe wants to get you alone again. His hand begins rubbing slow circles on its spot against your lower back, warm and steady and big through the thin silver fabric of your dress. He leans down toward your ear again, close enough that you not only catch the clean scent of his cologne underneath the alcohol and party air, but also that his lip grazes your ear.

"You wanna—"

His words are immediately cut off and overshadowed by the loud report of, "Your drink's all gone."

You blink, turning your head to look at Paige automatically. Her gaze is locked on your empty glass, painted with a deeply unconcerned expression, no care in the world that she's just interrupted another person mid-sentence. Then, her eyes flick back up to yours.

"Vodka soda, right?" she asks, expectant.

You stare at her for half a second, a tad bit perplexed. "... Yeah."

You don't even know how she remembers that. Maybe you ordered it last year around her, though you feel like that whole night was tainted more so by champagne. Maybe she noticed earlier tonight. Maybe Paige Bueckers just happens to possess the frighteningly attractive ability to remember tiny details about people she wants. You don't really know.

Before either you or Joe can actually respond, Paige is already flagging down the bartender. "A vodka soda for this girl right here, please," she says easily, nodding at you, her fingers grazing your arm for just a second. They're calloused, but you find that you sort of enjoy the feeling of roughness against your own smooth skin.

There's something just so natural about the whole thing. That's something uniquely Paige. Even when she's being bold, it still feels easy and intuitive somehow, like confidence comes to her the same way breathing does, like social anxiety plays no role whatsoever. With her, you truly don't think it does.

Joe straightens beside you slightly, clearly trying to recalibrate the situation, and you can practically feel the silent competition settling into the space around the three of you. And even though there's a bit more pink blushing the apples of your cheeks now, you honestly think it's kind of hot.

However, the universe seems to make the choice for you because, suddenly, some guy you don't recognize appears out of nowhere and throws an arm around Joe's shoulders.

"Joey B!" he exclaims loudly over the music, slurring just a bit. He's clearly drunk, thou you can't blame him. "There's someone you've gotta meet."

Irritation flares across Joe's face. "Right now?"

"Yes, right now, bro. C'mon."

The guy is already pulling him backward before Joe can protest much more. He glances at you over his shoulder then, expression caught somewhere between apologetic and reluctant, clearly not wanting to leave you standing here.

You give him a small amused smile anyway. "Go."

"I'll find you again," he says almost instantly.

Paige snorts softly beside you into her drink and you fight the urge to laugh outright. You know damn well that you won't be seeing him again tonight, so you watch for just a second longer as he disappears back into the crowd, swallowed up by flashing lights and beautiful rich people and music vibrating through the room.

You have no reason to be disappointed at that, because the moment he's gone, Paige is already shifting closer without hesitation, filling the empty space he left behind as if she's just been waiting to do it. At the same time, your fresh drink arrives. She grabs it before the bartender can even fully set it down and hands it directly to you, fingers brushing yours briefly in the process.

"He wanted you bad," she teases, grinning. Her smile is as endearing as it was last year; her gums show with it.

You roll your eyes at the words, though you can't stop your own smile from forming. "That's a little hypocritical," you reply, because you can read Paige's body language and it doesn't exactly take a genius to tell she wants the exact same thing.

Paige just shrugs one shoulder, completely unashamed. It makes you stare at her a little longer, because she's a bit different. Not entirely, she's still unmistakably Paige. She's still got that easy athlete swagger to her, that calm confidence, that way of boring her eyes into yours with intense eye contact that sends sparks straight to your cunt, skipping any butterflies in the stomach. But last year, there'd been a bit more restraint to her at first. It wasn't exactly what you would call shyness, just what she's got now in a more reserved role. She'd been charming immediately, of course, but there was still this underlying awareness that she was newer to that world than you were, less established. She'd carried herself like someone trying not to take up too much space at first, especially while you two were still at The Tonight Show afterparty.

That hesitation is completely gone tonight. Now, she just stares at you openly, boldly, blue eyes borderline on what you would describe as craving. All as if she walked over here fully intending to pull your attention away from Joe Burrow and absolutely succeeded.

And, honestly, it's working embarrassingly well.

You lift the straw of your vodka soda to your lips slowly, eyes locked with hers as you take a sip. It's deliberate; you know exactly what you're doing. Paige absolutely notices, her gaze instantly dropping to your mouth, focused there with startling intensity as you sip at your drink. You watch her throat moves when she swallows.

Bingo.

You've spent more than enough years being flirted with to know how to flirt back effectively.

You lower the glass again carefully, opting to change the subject. "I liked your suit tonight. What was it?"

"Coach," Paige responds easily, her fingers—that you have a few fond memories with—absentmindedly tracing over the condensation of her Shirley glass. "I been workin' with them for a bit now."

Then, her eyes slide over you again, slow, probably cataloguing details if you had to guess. She adds, voice a bit rougher, returning the favor now, "Your dress was fuckin' insane. Who did that?"

You shrug, playing for nonchalant, though you also loved the dress that you wore tonight. "Versace."

Paige lifts her brows, grinning. "Fancy."

You laugh softly, then watch as her gaze drops lower now, toward the short silver dress you're in now. Unlike the dramatic watercolor gown from earlier, this one's tiny, strappy. Tight enough that it feels almost painted onto you. Once it was fully zipped up earlier, you'd briefly been worried you wouldn't be able to breathe properly the rest of the night (you adjusted quick).

Paige reaches out, her fingers ghosting along your waist. The touch is light at first, barely there, fingertips brushing over the fabric experimentally before she pinches a tiny bit of the material between her fingers, rubbing it thoughtfully. "This Versace, too?"

"Courtesy of Donatella herself."

Paige lets a low hum out of the back of her throat. She doesn't move her hand away, instead opting to step even closer. She's near enough now that you're greeted by the immense warmth radiating off her body, smell the faint mix of alcohol and expensive cologne and something clean underneath it all. It's slightly familiar. You've only had it once, but it's a nice scent—you remember it.

She murmurs, "Shit. I gotta thank her someday then." Her hand then slides flatter against your waist, long fingers stretching across the expanse of it. You may or may not lean into it a bit, fingers lightly brushing her forearm where it rests against the bar. "You look really fuckin' good, ma."

Your stomach dips at that, dropping a hill into your gut. It's annoying because you're usually fully capable of being normal around attractive people. But Paige just has this way of speaking to you that feels warm and cocky at the same time, as if she already knows the effect she's having, and you find it so disturbingly hot that you're nearly embarrassed.

"Yeah?" you ask lightly anyway, refusing to let yourself look too affected.

Paige rolls her eyes immediately, still grinning. "Don't even play. You know you do."

She's not wrong, of course. You're attractive—that's not exactly groundbreaking information. You've spent the better part of the last decade having cameras shoved in your face and strangers writing think pieces about your cheekbones and your eyes and your lips and your hair and your tits online. You know what you look like.

Still, hearing Paige say it makes you slightly warmer. That heat only heightens when her hand curls slightly, slipping around to move more toward your back, pulling you in just a bit closer.

You let her, taking another sip of your drink.

"Did I cockblock you and Burrow?" she asks, and the utter smugness lacing her voice is unbelievable, enough for you to let out an amused scoff.

"I mean..." you trail off intentionally, grinning around your straw as you shrug one shoulder. Because, technically, yes, she did. If she hadn't walked over here, there's a very real chance you'd still be standing with Joe right now, a very real change that you would have gone home with him later too, would have fucked him.

Paige's smirk only widens at the idea. "My bad," she apologizes, though she sounds exactly zero percent sorry.

Then, while simultaneously dipping her hand lower for a brief second, fingers grazing over the curve of your ass before returning innocently to your lower back, and staring directly at your mouth, she adds, "I can help you fix that, though, if you need it."

You smirk at her over the rim of your glass. "And how would you do that?"

You figure it out, quickly. Because, unsurprisingly, about five minutes later, you're making out with Paige Bueckers in an empty hallway. It might have been less than five minutes, actually. You don't fully remember how you even got down here. One second, you were at the bar trading smug little comments back and forth, and the next, Paige was taking your hand and guiding you through the crowd.

And, now, your back is pressed against the cool wall near the exit staircase, the distant bass from upstairs vibrating faintly through the building while Paige kisses you like she's been thinking about doing it all night—which, to be fair, maybe she has.

Her hands grip your hips hand enough to keep you pinned in place, fingers digging into the thin fabric of your dress while your own hands tangle into the front of her shimmering button-down. And—God—she's still such a good kisser. That was one of the things that stuck out to you majorly when you'd hooked up with her last April. Because some people are attractive until they kiss you—and then, despite being grown fucking adults, just don't seem to know what to do, either kissing too slow or immediately shoving their tongue down your throat.

Paige isn't any of that. Her mouth is warm and confident against yours, kissing you like she already knows exactly what you like, as if she remembers.

You think she does.

You like the softness of her bottom lip, the fullness of it when you catch it gently between your teeth. You like how dominant she gets once she settles into the kiss properly, one hand tightening on your waist while she angles her head deeper and pushes her tongue into your mouth, sliding it slowly from the underside of yours. You like how she presses closer, chest against yours now, one thigh sliding between yours just enough to make your stomach twist pleasantly.

The alcohol tainting your blood makes everything warmer, softer. Her hands feel heavier because of it. Her mouth feels hotter. Your head tips back slightly against the wall as she kisses along your lower lip again, slower this time, tongue sliding.

Paige pulls back barely an inch, just enough to murmur, breath warm against your mouth, "That lip gloss strawberry or watermelon?" She leans in again, tongue ghosting lightly along the seam of your lips to get another taste.

"Raspberry, actually," you mumble, a mix of it and a bit of cherry from her dirty Shirley coating your tastebuds.

You aren't keen on being apart any longer, though, so you slide your fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her back in. She goes easily, and the kiss resumes—far less slow this time—mouths meeting, wide open and slick. Her jaw works against yours, tongues tangling, hers broad and wide enough to make you hum.

It keeps going like that for a bit, against the wall. Eventually, you think Paige's phone starts ringing. You don't bother acknowledging it and you don't think she is going to either, because she's only kissing you faster now. In fact, you barely even register the sound beyond some distant annoyance because Paige's hands are now firmly gripping your ass through the dress, the tips of her long fingers brushing against the bareness of the back of your thighs. Your leg is half draped across her own thigh, and she's flooded your senses completely, having consumed your attention and kept it wholly for herself.

Paige keeps ignoring the buzzing, too busy kissing you hard enough that your head bumps lightly against the wall behind you. One of your hands slides from the back of her neck to the front of her shirt, gripping.

Suddenly, though, she pauses. She doesn't fully pull away, mumbling against your mouth, "Oh, the car."

At the words, you laugh breathlessly despite yourself. You'd nearly forgotten that she called a car at all in the first place, though the prospect of getting out of here, of getting Paige somewhere private for real, is enough to make your skin boil and your cunt leak. You're ready to go.

Paige lets out a quiet groan before fumbling awkwardly for her phone. Her forehead drops briefly against yours while she digs around in her pocket one-handed, clearly irritated by the interruption.

It takes her an embarrassingly long amount of time to answer it because she keeps getting distracted kissing you again between attempts.

Finally, she gets the phone up to her ear. She's slightly out of breath when she says, "Hey."

There's a pause.

Then, "Yeah, we're comin' down now."

Another beat.

"A'ight."

The call ends just like that, short and sweet. The two of you just stand there for a moment afterward, breathing and recovering. The hallway suddenly feels strangely quiet now that you're not actively making out, the sounds of heavy breathing and slick mouths no longer illuminating the area. Automatically, you reach up to wipe at your lips with the back of your hand, pretty sure there's spit smeared around your lip combo at this point. Your curls are definitely messed up too, loosened and tangled from Paige's hands and being pressed up against the wall. You tuck a few strands behind your ears anyway, trying to regain at least a tiny bit of dignity before facing another human being.

Paige doesn't look much better herself. Her lips are visibly swollen and the same shade as her cheeks, bright pink, while her eyeliner is now slightly smudged beneath those sharp blue eyes. The sleek blonde hair is from earlier is mussed and tangled, a bit frizzy, too.

Honestly, it's maybe the best she's looked all night. There's something deeply satisfying about seeing someone so composed and polished suddenly look thoroughly kissed and unruly.

Paige notices you staring, lips lifting. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You're lyin'."

You smile despite yourself, smoothing down the front of your dress and pulling down the back of it. Paige, meanwhile, bends to grab your purse from the floor where you apparently dropped it at some point during the last ten minutes of poor decision-making. She doesn't hand it back to you, instead holds it for herself and then just nods toward the exit. "C'mon."

The walk outside is surprisingly normal considering the fact that about two minutes ago, Paige had your leg halfway wrapped around her thigh and her tongue pushed deep into your mouth in the middle of a hallway. Now, though, you just walk side by side without touching, careful. There's an unspoken understanding between both of you the second you near the exit doors—public again, cameras possible, people possible. And despite the alcohol buzzing pleasantly through your veins, neither of you is stupid enough to risk being overly touchy outside a celebrity-packed afterparty on the night of the Met.

You're incredibly relieved when the back exit turns out blissfully empty. There are no paparazzi or screaming, flashing photographers. No blurry TMZ video waiting to make a headline of your life tomorrow morning. Instead, there's just cool New York air and a sleek black car waiting at the curb. Thank God.

You both climb in quickly, and—probably unsurprisingly—the second the door shuts behind Paige, the atmosphere changes completely. Much closer quarters, private enough, dangerous again.

You roll your eyes at Paige's unwillingness to wait even a second, because she's immediately leaning toward the front seat and asking, not even trying to be a hint subtle, "You mind puttin' the partition up?"

The driver doesn't react at all, doesn't even bother to respond. He just—without a word—presses a button, and you watch as the partition slides up smoothly. You assume this poor man has definitely driven drunk and horny celebrities around before.

You don't even get to be sympathetic toward him for long, though, because as soon as the divider clicks and seals, Paige is moving again, and fast. One large hand grips your jaw firmly, tilting your face toward hers while she kisses you hard enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs. Immediately, surprised, you let out a soft sound against her mouth, sinking back into the leather seats as she half climbs on top of you.

The first coherent thought you have once her weight settles against you properly is that she's so fucking solid. Of course, she was athletic last year, too, obviously, but now there's noticeably more muscle beneath your hands. She's got stronger shoulders, thicker arms, firmer thighs pressing between yours as she crowds you deeper into the seat. She's got real, professional athlete muscle now and you can fucking feel it everywhere—it's beyond attractive, unfortunately. Your hands slide over her sides beneath the loose button-down, feeling the heat of her skin before gliding across the hard lines of her abs, all while she continues kissing you deeper.

You know well enough that you don't have to worry about anyone outside the car seeing anything, given that the windows are tainted probably an illegal amount. They blur the city lights outside into soft streaks of color, but inside, the car feels warm, heating up. You're beginning to sweat.

Paige's hand stays firm on your jaw, now angling your head to the side, her mouth dragging away from yours slowly, a chain of spit splitting between you. Then, she's kissing down your neck, slow at first, just her wet, soft lips across skin. It doesn't take her long to grow rougher, though, tongue and teeth poking out, grazing enough for your breath to catch slightly, stuttering in your throat.

"Paige—" you mumble, even if you have no idea what else you want to say.

She just hums against your throat, the vibration of it making you shiver. Then, her mouth moves once more, upward this time. Her lips brush near your ear while one of her hands slides possessively along your waist, bunching a bit of the sequined fabric of your dress there, making it ride up slightly.

"Gonna make you feel so good when we get back to the hotel," she murmurs, the words going straight through you. "You're so pretty, fuckin' deserve that shit."

Your stomach twists hard, your heart stuttering beneath your ribs, and your cunt pulsing, all a reaction to the words and the thoughts that come with them. If you're honest, that's exactly the kind of thing you need to fucking hear right now. You need to be fucked bad—you can feel your thong already soaking—and the anticipation of it is getting to you. Not to mention that praise always hits you embarrassingly hard, especially from somebody whose voice sounds like that, all low and rough and against your skin.

A shaky breath leaves you before you can stop it, and, unfortunately, Paige definitely notices. You shift beneath her unconsciously, thighs parting a bit wider as she returns to mouthing at your neck, and, without even truly thinking about it, body moving on instinct, you grind upward slightly against her.

Paige's teeth catch your earlobe. You think you feel her grinning into it.

"You want some right now, hm?" she asks, tone of teasing, squeezing your waist as she does so. "Quickie?"

Your face burns at the words, and, despite the heat rushing through your body, you scoff, "Shut up." Unfortunately, it comes out more like a whine, especially because you absolutely do want that. You don't even care about the driver so close, who can't see but can probably hear.

Paige just laughs softly against your skin, warm and smug and unsurprisingly pleased with herself. You grab her face before she can tease you again, pulling her back into another searing kiss. She responds immediately, her tongue prodding its way in while one hand slides lower along your thigh—and then up under your dress.

Your breath catches sharply into her mouth. She doesn't hesitate in the slightest, palm gliding between your legs over your panties as if she already knows exactly what she's going to find there.

Which, she does.

The low sound she makes when she feels how wet you are sends heat straight through your stomach and all the way back down to your pussy, probably pushing out another flood of slick.

"Fuck," she mutters quietly.

Then, her middle and ring fingers find the exact spot where your clit swells beneath the lace. She rubs once, a slow, firm circle, and, on cue, your hips jerk. The wetness already seeping through the thin material of the thong makes the lace cling to her fingertips, dragging against the bundle of nerves with every pass.

Your head falls back against the seat with a shaky exhale. "Paige..."

"Yeah?" she murmurs, watching your face, her breath warm against your cheek. She begins to speed up a bit, circling harder, the fabric now bunched and twisted against her knuckles as she presses deeper. The rough seam of your panties rubs against your clit as she works you, the friction almost too much for where you are and what you need—silk and lace and her fingertips pressing down over your the most sensitive part of your pussy. A wet sound starts, the slick slide of her finger against the soaked material, and your thighs tremble open wider. "Tell me."

You don't even know what to say, nearly frustrated by how quickly she's affected you, how you're already somewhat melted beneath her and you're not even at the hotel yet. Half of it is probably due to the alcohol, which makes everything feel heavier, hotter. Every brush of her fingers shoots straight through your body without any buffer at all. The other half of it is because it's just Paige. She's ridiculously good at what she does.

She then curls her other hand around the back of your neck, pulling your face back to hers. Her mouth crashes in, messy and open, teeth catching your bottom lip. She bites down just enough to make you gasp, and in that moment, she hooks her thumb under the waistband of your panties and yanks them to the side.

Her bare fingers land directly on your clit, hot and slick, without any barrier now. The contact makes you jolt, a sharp whimper swallowed instantly by her mouth. She rubs fast, rough circles, fingertips pressing hard on your bud, mashing it in slick, tight motions. Her fingers have already grown wet, making every movement slipper and loud, the sound of her rubbing at you filling the car. (You hope the driver has some music on up front.)

She kisses you harder still, quenching your breathing more, her fingers not letting up. She's rubbing with increasing urgency, her whole hand moving now, palm pressing down, digits slipping against your wet folds as she focuses every stroke directly on your clit. Your hands clutch at her shoulders helplessly, nails digging in.

Vaguely, you're aware of just how insane this situation is. Some poor driver is taking you through Manhattan while Paige Bueckers has you half falling apart in the backseat—and she doesn't even have to slip her fingers inside you to get you there.

The pressure builds embarrassingly fast, a hot, sharp coil in your belly, your hips grinding up into her hand. What's worse is that Paige clearly notices.

"Already close?" she teases against your lips, though she sounds like she needs it almost as much as you do.

You just glare at her weakly, already planning on getting her back as soon as you're in the hotel. "You're so—annoying."

Paige just laughs quietly, but her fingers never stop. If anything, they just get more precise, more deliberate, messy and fast against your pussy, reading to tear the orgasm right out of you. Your thighs tense around her hand as you try to stay quiet, forehead pressing briefly against one of her broad shoulders while she works you through wave after wave of pleasure.

"Fuck," you whisper breathlessly, your lungs having trouble swallowing air in your chest. You're sweating now, too. You can feel it beginning to bead along your throat and collarbones, on your inner thighs as well.

"I know, baby. Trust, I fuckin' know."

That pet name absolutely doesn't help. Neither does the way Paige kisses the corner of your mouth afterward, murmuring soft praise between breaths while your cunt keeps tightening harder and harder beneath her touch.

When you finally cum, it hits fast, the pressure of her palm against your pussy enough to get you there. You're panting hard, but you kiss her anyways in an attempt to stay quiet. She responds in kind, chasing your mouth, kissing you back sloppy, her fingers still rubbing you in those fast, messy circles, no rhythm at all, just relentless pressure. Your entire body tenses, thighs clamping around her hand, hips bucking.

Paige lets you, one strong arm wrapping tighter around your waist while the other keeps sliding through your slickness, pressing against your clit as it pulses, drawing out every wave until you're shuddering and oversensitive. "There you go," she guides, voice wrecked as if she just came herself. "Good girl."

Jesus Christ.

Your heart stumbles in your chest, face flushed, eyes closing for a moment. You feel Paige pull her hand away, feel her adjust your panties at your hips. They lace is wet and sticky against your pussy now and you cringe a little at the feeling, ready to be rid of them. Paige is pulling your dress back down, too, and as she does so, you open your eyes back up, taking in the fact that the car has begun to slow.

Paige presses one final kiss against your mouth before glancing out the window. "We're here."

PAIGE FEELS A BIT drunker than she actually is. She’s not sloppy or stumbling or dizzy or anything like that. She’s just warm, loose-limbed and buzzing and a little stupid in the head in the way that happens when alcohol mixes with adrenaline and attraction and the overwhelming satisfaction making a very pretty—and famous—girl cum in the backseat of a car on the way back from the Met Gala.

Honestly, half of what she’s feeling probably isn’t even alcohol.

Half of it is just you.

Paige glances down at her hand for a second, still slick with you beneath the dim lighting of the car, and her brain immediately short-circuits all over again, pulsing inside her skull. Her jaw tightens as she watches her fingers shimmer slightly. Slowly, she wipes her hand against the leather seat beside her, casual about it externally even though internally she’s already thinking about getting her hand back against your cunt as soon as physically possible.

Preferably, sooner.

You’re sitting beside her fixing yourself up just a little, flushed and glowing and so fucking pretty that Paige nearly gets frustrated. Seriously, it’s a bit unfair. There are plenty of celebrities Paige has thought were abnormally attractive before seeing them in person, but usually real life evens things out a little. Usually, there’s at least some difference between the heavily curated on-screen—whether it be movies or modeling shoots—version of somebody and the actual human being standing in front of you.

Not you, of course. Somehow, you look even better in real life than you do on the big screen. That shouldn’t even be possible, considering Paige has seen one of your movies four times over just because she got distracted staring at your face.

And right now, you look especially insane. The silver dress rides high on your smooth thighs where it shifted during everything that just happened, curls messy around your shoulders now, lips swollen and shiny from kissing. Your makeup’s slightly smudged beneath your eyes, making you look softer and just a tad fucked out.

And fuck. The way you looked just a few moments ago, all breathless and pliant and squirming against Paige’s hand? The blonde’s own pussy pulses at the image. You were so responsive to her, a little easier to read than the last time. Every small sound and movement told her exactly what felt good—which was basically everything. And the thing that’s really got Paige fucked up is that you clearly liked her taking control. Even if you pushed back slightly, called her annoying, rolled your eyes between whimpers—she knows. You enjoyed the praise, enjoyed it when she got a little cocky.

And that’s dangerous information to hand to someone like Paige Bueckers.

Because now all she wants to do is do it again. Properly this time. She wants to get you upstairs and peel that little dress off completely and shove her fingers up your cunt while her mouth is on your clit and hear those sounds again without having to stay quiet for the driver’s sake.

At the thought, Paige drags her gaze away from you to glance through the tinted window toward The Carlyle’s entrance. The sight that greets her immediately makes her groan internally, a sigh escaping her.

There are at least a dozen paparazzi crowded outside the hotel barriers, cameras huge and obnoxious. They’re waiting and eager, ready to snapshot their favorite celebrities returning from one of the most infamous nights out of the year. Ready for drunken gossip, scandal, all of it.

Paige’s buzz dulls slightly around the edges, enough to leave room for some anxiety to creep in. She’s not used to paparazzi, not like this. She’ll have fans come up to her and ask for photos, but she’s only been unexpectedly swarmed by the media, like, twice in her life. Sports media is different, expected, reporters asking about games and stats and injuries not really bothering her much anymore. But paparazzi is a whole other thing, slimier, greedier. They don’t want quotes or basketball insigiht—they want messy photos and weird speculation and blurry shots of people leaving clubs at two in the morning.

And Paige especially does not need headlines about leaving the Met Gala with you. It’s not like she’s ashamed or anything; she’d be quite proud to say she got to kiss you, got to fuck you, got to be with you in any capacity. But not to the public, knowing just how much this kind of thing can spiral. One blurry photo turns into ten articles and a hundred TikToks and suddenly, strangers online are deciding the details of your life for you.

She’s still thinking over it when you lean slightly over her shoulder to look out the window, too.

“Oh,” you murmur softly.

Paige watches your expression carefully, eyes roving over your face. There’s no panic or even really any annoyance, either. There’s just recognition, experience to back it up. It’s obvious that you’ve been dealing with this kind of thing far longer than she has.

You adjust your dress one last time, carefully, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs before scooting over Paige’s lap toward the door. Paige’s hand lands automatically on your hip to help move you over, enjoying the feeling of your waist beneath her palm.

You glance back at her over your shoulder, hand brushing hers on the leather seat for just a moment. “I’ll go first,” you tell her. You pause for a moment, then add pointedly, raising your eyebrows slightly, “We’re just friends, yeah?”

Paige understands the implication that you’re trying to get across. No touching, space between you walking, nothing overly obvious. Just two girls from overlapping industries that became friends and decided to leave the same afterparty together and head back to the same hotel like a thousand other celebrities will be doing tonight.

Nothing to see here.

Paige nods once. “Yeah.”

She lets you take the lead without argument because you clearly know this world better than she does. You’ve done this before, probably hundreds of times over. Paige hasn’t. It only makes sense.

When the car door opens, it’s instant chaos. Flashes explode immediately outside, white hot bursts reflecting against the tinted windows, cameras clicking violently the second you step out onto the curb. Your posture changes so subtly Paige almost misses it. Your shoulders settle, expression smoothing into something calm and unreadable, not giving them implications of anything.

People begin to shout your name, among other things. Questions and comments, desperate attempts to get your attention.

“You look gorgeous!”

“Can we get a smile?”

“How was your night?”

You don’t react much at all, just start walking smoothly toward the entrance, not bothering to acknowledge them or respond.

A second later, Paige follows behind. She shuts the car door, and immediately begins to blink quickly because the cameras are so fucking bright out here. Her head dips, the flashes hitting her eyes hard enough to almost make them water. It’s like being trapped inside lighting strikes. She does the same thing you do, not answering their questions, unresponsive to her own name. She just walks, hyperaware of everything: the distance between you two, the photographers trying to get angles, the sound of shutters snapping nonstop.

It’s only a few feet—just a couple strides with her long legs—to the entrance but it feels far longer under all that attention.

Finally, though, you’re both inside, the hotel doors closing and the noise dulling into something muffled and distant.

Paige exhales slowly, watching them continue to flash through the windows like greedy piranhas hunting their prey. She shakes her head, turning away, still blinking spots out of her vision. “How do you deal with that all the time, bro?” she asks you, a little baffled at the idea of all that being normal.

You shrug lightly, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You get used to it eventually.”

Paige honestly hopes she never does.

This lobby is quiet this late at night, mostly empty except for a few staff members and scattered guests lingering around expensive furniture. Silently, doing your best to be inconspicuous, the two of you walk toward the elevators side by side. You’re close but not obviously close, the tension between you humming anyway.

Paige can still taste you in the back of her throat. Can still feel the shape of your body under hers. Can still imagine your pussy leaking onto her fingers.

And, judging by the way you keep glancing at her mouth every few seconds, she’s pretty sure she’s thinking something along the same lines.

You press the elevator button and the wait feels excruciatingly long, every second stretching, the anticipation making Paige restless in her own skin. It makes things even worse when she catches herself staring at the curve of your legs beneath that tiny dress again and immediately has to look away before she does something stupid in the middle of the hotel lobby.

Ding.

The elevator doors slide open and Paige genuinely feels relief hit her entire body. You both step inside casually enough, like two people who definitely did not just hook up in the backseat of a car outside the hotel. You press the button for your floor while Paige stands beside you trying not to appear too eager.

The doors begin closing, painfully slow. Paige is irritated—clearly, whoever designed elevators never had urgent situations in mind. She watches the gap narrow inch by inch, heart thudding harder the closer the doors get to shutting completely. The second they click, it’s over.

Whatever tiny bit of restraint either of you had left immediately disappears. You move toward each other at the exact same time like magnets snapping together. Your mouths collide hard enough that Paige stumbles slightly into you, one hand instantly gripping your waist while the other slides down to find purchase on your ass. You gasp softly into her mouth and Paige immediately deepens the kiss, opening her lips against yours, tongue sliding hot and familiar while her body crowds you backwards.

God, she needed this. And she missed this, too, honestly. Even if technically she only had you for one night before this, her body remembers you embarrassingly well. She knows the shape of your waist beneath her hands, the taste of vodka and lip gloss on your mouth, the way you curve into her more and more, molding the two of you together.

Paige backs you against the elevator wall without even thinking about, kissing you harder once you’re pinned there properly.

She stops when you pull away abruptly. You look to your left and mutter, “Oh, fuck,” while a breathless laugh escapes through your lips.

Paige blinks, dazed for half a second before following your gaze downward. When she sees, a groan pulls itself out of her throat. Apparently, when she pushed you up against the wall, your back hit the elevator buttons—several of them. The lit-up numbers stare back at her mockingly, three different floors before your own.

You’re trying not to laugh now, one hand covering your mouth while Paige drops her forehead briefly against your shoulder in defeat. She needed this ride to be quick—this is a dire situation and she absolutely needs you somewhere behind a locked door as soon as possible.

Sighing dramatically, Paige lifts her head again and decides, “Doesn’t matter.”

What’s more important is that right now you’re standing there looking flushed and breathless from kissing her, your hands automatically sliding back around her neck the second she leans in again.

Paige kisses you hard enough to shut the both of you up. One hand stays firmly on your ass while the other cups your jaw, tilting your face exactly how she wants it so she can lick deeper into your mouth. You breathe against her lips, arms looping fully around her neck now, nails scraping lightly against the short hairs there.

Ding.

The elevator slows and both of you separate instantly, fast enough it’s honestly impressive. Paige clears her throat and tries to look like a normal, mentally sane person while you smooth your hair down beside her. The doors slide open and no one’s there, thank fucking God.

The second they’re shut again, Paige’s hands are on you again. You laugh against her mouth as she kisses you, saying, “You’re so eager.”

“You like it.”

You don’t deny that, which earns a smug grin from Paige right before she leans in once more, lips moving slower this time but somehow even hotter, the slick slide of mouths electrifying. Paige can feel herself getting progressively more worked up every second this continues. Her entire body feels as if it’s overheating, restless, too aware of you. Not to mention the fresh pool of slick coating her boxers.

When the elevator stops again, it’s the same thing. You both jump apart slightly, and—again—there’s no one there.

Then again, another stop.

At one point, Paige actually starts laughing against you between kisses because the timing is getting so ridiculous. You just grin back, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

Honest to God, the whole thing is kind of fun. Paige feels like she’s a teenager again, sneaking around. The thrill of getting caught just wounds her up tighter, every interruption twisting that knot in her gut. Every time she has to stop touching you and quickly step back only makes her want to grab you harder the second the doors shut again.

And she does.

By the end, she’s kissing you almost aggressively, one thigh pushing between yours while your hands clutch at the front of her shirt hard enough to wrinkle it even further. Her lips are probably wrecked by now, and your lipstick is smeared.

The elevator dings one last time, and—finally—it’s your floor.

Paige pulls back enough to look at the glowing number above the doors and actually exhales in relief. You laugh, still breathless, fixing the strap of your dress while the doors open once more. You walk out into the hallway with a purpose, quick without actually rushing, and Paige follows close behind, tethered to you.

The hallway itself is empty, muted and dim, thick carpet swallowing the sound of footsteps. Paige’s head continues to buzz pleasantly from the alcohol and from you and from the fact that she’s about to get you all to herself for real now.

It’s kind of insane for her to actually think about, when her mind pauses just for a moment to go over the information.

A year ago, she’d been fresh off a natty and about to get drafted, overwhelmed and exhausted and standing in your apartment trying not to embarrass herself in front of the celebrity crush she was somehow about to fuck. Now, she’s following you through The Carlyle after the Met Gala with lipstick smeared across her mouth and your taste still on her tongue.

Life is so, so weird sometimes. But Paige thanks God for it every day anyways.

Eventually, you stop outside one of the doors, digging through your purse for the keycard while Paige hovers behind you trying not to stare too obviously at the way your dress hugs your body from behind. The little green light flashes, and then the door clicks open. Something about hearing that lock release makes Paige’s stomach twist hard again. Real privacy, finally.

You step inside first and Paige follows immediately after, pushing the door shut behind her slowly while taking in the room. It’s large, absurdly luxurious just like everything else in this damn hotel. Soft lighting glows warmly across polished marble countertops and cream-colored furniture, giant windows stretching across one side of the room with dark Manhattan glittering outside.

Honestly, though, she barely registers any of it for longer than two seconds. Instead, her brain is wired on you, focused on you standing there before her. And, for the first time all night, nobody’s watching either of you. You’re not in a hallway, or a car, or an elevator. There’s no threats of strangers or drivers or cameras. It’s just you and her and the thick, charged silence stretching between you.

Oddly enough, considering her behavior up until this point, Paige doesn’t pounce immediately. Instead, she slows.

You set your purse down carefully on the marble counter near the entrance, never breaking eye contact with her while you do it, and Paige feels her heartbeat begin to pick up once more, growing erratic.

The eye contact is killing her. You’ve always looked at her so directly, like you’re fully paying attention every single second, locked in. It makes her feel simultaneously cocky and nervous, which is honestly an irritating combination.

Then, you kick your heels off one by one. The sound echoes softly through the room before you start walking backward slowly, grinning just a little. Paige watches you go like she’s in a trance, watches you move closer to the bed with this relaxed confidence that makes her mouth go dry, hungry.

Automatically, she steps farther into the room. Then, she decides to follow your lead. The shoes come off first before she reaches for the buttons of her shirt, undoing them quickly while walking toward you. Most of the work’s already been done from the elevator anyway, thanks to your impatient hands. The shimmering white fabric slides off her broad shoulders easily and Paige lets it drop somewhere onto the floor without bothering to look.

Now, she’s just in the black dress pants and sports bra underneath, the cool air of the hotel room brushing across her skin while your eyes drag slowly across her torso, lingering on her abs. The glitter in your gaze sends heat straight through Paige’s chest, all the way down to her cunt. You’re looking at her like you want to eat her alive, and, trust, the feeling is incredibly mutual.

Finally, she’s close enough again. She reaches out, gripping your jaw and kissing you hard. There’s not teasing anymore and it’s certainly not slow. She’s been waiting to do this properly since she first saw you by the red carpet tonight and every moment since has felt like torturous buildup.

You groan against her mouth, a sound that nearly ruins her on the spot, hands grabbing at her waist while she backs you toward the bed. She barely even realizes what she’s doing until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall onto it with a quiet laugh breaking through the kiss. The blonde follows down instantly, crawling over you without hesitation, knees sinking into the soft mattress on either side of your thighs while she kisses you deeper and deeper, trying to make up for all the time spent having to stop tonight.

Her hands are everywhere: your waist, your thigh, sliding up beneath your hair to tilt your head back exactly how she wants it. Honestly, Paige feels a little drunk on power right now, on how responsive you are beneath her, every breath and sigh and movement going straight to her head.

Suddenly, Paige is being flipped over.

She lets out an involuntary noise of surprise as her back hits the comforter instead, the movement quick enough that she’s barely even processed it before you’re above her. Your hands pin her forearms lightly against the sheets and Paige just stares up at you for a second, slightly stunned.

Oh. Oh, okay.

This is new. Paige is used to being the one in control most of the time. She’s the oldest sibling. She runs point on the court. She’s been the captain of basically every team she’s ever been a part of.

And, with girls, she’s usually the one pinning someone else down, the one hovering and looking smug.

Still, that doesn’t mean she’s complaining right now. Because she absolutely is not. You look like a fucking angel above her, hair falling around your face, cheeks flushed prettily pink, the one silver strap of your dress slipping down your shoulder. Genuinely, Paige thinks you might be the most attractive person she’s ever seen in her life. The realization hits her suddenly that if you asked her to do basically anything right now, she probably would.

You lean down and kiss her again before she can think too hard about that. Paige melts back into it, making a quiet, satisfied sound into your mouth while her jaw works against yours.

God, you kiss good, too, different from her. You’re softer in some ways, while simultaneously somehow more teasing. But still confident enough to make Paige feel slightly insane every time you pull her lower lip between your teeth.

You don’t keep her arms pinned for long. Soon, your hands are moving to her sports bra instead, fingers hooking beneath the fabric before tugging it upward. On instant, Paige lifts her arms automatically to help you pull it off. Your eyes flit down to her now bare chest, hovering for a split second, before returning to her face. Then, you toss the bra somewhere behind you carelessly.

Paige grabs your back then, strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you flush against her body. The sequins and sparkles of your dress scrape slightly rough against her bare chest but she doesn’t even have it in herself to care or hardly notice, focused instead on you, you, you.

Eventually, you pull away from her mouth just enough to trail kisses along the side of her jaw instead, then lower. Paige’s head tips back against the pillows automatically the second your lips make contact with her neck. You drag the tip of your tongue across her sweet spot before sucking the skin into your mouth.

“Mm, yeah,” Paige murmurs quietly. You hum against her skin in response, clearly pleased with the reaction.

One of Paige’s hands tangles into your hair, long fingers spreading along the back your skull as she holds you there. Her other hand slides slowly across the exposed skin of your upper back, above your dress. It’s warm and soft, perfect to run her fingers along.

Every few seconds, your mouth gets a little rougher against her neck, teeth grazing lightly before soothing over the sport with your tongue again. Paige exhales shakily through her nose at the technique, muttering under her breath, “Fuck.”

You laugh a little, a sound that flutters Paige’s stomach slightly, before shifting lower once more. You hover along her collarbones for a few moments, getting closer to her tits but not quite there yet.

Somehow, someway, after all that kissing, your lipstick is still intact enough to leave faint pink marks behind every time you kiss her skin. Paige notices and her pussy pulses because it’s fucking hot. Something about seeing the evidence of you all over her body makes heat spread through her body. Pink lip-shaped marks scattered across her skin—possessive, almost. Pretty.

Slowly, you begin to kiss along the side of one of her small breasts, your curls brushing over Paige’s stomach while she watches you through half-lidded eyes. Then, your mouth wraps around one of her nipples. You circle your tongue around it before sucking, cheeks hollowing out, your eyes glancing up at her while doing so. It’s unfairly attractive.

Paige lets out a low sound, her head tipping back slightly harder against the mattress while her fingers tighten faintly in your hair. She nods once, slow. “Yeah, feels good,” she lets you know lowly.

You release the bud with a small, wet pop before your mouth travels over to her other nipple, lavishing that one instead. At the same time, Paige’s own hands begin to grow impatient. Her fingers move down to the zipper of your dress, toying with the top of it briefly before beginning to pull it downward. She does so slowly, the sound filling the quiet room. As it opens up, Paige’s hands slide lower, too, palms smoothing down your spine inch by inch while more skin gets exposed beneath her touch. The dress loosens more and more until finally the zipper’s all the way down.

Settling her palms against your bare lower back, Paige mumbles, “Sit up for a sec.”

Honestly, she doesn’t particularly want your mouth leaving her chest. But she also desperately needs to see and feel you properly.

You push yourself upright without argument, sitting back on her thighs slightly while Paige slides the one delicate strap off your shoulder. The dress falls beautifully, the glittering fabric slipping down your body until you pull it the rest of the way off yourself, tossing it carelessly somewhere onto the floor.

Paige stares because she can’t help herself. You’re only wearing a tiny white thong underneath, one with a small rose right on the front rather than a bow. Her eyes drag up from there to your perky tits, eyes roving over them as if she’s seeing them for the first time—which, okay, it’s only her second time. Give her a break. Her gaze wanders along your stomach and hips and waist and the side of your ass that she can see.

“Like what you see?” you tease, grinning. A dimple pops through your cheek.

Paige scoffs, still looking at you. “Be serious.”

But Paige barely even gets time to truly appreciate the view because you’re already leaning back down again, prioritizing her instead. Your mouth presses lower now, against rigid plane of her stomach, making Paige’s breathing deepen automatically. It doesn’t help that she’s already worked up enough to feel oversensitive everywhere. You take your time, too, which is both a blessing and a curse. Each kiss is careful, lazy almost, as if you’re memorizing the landscape of her abs with your lips, and Paige finds herself holding her breath when you pause just above the waistband of her pants.

Embarrassingly enough, she can feel her own pulse thrumming under her skin right there, right where your mouth is hovering, deep in her gut. It’s almost ridiculous how badly Paige wants you to just move already. But you don’t. Instead, you look up through your lashes, that stupid, gorgeous grin spreading across your face like you know exactly what you’re doing to her, and your fingers start toying with the button of her dress pants. The metal clinks softly against your nails, and Paige has to physically stop herself from grabbing your wrist and forcing the issue.

“You want them off?” you ask casually, as if you’re asking her if she wants another drink or something equally mundane.

Paige gives you a look and lets out this breathy little laugh that’s tinted with more exasperation than actual amusement. “Obviously,” she replies, voice coming out rough. “Quit teasin’.”

But you just grin wider, that glimmer in your eyes telling her that you’re enjoying this way too much. Then, you shrug one shoulder and finally undo the damn button. The sound of the zipper coming down is loud in the otherwise quiet room, and Paige watches your every move like she’s hypnotized. She lifts her hips, helping you slide the pants down her legs. Her boxers get caught with the fabric, falling right with them.

So, now Paige is fully naked beneath you, spread out against expensive white hotel sheets while you sit between her legs, staring at her bare cunt like it’s something worth admiring. It’s not as if Paige has ever lacked confidence—she knows damn well she’s incredibly attractive, has enough girls telling her that night and day—but this is you. Movie-star-gorgeous you, celebrity-crush you. Even if you’ve seen her once before, you still take the time to look at her as if you can’t get enough. It’s slightly surreal.

You don’t give her time to dwell on it, though, because your mouth is already on her thigh, pressing kisses into the firm muscle there. Paige’s breath hitches when you get closer to where she actually wants you, but you bypass her pussy entirely, kissing along the bone of her hip instead. She lets out a frustrated groan, one that makes you chuckle against her skin. You’re certainly taking your sweet time, knowing full well she’s not going anywhere and that you’ve both got all night. (Paige doesn’t even bother to think about her flight in a few hours.)

Your lipstick is still smearing along her skin slightly—it’s all over her chest and stomach by now, the pink residue that’ll certainly stain the sheets later—but it’s starting to dim a bit, all the kissing having wiped your lips nearly raw.

Then, you look up at her, and the blonde’s heart hammers so hard against her ribs that she’s almost positive you can hear it. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and you lick your lips like you’re hungry. Paige reaches down, her hand moving almost on its own, and she smooths her thumb along your bottom lip, wiping away the last traces of lipstick. The pad of her thumb comes away stained, and she can feel how soft your lips are, how warm.

“Lipstick on my bare pussy probably ain’t the move,” she jokes, the words coming out playful, even though her voice is thick with want.

You laugh, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against her skin, and the next thing she knows, your mouth is on her. And Paige thinks—no, she knows—that she’s about to fucking fall apart like a goddamn china doll.

The last time you two saw each other, you didn’t go down on her. You scissored and then Paige went down on you. So, Paige hasn’t had this particular experience—but she’s really fucking glad she’s about to get it.

The first touch of your tongue is tentative, almost experimental, like you’re testing the waters, and Paige inhales sharply through her teeth. You’re warm, so warm, and the sensation is so sudden and intense that her hips buck involuntarily, chasing the contact. It’s exactly what she’s needed after being wet for God knows how long. You smile against her and then do it again, a long, slow drag from the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit.

Paige’s hand flies down to tangle in your hair once more, breathing out, “Fuck.”

You’re good at this. Like, really good. Paige isn’t completely sure if it’s your skill or the fact that she’s been needing this for hours now, but every move you make seems specifically designed to wreck her. Your tongue circles her clit in slow, figure-eight patterns, applying just the right amount of pressure, and when you suck gently on it, her back arches. She can hear the sounds she’s making—a couple groans here and there, mostly breathy little noises that she’d be embarrassed about if she had any brain function left—but all she can focus on is the wet heat of your mouth and the way your fingers are digging into the flesh and muscle of her thighs, spreading her open for you.

“That’s good?” you mumble against her, the words muffled but still audible. The vibration of your voice sends a shiver through her entire body.

“Yeah,” Paige manages, her voice strangled. “Yeah, keep—fuck—keep doin’ that. Like, right there.”

You listen, which is good, because if you stopped right now, Paige might actually combust. Your tongue moves faster, more insistent, and she can feel herself getting wetter, can see the slickness coating your lips and chin as you work her over. It’s messy and obscene and so fucking good, and Paige can’t stop the way her hips start rolling against your mouth, chasing the pleasure, riding your face like she’s been starving for this.

And maybe she has been. Maybe she’s been starving for the way you moan against her, the sound vibrating through her sensitive pussy, for the way you look up at her with those pretty eyes even as you’re buried between her thighs. She wants to tell you how good you’re making her feel, wants to praise you, but the words get lost somewhere between her brain and mouth, coming out as nothing more than broken moans and half-formed curses.

“You’re so—” she cuts herself off with a gasp when you flick your tongue just right, and her grip on your hair tightens, pulling you closer. “So fuckin’ good at that, baby.”

The endearment slips out before she can stop it, but you don’t seem to mind—if anything, you hum against her, the sound sending sparks up her spine. You begin to double down on your efforts, your tongue delving deeper, tasting her, sucking sloppily. Paige can feel the pressure building, coiling low in her belly, and she knows she’s close, knows she’s teetering on that edge.

She wants to give you something, wants to tell you how incredible you look like this, naked except for that flimsy white long that’s probably soaked through by now, with her arousal all over your face. She wants to say something witty or charming or anything, like she usually does, but she’s so fucking gone for you that the only thing that comes out is a desperate, breathless, “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

You don’t. Instead, you thrust your tongue up into her once before pulling it out and laying it flat, shaking your head against her pussy. And then you suck her clit fully into your mouth, teeth scraping along it.

A shockwave flits through Paige’s already-overloaded system. “I’mma cum,” she gasps, raw. “God, I’mma fucking cum on that pretty face.”

She watches you nod, just once, your eyes never leaving hers, and that’s all the permission she needs.

It hits her like a wave, building from that tight knot and exploding outward, radiating through her thighs and her stomach and her chest until she’s pretty sure she’s seeing stars. Her hips buck against your mouth, riding it out, breathing loudly. You stay there, working her through it, your tongue slowing down but not stopping, gentling her through the aftershocks until she’s trembling, until she’s completely and utterly spent.

She slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut as she tries to remember how to breathe. Her whole body feels like it’s made of static and warmth, every nerve ending alight and satisfied, and she’s pretty sure she’s smiling—this goofy, fucked-out smile—because she can feel the apples of her cheeks aching from it. She feels you press a couple along her folds, just soft and sweet, before you start crawling up her body, your mouth trailing back along her stomach and up between her tits and finally to her face.

She opens her eyes when she feels you hovering close, and the sight of you nearly knocks the air out of her again. You’re beautiful—which, you always are—but right now, with your lips swollen and slick, your chin a little wet, your eyes satisfied and soft, you look like something straight out of a movie—but fucking better.

Paige’s hand comes up to cup your jaw, her thumb stroking along your cheekbone. “C’mere.”

You lean closer without hesitation. When she drags her tongue lightly along your chin, tasting the tang of herself on your skin, you let out this tiny hum that goes straight to her gut. She cleans you up carefully, savoring the way you shiver under her touch, and then she’s on your lips, kissing you slow and deep, tasting your tongue, the mix of her arousal and your lip gloss and something that’s just inherently you. You hum again, into her mouth, a low and satisfied sound and Paige feels her heart clench sweetly in her chest.

She wants to give you everything.

She wants to give you the world, wants to spend hours making you feel as good as you just made her feel, wants to learn every single sound you can make and every single spot that makes you gasp and every single way your body moves when you’re lost in pleasure. Her legs might be a little sore and her chest is still pounding slightly, but she doesn’t care, because you’re looking at her like she’s something special right now.

So, she rolls you over carefully, gently, until she’s in a more familiar position on top. She hovers above you, her arms—stronger and bigger than the last time she saw you—caging you in, your bodies pressing together from chest to hip. You look up at her with those gorgeous eyes, your tangled curls fanned out against the pillow, your lips parted and glossy, and Paige has to take a second just to look at you.

She dips her head down, capturing your mouth again, and the two of you just make out for a while, slow and languid and unhurried, gathering energy back. It’s just the slide of lips and tongues and teeth along with the occasional soft laugh when one of you pulls back to breathe and ends up getting pulled right back in. Paige’s hand drifts down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the soft skin of your stomach. She can feel you shiver under her touch, can feel the way you arch into her like you want more.

Trust, she’s about to give a whole lot more.

Her fingertips skim over the waistband of that tiny white thong, and she pauses, her mouth still on yours, her breath mingling with yours. She ghosts her hand over the fabric, just barely making contact. You tense beneath her, your hips twitching up slightly, seeking pressure. The lace is soft under her fingers, a little damp, and the thought of that, of you getting wet while you got her off, sends a pulse of heat right back to Paige’s own core.

“Now who’s teasing?” you say, shifting beneath Paige’s too-light touch.

She grins against your lips this time. “Me.”

You roll your eyes and then Paige’s fingers ghost along the thin fabric of your thong one more time, her knuckles brushing against the curve of your hip as she feels the heat radiating off your skin. It’s like you’re already burning for her, and God, that does something to her chest, makes her pulse kick up a notch. She decides what she wants then, how she wants you. She leans in, pressing a peck to your lips.

“Turn onto your stomach,” she tells you against your mouth.

She watches your eyes flicker with something between curiosity and submission before you shift beneath her, rolling over onto your belly with a fluidity that makes Paige think of silk sliding off a bed. She stays still for a moment, just looking at you—the way your cheek presses into the pillow, how your shoulders relax as you settle, the long line of your spine curving down to the swell of your hips. She leans down to press a kiss against your cheek that’s facing up, her lips brushing skin softly. You nuzzle into it like a cat seeking warmth, and she lets herself stay there for a second longer, breathing in the scent of your perfume and the faint hint of sweat from the night.

When she pulls away, her gaze shifts down, tracing the dip of your lower back, the tiny scrap of white fabric between your ass—so impractical and yet fucking sexy, enough that Paige feels her mouth go dry. She crawls down your body, her knees sinking into the mattress as she smooths both hands along your back, feeling the muscles shift under your skin. Then, she squeezes your ass firmly, fingers digging into the flesh just enough to make you let out a soft exhale. She presses a kiss to one of your cheeks there, her lips parting against the skin before pulling back.

She says it, simple and direct, because she knows you’ll listen, “Ass up, yeah?”

You do it, lifting your hips off the bed, arching your back until you’re on your knees, your chest still pressed against the sheets. Paige settles behind you, thighs bracketing yours, her breath hot against the exposed skin of your inner thighs. She hooks her thumb under the string of your thong and pulls it to the side, watching the fabric stretch and snap back against your skin.

Finally leaning in, she drags her tongue along your cunt in one long, flat stroke, from the bottom all the way up to your clit, tasting you. It’s the same sweet and tangy flavor she remembers from last year, like a memory she’s been saving in the back of her mouth, and she hums low in her throat, satisfied.

You let out a slow, shaky breath, and Paige can see your shoulders rise and fall, can see your fingers curl into the sheets. She pulls away for a second, her mouth glistening, before she spits on her middle and ring fingers, letting the saliva drip down her knuckles. She rubs the tips of the digits against your clit for a moment before moving down and slowly pushing both fingers inside you, stretching you open. She leans over your back so her bare chest presses against your shoulder blades, and she feels you clench and pulse around her. She’s careful and waits a moment, giving you a second to adjust, to breathe, to let the sensation settle.

You whimper, a soft sound that makes Paige’s stomach flip, and she sees the flush creeping along your cheek, spreading down your neck. She presses a kiss there, right behind your ear, murmuring against your skin, “Relax. Lemme feel you.”

And you do—you relax, your body going soft around her fingers. She starts pumping them inside you in a slow, steady rhythm before she begins to speed up, going faster and harder, the sound of it wet and obscene. She can feel you growing slicker, can feel it coating her hand, and she presses her thumb against your perineum, grinding down as she fucks you with her fingers, her wrist working in that practiced way she’s perfected.

“Fuck, I wish I had my strap here,” Paige says roughly without even really thinking, because she was thinking about that in particular. She just knows you would be perfect with it; she wishes she could see it. She watches as your hips buck back against her hand as she shifts her angle, hitting that gummy spot inside you that makes your breath catch. “I’d fuck you with it so good, ma. Make you take it deep, make you feel it in your throat, in your gut—know you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d love that shit, feelin’ me stretch you open.”

You moan now, a guttural sound that vibrates through your chest, and Paige feels a grin tug at her lips as she fucks you faster, harder, her fingers curling inside you in a come hither motion, dragging along your walls until you’re trembling, until your legs are shaking and you’re pressing your face into the pillow to muffle your sounds.

“You’re so warm, feel so good,” Paige murmurs, nose pressing against the back of your neck, breathing in your scent.

“Paige,” you strangle out, sounding wrecked. She just hums, feeling your walls starting to flutter around her, that telltale squeeze that means you’re close. Suddenly, she realizes that she wants to see your face—needs to see your face when you cum.

So, she pulls her fingers out with a wet sound, ignoring your whimper of protest. She grabs your hip, flipping you onto your back. You land with a soft noise, your hair splayed every which way across the pillow, your chest heaving and shiny, a sheen of sweat glistening between your pretty tits. Paige sees that look in your eyes—dazed, needy, full of want—and she lets herself take a second just to look at you, all spread out and desperate for her, before she hooks her fingers into the sides of your thong and pulls it down your legs, tossing it somewhere onto the floor with the rest of the clothes.

Now, you’re completely bare, and Paige gets a good view of your pussy. It shines with slick, pink and flushed, and your thighs are parted, your hips tilted up as if asking for more. She can’t help but lean down, spitting directly onto your clit. The saliva pools on your skin, and then she uses the flat of her hand to rub it in, spreading your wetness around in a motion that makes you gasp. She watches your face, sees your eyes close, sees your lips part, and she thrusts her fingers back inside you—two of them, then three, pushing into you with a wet, slick sound.

“Tha’s it,” she encourages lowly, her eyes locked onto your scrunched expression as she finger fucks you. “Cum on my fingers, you got it, squeeze me dry. C’mon, baby—look at me. Wanna see your face when you do.”

Paige is sweating too now, her wrist aching slightly as she finds that rhythm again, fast and deep, her thumb pressing against your clit in tight circles. The sound of her fingers moving inside you is obscene, a wet, sloppy echo that drives her nearly insane. She watches your mouth fall open, watches your brows draw together, watches your chest arch off the bed as you gasp. She knows it’s building, knows you’re right there, so she leans down and sucks your clit into her mouth, her tongue flicking against the hood while her fingers curl inside you, and then she feels you break.

Your orgasm hits so hard your body tries to arch off the bed, jerking and trembling around her hand, and Paige keeps her mouth on you, her fingers moving, drawing every last pulse of pleasure out of you until your thighs clamp around her head and you let out a long, breathless cry that flutters out into a quiet moan. She slows her fingers, gentles them, until you’re twitching with overstimulation, and then she pulls out slowly, digits slick and shiny in the dim light. She brings them to her mouth, licking them clean as she watches you try to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven movements.

Afterward, Paige crawls up over you and stays draped there for a long while, as if she’s forgotten how to exist any other way. Her whole body feels loose and overheated, pleasantly heavy with exhaustion, and she can feel your heartbeat beneath where her cheek is pressed against your chest, slowing now compared to what it was earlier. The room is almost unbearably warm at this point, thick with heat that can only come from two people spending hours tangled under blankets and in each other. Paige barely even cares, though, because you’re soft underneath her and your fingers are lazily combing through her hair—still extra long with extensions—nails scratching lightly there every couple seconds in a way that makes her feel almost sedated.

Paige leans up and kisses you softer now than she has all night, little lingering kisses against your mouth and jaw and cheek. She knows she got kind of rough earlier, got carried away in the way she always tends to when she’s really into someone. And she is really into you, which is becoming increasingly impossible for her to just ignore.

You hum quietly every time she kisses you, arms wrapping lazily around her neck while she settled more of her weight over your body, skin against skin. Your legs are tangled together beneath white sheets that are honestly probably ruined now.

Eventually, though, you let out a groan, pulling away and pushing weakly at her shoulder. “Oh, my God,” you complain, voice scratchy and tired. “It’s so fucking hot in here. I’m sweating.”

Paige immediately makes a low noise of protest and just presses another lazy kiss against your mouth anyway, because, honestly, if she could physically crawl into your skin right now, she probably would. “It’s not even that bad,” she lies, despite the fact that there’s sweat cooling along her spine and her hair is damp against the back of her neck. She thinks she desperately needs either a fan or a cold shower or maybe both.

You just stare at her for a second as if she’s genuinely insane before you laugh under your breath, your hands settling against her bare, broad shoulders. “You’re just clingy,” you tell her, amused.

Instantly, Paige feels her face flush in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with temperature, cheeks tinting pink. “No, I’m not,” she denies automatically, even though she’s currently laying almost her full weight on top of you like a giant blonde furnace.

“Paige,” you say, just grinning, amused, “you’re literally attached to me right now.”

She opens her mouth to defend herself again before realizing there’s no actual argument she can make here, so instead she just shrugs a little against you and mutters, “I just like you,” into your skin.

The second the words leave her mouth, she almost wants to bury her face in a pillow and die a little bit, because Jesus Christ. She’s twenty-four years old, not sixteen, and yet somehow admitting that she likes a girl still makes her feel stupidly nervous, especially when the girl in question is you. You, who she truthfully hardly even knows beyond afterparties with alcohol and two nights of good sex. You, who she’s seen in countless movies and interviews and red carpets. You, who somehow looks even prettier now than you did stepping into the Met earlier tonight in that beautiful watercolor dress. There’s a split second where she thinks maybe she said too much, maybe it sounds just idiotic because this is only the second time the two of you have hooked up, but then your expression changes, softening in this way that makes something ache pleasantly in her chest.

“I like you, too, superstar,” you murmur, your thumb brushing absentmindedly along her shoulder.

Paige genuinely has to fight not to smile too hard at that stupid nickname. It’s ridiculous, honestly. If there’s a superstar between the two of you, it’s very obviously you. You’re the one starring in billion-dollar movies and attending the Met Gala every year and sitting next to Anne Hathaway at dinner like it’s normal. Paige just plays basketball. Okay, she plays basketball very well, but still.

For a little while after that, neither of you says much. You just kiss slowly, lazily, your mouths barely parting before coming together again, and Paige settles more comfortably against you despite your earlier complaints about the heat because she genuinely cannot stop touching you. Her hand smooths up and down your side absentmindedly beneath the sheets while the city glows outside the massive windows beside the bed, New York slowly shifting from black to that deep bluish-gray that means morning is creeping closer.

At some point, you mumble, “What time is it?” against her lips, and Paige immediately groans because she forgot time existed entirely, which probably means the answer is going to ruin her night.

She reaches blindly toward the nightstand for her phone before remembering she left it in her pants, which are currently somewhere in the pile of discarded clothes scattered across your hotel floor. Muttering “fuck” under her breath, she forces herself out of bed, immediately feeling the cooler air against her overheated skin as she digs through the mess until she finds her phone in the pocket of her dress pants.

The second the screen lights up, Paige nearly recoils. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me,” she mutters.

“What?” you ask sleepily from the bed, propped up slightly on your elbows now while watching her with messy curls and swollen lips and absolutely no business looking that good at four-thirty in the morning.

Paige glances back at you with genuine despair. “It’s already four-thirty.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Paige says, rubbing a hand down her face dramatically, “and my flight’s at eight.”

Which means she has to leave for the airport ridiculously soon, which means this night is already ending, which honestly is just unfair considering it feels like she only just got you back, and she won’t even be able to sleep at all. The reality of everything starts crashing down on her all at once after that—the flight back to Dallas, preseason, practice, media obligations, real life waiting outside this room—and suddenly she feels this deep reluctance settle in her chest at the idea of getting dressed and walking out of here. Because the truth is, she doesn’t just want the sex from you anymore, even if the sex is obviously incredible. She likes talking to you, likes the way you tease her, likes the way you look at her when she says something stupid and the way you touch her like you already know her better than you probably should.

You must notice something change in her expression because your face softens slightly as you ask, quieter this time, “You really have to go that soon?”

Paige sighs hard through her nose before walking back toward the bed. “Yeah,” she admits. “Kinda have to be at the airport in like… an hour and a half.”

“That’s disgusting,” you tell her immediately, making her laugh despite herself.

“Right? Evil scheduling, bro.”

You smile a little at that, and for a second Paige just stands there staring at you sitting in the middle of the bed wrapped up in white sheets, your makeup smudged, your curls messy, looking softer and more real than she’s maybe ever seen you. Then, before she can overthink it, she climbs back onto the mattress and reaches for her phone again. “Okay,” she says, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “Lemme get your number this time, forreal.”

That makes you smile instantly, this warm sleepy smile that reaches all the way into your eyes. “Yeah?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Paige replies. “I feel like it’d be pretty dumb of me not to.”

You hold your hand out for the phone and she gives it to you without hesitation, watching while you type your contact in. Paige notices stupid details while you do it, like the chipped silver polish still left on your nails from the gala, the way your bottom lip tucks slightly between your teeth when you’re concentrating. When you hand the phone back, your name sits there in her contacts, and she catches herself smiling down at the screen before locking it again.

“You better actually text me,” you tell her.

Paige scoffs softly, climbing back into bed beside you. “You sayin’ that like I wouldn’t.”

“Well,” you say, shifting closer immediately when she opens her arm for you, “you did disappear for a year.”

Paige snorts, “You said you would be in Dallas all summer. You weren’t in Dallas.”

“Fair point.”

The two of you end up laying there together for almost another hour anyway, despite the fact that Paige absolutely should be leaving, because every time she thinks about getting up and putting clothes back on and stepping out into the real world again, you curl closer against her and she loses all motivation entirely. By the time the sky outside finally starts turning pale blue, Paige is half awake with your head tucked beneath her chin, one of your legs tangled with hers beneath the sheets while your fingers trace lazy patterns against her stomach. And maybe it’s the exhaustion talking, or the lingering softness of the night, or the fact that she hasn’t slept hardly at all within the last forty-eight hours and her emotions feel weirdly close to the surface, but Paige thinks, very suddenly and very clearly, that she really hopes this isn’t the last time she wakes up next to you.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #dallas wings #wnba #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #paige bueckers one shot #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers angst #wlw #wlw smut

AZZI FUDD | Unrivaled Semifinals (2026)

#azzi fudd #my upload #unrivaled #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #UConn #wnba #women’s basketball #userwocs #userzonez

Missed moments, made up nights…

w/c: 13k

content: angst, sexual content. I think that’s it?

California Airport— 1:00pm

Paige knows the call is going to be bad before she even answers it, because Azzi never calls three times in a row unless something already feels off, unless something has already started breaking before either of them has said it out loud..

The airport is loud in that annoying, nonstop way, people dragging suitcases, announcements echoing overhead, everyone moving cuz they have somewhere important to be, and Paige is just standing there stuck in place, staring at a screen that still says cancelled like it’s mocking her

Her phone keeps vibrating in her hand.

Azzi

Again

Paige exhales through her nose, runs a hand through her hair, and answers

“Hey babe”

She tries to make it sound normal, like nothing’s wrong yet, like she didn’t just spend the last hour trying to argue with a gate agent who does not care about her life falling apart in real time.

There’s silence on the other end, not long, but heavy enough that Paige can already picture Azzi’s expression, the way her jaw sets when she’s holding something back, the way her silence always means more than whatever she’s about to say

“Hey,” Azzi says back, but it doesn’t sound like a greeting, it sounds like she’s waiting.

Waiting for an explanation Paige hasn’t given yet.

Paige shifts her weight, already feeling defensive even though she hasn’t technically been accused of anything yet, which honestly makes it worse.

“I’m at the airport,” she starts, words coming quicker now because she knows she needs to get ahead of this, “my flight got cancelled, like fully cancelled, there’s a storm or something and everything’s delayed or overbooked, I’m trying to get on another one but it’s a mess right now”

She keeps talking because silence feels dangerous, because if she stops then Azzi gets to fill the space and Paige already knows that’s not going to go well.

“I’ve been here since the morning trying to fix it, I’m on standby for like two different flights and—”

“But you were at Coachella yesterday”

Azzi doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t interrupt loudly, she just drops it in there, calm and flat and way too precise, like she’s been holding onto that sentence and waiting for the exact moment to use it.

Paige stops pacing.

Her jaw tightens immediately

“Yeah,” she says, slower now, already irritated, “and I still had a flight booked that would’ve gotten me there on time, this isn’t like me just not planning shit, I had it handled”

There’s a pause, and it stretches just enough for Paige to feel it settling in her chest, that uncomfortable pressure that means this isn’t just about the flight anymore.

“Today is the draft, Paige”

The way Azzi says it is quiet but it lands hard, like she’s not just reminding her, she’s pointing out something bigger, something obvious that Paige somehow still managed to mess up.

Paige lets out a breath, shaking her head even though Azzi can’t see it.

“I know that,” she says, frustration slipping in now because what else is she supposed to say to that, “you think I don’t know that, like seriously?”

“Then why does it feel like you don’t”?

That one hits in a way Paige doesn’t expect, because it’s not loud, it’s not dramatic, it’s just honest in the worst way possible.

For a second Paige doesn’t answer, which almost never happens btw cuz her smart mouth always has an answer, especially when she’s wrong. she knows exactly what today is, she knows what it means, she knows how much pressure Azzi’s been under and how long she’s been working toward this exact moment.

She knows she was supposed to be there,Not just there somewhere in the crowd, but there in the way that matters, the person Azzi looks for first, the person who sees her before the cameras do, the person who’s supposed to be steady when everything else feels overwhelming.

And instead she’s stuck in an airport arguing about stupid standby lists.

“I’m trying to get there,” Paige says finally, her voice lower now but still tight, still defensive because she doesn’t know how to not be, “like what do you want me to do, teleport or something?”

Azzi lets out a short laugh, and this one isn’t even pretending to be nice anymore.

“I want you to care, Paige”

That flips something instantly.

Paige straightens, her grip tightening on her phone.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that today is the biggest day of my life,” Azzi says, and now there’s something breaking through the calm, something sharper, “and my girlfriend is stuck at an airport because she decided to go to a music festival the day before”.

Paige scoffs under her breath, disbelief mixing with frustration.

“That’s not fair and you know it,” she fires back, words coming faster now, “I planned everything, I had a flight, I didn’t plan for the airline to completely screw me over, how is that my fault”.

“Isn’t it though?”

The quiet again.

That controlled, cutting quiet.

And Paige feels heat rush up her neck

“Okay so what, you want me to control the weather too,” she snaps, starting to pace again, ignoring the looks she’s getting now, “I’ve been trying all morning to fix this, you think I want to miss this, like seriously?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away.

And that silence says more than anything else.

Because it feels like doubt.

Like she’s not sure.

Like she doesn’t fully believe Paige.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Paige continues, pushing through it, “shit happens, flights get cancelled, it’s not like I just decided not to show up. ”

“Yeah,” Azzi says slowly, “but you’re still not here”.

For a second neither of them speaks, and everything that’s been building just sits there between them, heavy and unresolved and way too big for a phone call.

When Azzi speaks again, her voice is quieter, “Today is the biggest day of my life,” she says, slower this time, like she needs Paige to really hear it, to understand it, “and my girlfriend isn’t gonna be here… wow”.

The disappointment in her voice is worse than if she’d yelled.

It sinks in, sharp and quiet.

Paige closes her eyes for a second, jaw tight.

“You don’t know that,” she says, but there’s less bite now, less certainty

“I do,” Azzi replies immediately, no hesitation, no softening, nothing to cushion it.

And that’s what pushes Paige right back over the edge.

“Okay so now we’re doing this,” she says, her voice rising again, frustration spilling over, “now you’re just gonna act like I don’t care at all”.

“I’m not acting, I’m telling you how it feels”

“Well it feels like you’re blaming me for something I can’t control”.

“And it feels like you didn’t think this through”.

Paige lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head.

“Are you serious right now”

“Yeah, I am,” Azzi says, and now it’s all out in the open, no holding back anymore, “because I wanted you here, Paige, like actually here, not maybe, not hopefully, not depending on a standby list or whatever the hell is happening right now”

Paige’s chest tightens at that, because that part hits somewhere real, somewhere she doesn’t want to deal with in the middle of being pissed.

“I told you I’d make it,” she says, stubborn, holding her ground even if it’s cracking underneath her, “and I’m still trying to, you’re acting like I just gave up”

Azzi exhales, and this time it’s shaky

“I don’t know if you’re gonna make it”

And there it is.

The real fear underneath everything.

But it comes out wrong.

It comes out sounding like doubt.

And Paige hears it exactly like that.

“I’m trying my bad, I should’ve predicted a storm across the country, that’s on me I guess”.

On the other end, Azzi exhales.

And when she speaks again, her voice is different.

Quieter.

Not softer, just… done.

“Whatever, Paige”

That alone makes Paige’s heart race.

Because that word, that tone, it doesn’t mean the argument is over.

It means Azzi is pulling away from it,

Which is worse.

“Azzi—”

“Come or don’t,” she cuts in, not loud, not emotional, just flat in a way that feels final, “I’ll be getting drafted either way”

Paige’s grip on her phone tightens

“Azzi, that’s not—”

“If you cared, you’d be here”

And that one.

That one hits in a place Paige doesn’t even have time to process.

Because before she can respond, Before she can push back or fix it or say anything at all.

The line goes dead.

Paige pulls the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen like it might somehow undo what just happened.

Call ended

Just like that.

Her jaw tightens.

Her chest feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with the flight anymore.

“Yeah,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head, already grabbing her bag, already moving again because standing still clearly isn’t helping anything, “okay”

But the word doesn’t mean anything,

Not really.

Because now it’s not just about getting to the draft anymore.

Now it’s about showing up after all of that.

And somehow, that feels even harder.

THE SHED NY—7:00pm

The room shifts before anything is even said, like everyone feels it coming at the same time, conversations lowering just enough, heads turning toward the stage, anticipation building in a way that feels physical, like it’s pressing against her chest

Azzi sits a little straighter without even thinking about it, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her dress, grounding herself in something real while everything else starts to feel like it’s moving too fast and too slow at the same time

Her heart is loud now

Not nervous exactly, not in the way people expect, because she’s been ready for this, she’s always been ready for this, but there’s still something about the moment finally arriving that hits different, something heavier layered under the excitement

And still

Even now

Her eyes drift

Just once more

Just in case

She scans the crowd again, slower this time, more deliberate, like if she just looks carefully enough she’ll find what she’s been looking for this whole time, but it’s the same blur of faces, the same movement, the same almost-recognition that never fully lands

Nothing

Or at least nothing she can hold onto

Her jaw tightens slightly as she looks forward again, forcing herself to stop, because she can’t keep doing that to herself, not right now, not when everything she’s worked for is literally seconds away

Focus

The voice in her head is sharper now.

This is your moment.

On stage, Cathy Engelbert steps forward, the room quieting in a way that feels immediate, like someone flipped a switch and pulled everyone into the same moment at once

Azzi feels it in her chest, that shift, that collective attention locking in, and suddenly there’s no more space to think about anything else, no more space to wonder, no more space to look for someone who might not even be there

This is it

Her breathing slows, just slightly, controlled, like everything she’s trained herself to do kicks in automatically

Cathy adjusts the card in her hands, smiling out at the crowd, letting the silence stretch just enough to build it up even more

And then she speaks

“With the first pick in the 2026 WNBA Draft…”

The words echo through the room, clear and sharp and heavier than they should be, like they carry everything leading up to this moment inside them

Azzi’s heartbeat stutters, then picks up again

“…the Dallas Wings select…”

Time slows in that strange, unreal way, like everything around her fades just a little at the edges, like she’s aware of everything and nothing all at once

Her name is coming

She knows it

Everyone knows it

But hearing it is different

“…Azzi Fudd, University of Connecticut.”

And there it is

For a second it doesn’t even fully register, like her brain needs an extra beat to catch up to what just happened, to process the fact that it’s real, that it’s done, that everything she’s worked for just got spoken into existence in front of an entire room

Then everything hits at once

The sound first, applause crashing over her from every direction, loud and overwhelming and real in a way that finally snaps everything into place

Her teammates are already moving, hands on her shoulders, pulling her into quick hugs, voices overlapping, excitement spilling over in a way that makes it impossible not to feel it

She’s smiling before she even realizes it, something genuine breaking through everything else, something bright and earned and hers

Number one

Dallas

It’s real

her body moving on instinct now as she turns toward the stage, toward the cameras, toward everything waiting for her on the other side of this moment

The stage feels brighter when she steps onto it, the lights hitting her just enough to blur the crowd into something less defined, something easier to ignore, and she’s grateful for that for a second because it lets her stay present, lets her lean into what this moment is supposed to be

She hears her name again, closer this time, said with pride, with certainty, and she smiles like she’s always imagined she would, like this is exactly how it was supposed to go

She shakes hands, poses for the pictures, holding up the jersey with Dallas stretched across it, cameras flashing in quick bursts that almost make everything feel like a sequence instead of a single moment

It’s loud again, but in a different way now, more focused, more centered around her, and she leans into it just enough to let it feel real

This is hers

She earned this

When she steps off to the side, the noise shifts again, less overwhelming but still constant, and that’s when things start coming back into focus piece by piece

She spots the UConn group first, all of them crowded together, phones out, recording, smiling way too big, some of them already yelling things she can’t fully make out but knows are probably annoying in the best way

Then she’s being guided again, where the interviews are happening, where everything becomes a little more structured, a little more controlled

Holly Rowe is already there, smiling, ready, professional in that way that makes it easy for Azzi to slip right into the version of herself she knows how to be in moments like this

She answers questions, talks about the moment, about the journey, about what it means, her voice steady, her smile easy, like nothing is out of place, like there isn’t anything sitting underneath all of this waiting to be dealt with

And for a second

It works

She almost forgets

Almost

Until her face shows up on the big screen behind them

And then it shifts

Because the camera angle changes, the focus widening just enough to include more of the crowd, more of the reactions, more of everything happening around her

And without even thinking about it

Azzi looks

It’s instinct

Automatic

Like her body moves before her brain can stop it

Her eyes scan quickly at first, then slower, more intentional, searching in a way she’s been trying not to all night

And then

She sees her

Off to the side, just past the main section, standing with the UConn group like she slid in late and didn’t bother fixing anything about it

White collared shirt

Black Nike vest

Clean but completely out of place, like she walked in from a different event and just decided to stay anyway

And somehow

It’s so obviously Paige

Even from a distance

Even with everything else going on

Azzi’s breath catches just slightly

Because she’s really here

Not maybe

Not almost

Actually here

Paige is looking right at her, like she’s been waiting for Azzi to find her, like she knew it would happen eventually

And when their eyes meet

Paige smiles

Not big

Not dramatic

Just that small, easy smile that feels way too familiar

Way too normal

Like nothing happened earlier

Like there isn’t still tension sitting between them that hasn’t been touched yet

Then she lifts her hand, just a little, a quick wave, casual in a way that almost feels unfair considering everything

And Azzi doesn’t even realize she’s stopped listening to the question for half a second until she feels it, that slight pause in herself, that moment where everything else fades just enough for her to feel it fully

Relief

Sharp and immediate

Followed right behind by something else

Something heavier

Because she’s still mad

Still hurt

Still holding onto the way that call ended, the way Paige didn’t get to respond, the way things were left unfinished and unresolved

And now she’s just… here.

Smiling.

Like she made it in time and that fixes everything.

Azzi blinks, forcing herself back into the moment, back into the interview, nodding slightly like she didn’t just lose her place for a second

But it’s harder now.

Because now she knows.

Paige made it.

And that changes everything.

Even if she doesn’t want it to.

Even if she’s not ready to deal with it yet

Her eyes don’t go back again.

Not immediately.

But she can feel it.

That awareness sitting at the edge of everything

Like no matter what else happens tonight, She knows exactly where Paige is.

—

By the time she steps fully off the stage, everything starts coming at her all at once again, just in a different way now, more personal, more immediate, hands reaching for her, voices overlapping, people pulling her into hugs before she can even fully register who’s who

It’s overwhelming, but in a good way.

Mostly

Her teammates are the first to get to her, loud and excited and completely unfiltered, wrapping her up in quick, tight hugs, saying things over each other that she can’t fully process but understands anyway, pride and energy and history all packed into those few seconds.

She laughs a little, breathless, letting herself fall into it just enough to not overthink anything.

Then her parents again, slower this time, steadier, her mom holding onto her for just a second longer, her dad’s hand firm on her shoulder, grounding her in a way nothing else really has tonight.

But then

She knows

Before she even turns

There’s a shift in her chest, something tightening and pulling at the same time, like her body recognizes the presence before her mind fully catches up

And when she does turn

Paige is right there

Closer now

Not across the room, not half-hidden in a crowd

Right there in front of her, like she’s always supposed to be

And for a second everything feels weirdly still

Like all the noise around them fades just enough to make this moment stand out in a way Azzi isn’t ready for

And she looks exactly like she did from a distance, which somehow makes it worse and better at the same time

Azzi’s eyes flick over it automatically, taking it in without meaning to

She really just showed up like that

And there’s a part of her, buried under everything else, that almost wants to laugh

Almost

But it doesn’t reach the surface

Because right underneath that is everything else

The call

The words

The way it ended

And the fact that she wasn’t there earlier

That she didn’t get to be the one to see her first

Didn’t get that moment

Didn’t get to share it the way she wanted to

Paige doesn’t hesitate

She steps in like there isn’t anything unresolved between them, like this is the most natural thing in the world, and wraps her arms around Azzi without giving her time to decide how she wants to react

And Azzi lets her

Because she’s not about to make a scene

Not here

Not now

So her arms come up too, slower, a little more controlled, resting against Paige’s back in a way that looks right from the outside but doesn’t fully match the way Paige is holding her

Because Paige holds on tight

Not casual

Not quick

Tight enough that Azzi feels it

Feels the intention behind it

Feels the relief in it

Her chin brushes lightly against Azzi’s shoulder as she leans in just enough to say it, her voice low but clear

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

The words land soft

Too soft

And that’s what makes it worse

Because Azzi wants to react to that, wants to let it mean what it usually means, wants to fall into it the way she normally would

But everything from earlier is still sitting there, untouched, unresolved, too fresh to ignore

So she doesn’t say anything

She just pulls back after a second, just enough to create space again, her hands dropping from Paige’s back as she gives her a small smile that looks right, looks normal, looks like nothing is wrong

Even though it doesn’t feel like that at all

Paige’s expression flickers for half a second, something quick and almost unnoticeable passing through her eyes, like she felt the difference too, like she expected something more and didn’t get it

But Azzi doesn’t stay in that moment long enough to deal with it

She turns slightly, already being pulled into another hug, another congratulations, another voice telling her how proud they are, and she leans into it, lets it carry her forward so she doesn’t have to stop and think about what just happened

Or what didn’t.

It keeps moving like that for a minute, a blur of faces and hands and smiles, everything blending together in a way that makes it easier to avoid the one thing she doesn’t want to sit with yet.

Until a voice cuts through it

“Can we get a picture of you two?”

Azzi pauses

Just slightly

Because she knows exactly who they mean without having to ask

There’s a small shift beside her as Paige steps back in, close again, like she never fully left in the first place

And Azzi turns toward her, smile already in place again, practiced, easy, giving the cameras exactly what they want

Paige’s hand comes to her back naturally, like it always does, steady and familiar, fingers resting just at her waist in a way that would normally ground her instantly

Azzi’s hand mirrors it almost automatically, resting against Paige’s back, the contact brief at first and then settling just enough to look right for the picture

The camera flashes

Once

Twice

And through all of it, she keeps the smile in place, keeps everything exactly how it needs to look

Even if it doesn’t feel like that at all.

The next stretch of time barely feels like it belongs to her.

Everything starts moving faster after that, or maybe she just loses track of it, because one interview turns into another and then another, each one slightly different but also exactly the same, questions about the moment, about the journey, about what it means to go number one, about Dallas, about the future, about everything she has worked for wrapped into clean, polished answers that she knows how to give without even thinking anymore.

She nods at the right times, smiles when she is supposed to, laughs lightly when something calls for it, her voice steady and controlled in a way that makes it seem effortless, like none of this is overwhelming, like she is completely grounded in every second of it.

From the outside, it probably looks perfect.

Inside, it feels like she is slightly out of sync with herself, like she is watching it happen just a fraction of a second behind, because part of her attention keeps drifting somewhere else no matter how hard she tries to stay present.

She catches glimpses of people in between questions, familiar faces passing through her line of sight, flashes of movement, flashes of reactions, but none of it really sticks long enough to matter, because she does not get the chance to stop moving, does not get the chance to settle into anything real.

And she does not get the chance to go back to Paige.

That part lingers more than she expects.

Not in a loud way, not enough to pull her completely out of what she is doing, but just enough to sit in the background of everything, like a thought she keeps pushing aside and it keeps finding its way back anyway.

She tells herself it is fine, that this is how tonight is supposed to go, that there will be time later, that this is bigger than one conversation or one moment that did not go the way she wanted it to.

She tells herself she is not going to let an argument ruin this.

Not tonight.

Not this night.

By the time the interviews finally start to slow down, it does not feel like a clean ending, it just kind of tapers off, like someone gradually turned the volume down on everything instead of cutting it completely.

Her smile lingers out of habit for a second longer than it needs to before it softens into something more natural, something a little more tired, and she exhales quietly as she steps back, rolling her shoulders slightly like she is finally allowed to feel the weight of everything that just happened.

That is when it really settles in.

She got drafted.

Number one.

Dallas.

It is real in a way that feels heavier now that there is a pause, now that she is not actively talking about it, now that she has a second to actually exist inside it instead of performing around it.

And almost immediately, her mind shifts again.

Back to Paige.

The memory of that hug comes back first, the way it felt just slightly off, the way Paige held on tighter than she did, the way the words sounded softer than she was ready for, and the way she did not respond, did not give anything back except a smile that was easier than honesty in that moment.

She presses her lips together slightly, glancing off to the side without fully turning her head, like she might catch another glimpse of her without making it obvious that she is looking.

She does not.

And that should make it easier to ignore.

It does not.

Because now that things are slowing down, now that she is not being pulled in ten different directions at once, there is more space to think about it, more space to feel the fact that she actually misses her, which is annoying considering she is still mad, still holding onto everything from earlier, still not ready to just let it go like it did not happen.

But she also knows herself well enough to recognize what is underneath that.

She does not want to end the night like this.

Not after everything.

Not after a day that is supposed to mean this much.

The thought settles in slowly but firmly, not dramatic, not sudden, just clear in a way that makes it hard to ignore.

She is not going to ruin this.

Whatever is going on between them can wait a few hours.

It can wait until they are somewhere private, somewhere real, somewhere that is not filled with cameras and people and expectations.

Tonight is supposed to be good.

And she wants it to be good with Paige.

The realization lands just as someone nearby mentions the after party, casual, like it has been obvious this whole time, like everyone already knows where they are supposed to go next and what the night is turning into.

Azzi blinks slightly, the shift catching her off guard for a second, because it feels like the night just started and somehow it is already moving into something else.

She glances around, picking up on the change in energy, people starting to move with more direction now, conversations shifting, groups forming and breaking apart as the next part of the night takes shape.

Already?

It does not feel like enough time has passed.

It does not feel like she has had a second to just be.

But there is no pause built into nights like this.

Everything keeps moving whether she is ready for it or not.

So she adjusts.

Of course she does.

Someone hands her a garment bag, and she takes it automatically, thanking them without really thinking about it, already shifting into the next version of herself that the night requires.

The change happens quickly, almost rushed, tucked away in a private space

just a transition point between one moment and the next.

She exhales as she reaches for the zipper, fingers steady even though her mind is still catching up, still processing everything that has already happened and everything that is about to.

Her draft outfit comes off carefully, set aside with more intention than the moment allows, because even in a rush she cannot bring herself to treat it like it does not matter.

But the night is not over.

Not even close.

She changes into something new, something meant for movement, for noise, for a space that will be louder and less controlled than the one she is leaving behind, and when she catches her reflection for a second, it almost feels like looking at a different version of herself.

Same night.

Different energy.

Her hand pauses for just a second as she adjusts the last detail, her expression settling into something more neutral, more composed, like she is bracing herself for whatever comes next.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, without her fully acknowledging it yet, there is one thought that lingers stronger than the rest.

She is going to find Paige.

And this time

They are not going to let this night go to waste.

—

They are not going to let this night go to waste.

That’s what she told herself not even ten minutes ago, standing in front of a mirror, fixing something that didn’t even need fixing, convincing herself that she could just push everything down for a few hours and deal with it later like a normal person.

Yeah.

That lasts about five seconds.

Because the second she steps into after party her eyes land on Paige automatically. Paige isn’t hard to find.

She never is.

She’s off to the side, leaning back like she belongs anywhere she stands without needing to prove it, still in that same white collared shirt and black Nike vest. But there’s girls. Too close. Not just standing near her, but leaning in, bodies angled toward Paige trying to pull her attention in laughing at things that probably aren’t even that funny, brushing against her arm.

One of them says something and leans in even closer, and Paige tilts her head slightly to hear her better, smiling, relaxed, completely at ease like this is normal, like she’s not doing anything wrong because technically she isn’t.

And that’s what does it.

That’s what flips something in Azzi’s chest so fast it almost catches her off guard.

Because Paige isn’t shutting it down.

She’s just there, laughing, letting it happen, responding in that easy way she always does, like everything is light and nothing matters enough to take seriously.

Like this doesn’t matter.

Like they don’t matter.

Azzi feels the shift immediately, sharp and uncomfortable, something tightening in her chest that she tries to ignore for about half a second before it pushes right back.

Her jaw sets slightly as she watches just a little longer than she should, eyes catching every small detail she wishes she didn’t notice, the way Paige leans in just enough, the way she smiles, the way she doesn’t step back.

And that’s it.

Fuck this night, fuck solving shit, to hell with letting this night go to waste, and fuck Paige Bueckers.

Because why should she be the one trying.

Why should she be the one holding it together when Paige is over there acting like nothing happened.

Like they didn’t just argue hours ago.

Like there isn’t still something sitting between them that hasn’t been dealt with.

Azzi looks away quickly, almost like she’s snapping herself out of it, like she refuses to stand there and keep watching something that’s only making it worse.

Her heart is beating a little faster now, not from the music, not from the crowd, but from that sudden rush of irritation she can’t shake.

“Fuck all that.”

She’s not doing this.

She’s not walking over there.

She’s not interrupting, not inserting herself into whatever that is, not giving Paige the satisfaction of knowing it’s getting to her.

If Paige wants to stand there and entertain that, she can.

Azzi’s not about to chase after her.

So she doesn’t.

She turns away fully this time, letting the crowd pull her in the opposite direction, slipping into conversations she doesn’t really care about but participates in anyway, smiling when she needs to, responding just enough to keep things moving.

It becomes automatic.

Talk, laugh, move on.

Repeat.

Anything to keep herself occupied.

Anything to not look back over there.

But she still knows.

She knows where Paige is without checking, knows when she moves, knows when the energy shifts around her, like some part of her refuses to fully disconnect no matter how hard she tries.

And when Paige gets closer at one point, just passing through, not even stopping yet, Azzi feels it instantly, that familiar presence that usually pulls her in without thinking.

This time she shuts it down.

She turns slightly, just enough, keeps her focus locked on the person in front of her, nodding like she’s fully invested in whatever they’re saying, like nothing else exists in that moment.

Like Paige doesn’t exist in that moment.

She keeps that up the entire night.

Every time there’s a chance for eye contact, for a conversation, for anything that might force them to actually deal with what’s going on, Azzi avoids it cleanly, slipping away just enough to make it look natural.

No scene.

No confrontation.

Nothing obvious.

She doesn’t look at her, doesn’t talk to her, doesn’t give her anything.

Because right now, being mad feels easier than walking over there.

And risking that she actually cares more than she wants to admit.

—

Paige’s Pov

Paige knows she messed up bad because Azzi won’t even look at her.

It started back at The Shed, the second Paige slipped in late, still catching her breath, still trying to make herself smaller than she actually is so she didn’t pull focus, because that was the whole point of everything she did today.

She knew what tonight was supposed to be.

She knew how big it was, how much it meant, how long Azzi had been working toward that exact moment, and the last thing Paige wanted was to walk in and accidentally make it about anything other than her.

Because she knows how people are.

She knows how fast things shift, how quickly attention turns, how fans start talking, how one picture or one clip can turn into something else entirely.

If she showed up dressed like she usually does, styled, noticeable, matching the energy of the night, it wouldn’t stay about Azzi for long.

It would turn into something else.

Something about them.

Or worse, something about Paige.

And she wasn’t about to let that happen.

So she kept it simple.

She didn’t care that it made her look like a waiter.

If anything, that was the point.

Let them laugh.

Let her teammates say whatever they want.

As long as Azzi got her moment exactly how she deserved it, Paige was good with that.

And she made it.

Barely, but she made it.

She saw it happen.

Saw her name get called, saw her walk up there

Just that.

Just her.

And then she hugged Azzi.

“I’m so proud of you, baby”, because she was, because she is, because that part was never complicated.

but she didn’t say anything back.

Just pulled away, smiled like everything was fine, and moved on.

That’s when Paige knew.

Nothing about this was fine.

Now they’re here.

And it’s starting to piss her off.

And Paige gets it.

She does.

She knows she messed up the timing, knows she wasn’t there when she was supposed to be, knows that mattered more than anything else tonight.

But she still showed up.

Paige exhales slowly, dragging a hand through her hair as she leans back slightly, trying to play it off, trying to look like she’s just here, just part of the night like everyone else.

That’s when the girls show up.

Not surprising.

It happens all the time.

They slide into the space around her like it’s natural, conversations starting easily, laughter coming quick, one of them stepping just a little closer than necessary, asking something that Paige barely registers because her attention is still somewhere else.

Normally, she wouldn’t think twice about it.

She’d respond the same way she always does, relaxed, easy, not taking any of it seriously.

And she does.

At first.

She laughs lightly, says something back, keeps it casual, nothing that actually means anything.

But then—

She sees Azzi.

Walking in.

And more importantly, she sees the exact second Azzi sees her.

It’s quick.

Barely there.

But Paige catches it.

The way Azzi’s eyes land, the way they linger just long enough to take everything in, the girls, the space between them.

And something in Paige shifts immediately.

Because if ignoring her is the game now, then fine.

She can play too.

A small smirk pulls at her lips before she even fully thinks it through, subtle enough that no one else would notice, but it’s there, sitting just under the surface as she turns her attention back to the girls in front of her.

Maybe this will work.

Maybe if Azzi sees it, really sees it, she’ll finally drop whatever this is and come over here and say something instead of pretending Paige doesn’t exist.

Because that’s what Paige actually wants.

Not this distance.

Not this silence.

Not whatever weird tension they’re sitting in right now.

She wants it to be normal again.

Wants Azzi to look at her the way she usually does, talk to her like nothing is off, like they’re still them and not whatever this is supposed to be.

So yeah.

If it takes a little jealousy to get there.

If it takes pushing just enough to get a reaction.

Paige’s fine with that.

But her eyes flick back once.

Just once.

Checking.

Waiting.

Because at the end of the day

She doesn’t actually care about any of this

She just wants Azzi to come over

And finally talk to her.

But the second Paige looked back, Azzi was gone.

Oh come on

Her eyes wandered the place trying to see where the brunette went and then sees her, talking and laughing with others.

“I’m so fucked,” she mutters under her breath.

Because yeah.

She knows exactly what this is now.

Azzi saw her.

Saw everything.

And instead of coming over, instead of saying something, instead of even giving her a look that meant anything—

She dipped.

And now she’s over there acting completely fine, like she didn’t just clock the whole situation and decide she wasn’t entertaining it.

Which means the plan backfired.

Badly.

Paige straightens slightly, running a hand over the back of her neck as she looks back up again, eyes landing on Azzi whether she wants them to or not.

Now it’s not just waiting for Azzi to come to her.

Now it’s knowing she won’t.

And that sits weird in her chest, heavier than she expected, because for a second she really thought it would work, thought Azzi would get a little jealous, get a little annoyed, come over and finally say something instead of playing this whole silent game.

But Azzi’s not doing that.

She’s doing the opposite.

She’s acting like she doesn’t care at all.

And that’s worse.

Way worse.

Paige shifts her weight slightly, barely paying attention to whatever the girl next to her is saying now, nodding at the wrong time, giving a half answer that doesn’t even make sense because her focus is completely somewhere else again.

Because now she’s stuck between two options she doesn’t like.

Either she keeps standing here, playing it off, pretending she’s unbothered and letting Azzi do whatever she’s doing over there.

Or she goes over there herself.

Which feels a little too close to losing.

Her jaw tightens slightly at that thought, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for her to feel it.

Because this wasn’t supposed to turn into that.

She wasn’t trying to start something.

She just wanted Azzi to talk to her.

—

Azzi’s pov

It happens fast.

Not planned, not some big dramatic lead-up, just one of those moments where the timing finally lines up whether they’re ready for it or not.

Azzi is halfway through another conversation she’s barely paying attention to, nodding along to something someone is saying, when she feels it again.

That shift.

That presence.

Closer this time.

Before she can move, before she can slip out of it like she has been all night, there’s a hand around her wrist, not rough but firm enough to stop her from walking away like nothing’s happening.

Paige.

Of course it is.

Azzi’s breath catches for half a second, more out of instinct than surprise, because she knew this was coming eventually, knew Paige wasn’t going to let the whole night pass without saying something.

She just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

Paige pulls her just slightly out of the main flow of the crowd, not completely hidden, but enough to create a pocket of space where the noise dulls just a little, where everything feels closer, more direct.

Not private.

But not fully public either.

Azzi turns toward her slowly, already knowing what she’s going to see before she even fully looks.

Paige’s expression isn’t relaxed anymore.

There’s something sharper there now, something frustrated, something that’s been building all night finally pushing to the surface.

“What the fuck is up with you?”

It comes out low, controlled, but there’s no mistaking the edge behind it, the kind that doesn’t come from nothing, the kind that’s been sitting there waiting for the right moment to land.

For a second, Azzi doesn’t answer.

Not because she doesn’t have anything to say.

She has too much to say.

That’s the problem.

Her eyes flick past Paige for just a second, and that’s when she notices it.

Cameras.

Not right on them, but close enough, angled just enough, people watching just enough for it to matter.

Of course.

Of course this is the moment it happens.

she smiles.

Like nothing is wrong.

Paige’s grip is still there, still holding onto her wrist, not tight enough to hurt but enough to keep her from just walking away again, and Azzi can feel the tension in it, the frustration, the need for an answer that she’s not about to give right here.

Not like this.

Not in front of everyone.

She shifts slightly, just enough to loosen the hold without making it obvious, her hand sliding free in a way that looks natural if anyone is paying attention.

Her smile doesn’t drop.

Doesn’t even falter.

She leans in just a little, close enough that her voice stays between them even with everything going on around them.

“We’ll talk at the hotel.”

It sounds calm.

Too calm.

Like this isn’t anything serious.

Like she’s not actively choosing to shut this down right now.

Paige doesn’t move immediately.

For half a second, she just looks at her, like she’s trying to read past the smile, past the tone, past the way Azzi is handling this so cleanly it almost feels unfair.

Azzi holds the eye contact just long enough to make it convincing, just long enough to make it seem like everything is under control, like this conversation is already handled.

Then she pulls back slightly.

Still smiling.

Still composed.

And then she walks away.

From the outside, it looked clean. But Paige and Azzi knew better.

Because now it’s not just tension sitting between them anymore.

Now it’s waiting.

For what happens when they finally get to the hotel room.

And there’s no one around to interrupt it.

Hotel room

Azzi slips her shoes off by the door, barely looking back, already moving further into the apartment like she’s trying to outrun the conversation before it even starts.

Paige stands there for half a second, watching her, jaw tight, patience already thin from everything that’s been building all night, from being ignored, from being shut down, from that fake smile.

“Are you serious right now?”

Her voice cuts through the space sharp and immediate, not loud yet but close, like she’s already halfway there.

Azzi doesn’t stop.

“I’m tired, Paige,” she says, not turning around, her tone flat like that should be enough, like that should end it. “I just want to go to sleep.”

And that—

That’s what sets Paige off.

“Yeah, no, fuck that,” Paige snaps, pushing off the door and following after her, the frustration finally spilling over. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to ignore me the entire night, pull that shit at the party, and then come home and act like you’re just gonna go to sleep like nothing happened.”

Azzi finally turns then, quick, like that hit a nerve exactly where it was supposed to, her expression tight, controlled but barely.

“I didn’t pull anything,” she shoots back, her voice sharper now, the calm from earlier gone. “You’re the one who came up to me in the middle of a crowded room and decided that was the time to start something.”

Paige lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, running a hand through her hair as she paces a step closer.

“Start something? Azzi, are you hearing yourself right now? I’ve been trying to talk to you all fucking night and you keep dodging me like I did something insane. For God fucking sake you’re acting like I cheating on you or sum, I was a bit late Jeez i still made it before your name got called I don’t get what the big deal is.

“I wanted you to see me first, before everyone else, before the cameras, before all of it. I was there for yours wasn’t I? Was I late to yours? When it was your draft I was there with you the whole fucking day!”

Paige’s expression shifts, just slightly, something real breaking through the anger for a second.

“I still made it,” she says, softer but still defensive, like she needs that to count for something.

“Yeah, you made it,” Azzi says, nodding once, but there’s no softness in it. “After everything already started. After it already mattered.”

Silence hits again, but this time it’s sharper, heavier, both of them standing there with too much left unsaid and no easy way to say it.

Paige exhales hard, shaking her head.

“You’re being overdramatic,” she says finally, and the second the words leave her mouth, she knows they hit wrong.

Azzi’s expression changes immediately.

“Overdramatic?” she repeats, slow, like she’s making sure she heard that right.

Paige runs a hand over her face, already irritated, already too deep into it to backtrack properly.

“You know what I mean,” she says, her tone still edged. “you’re acting like I completely ruined your night over something I couldn’t control.”

Azzi lets out a short laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

“You don’t get to decide how I feel about it,” she says, her voice low but sharp. “And you definitely don’t get to call me overdramatic because I actually cared that you were supposed to be there.”

Paige opens her mouth to respond, then stops, clearly frustrated, clearly not wanting to drop it but also not getting anywhere.

“Whatever,” she mutters finally, stepping back slightly, her hands dropping to her sides. “I’m not doing this right now.”

“Good,” Azzi shoots back immediately. “Then don’t.”

Paige lets out another breath, shaking her head again like she’s trying to physically get rid of the frustration sitting in her chest.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

It comes out quick, almost like a challenge, like she wants a reaction even if she won’t admit it.

Azzi doesn’t hesitate.

“By all means.”

Flat.

Cold.

No pushback.

No stopping her.

Paige stands there for a second longer, like she’s expecting something else, like she’s waiting for Azzi to change her mind, to say something, to not let it end like that.

She doesn’t.

Azzi just turns away again, walking toward her room without another word, like the conversation is over, like there’s nothing left to say tonight.

And Paige is left standing there, frustrated, tired, still pissed, but underneath all of that—

Something else.

Something that feels a little too close to regret.

2:00 am (Paige’s pov)

Paige is stretched out on the couch, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give her an answer if she looks at it long enough, one arm thrown over her eyes, the other hanging off the side like she just gave up halfway through getting comfortable.

She hasn’t moved in at least twenty minutes.

Hasn’t even tried to sleep again.

Because every time she closes her eyes, it just replays.

The argument.

The look on Azzi’s face.

The way her voice changed when she said she wanted Paige there first, before everything, before the cameras, before the moment stopped being just hers.

Paige exhales slowly, dragging her hand down her face, letting it rest there for a second like she’s trying to physically push the thoughts away.

“Yeah… I fucked that up.”

It’s quiet, barely above a whisper, but saying it out loud makes it settle differently.

Because she did.

Not on purpose, not in some careless way, but that doesn’t really matter now, does it.

From Azzi’s side of it, none of the effort, none of the stress, none of the last-minute everything changes the fact that she wasn’t there when she was supposed to be.

Paige shifts slightly on the couch, turning her head toward the hallway without fully meaning to, like her body already knows where her mind is going.

Toward her.

Because no matter how annoyed she was earlier, no matter how frustrated she got at being ignored, it never really sat right.

She knows Azzi.

Knows how she gets when something actually matters to her, how she doesn’t always say everything directly but you can feel it anyway, sitting right under the surface.

And tonight mattered.

A lot.

Paige swallows slightly, her jaw tightening just a bit as another thought slides in, one she’s been trying not to sit with too long.

The party.

Those girls.

She huffs out a quiet breath, shaking her head slightly against the couch cushion.

“Yeah, that didn’t help either. You’re so fucking dumb why can’t you use the same iq you have in basketball you dumbass.” she says like she’s scolding herself.

Because she knows.

Azzi didn’t say anything about it, didn’t bring it up, didn’t even look at her long enough to make it obvious.

But Paige knows.

She saw the way her eyes landed, the way she looked and then looked away, the way she shut down instead of saying something.

That wasn’t nothing.

And Paige made it worse.

Not because she cared about those girls, she doesn’t, not even a little, but because she wanted a reaction, wanted Azzi to finally come over and say something, wanted to break whatever weird distance they were stuck in.

And instead it just pushed her further away.

Paige lets her head fall back again, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended her.

“Smart,” she mutters, dry, almost annoyed at herself.

Because now Azzi’s in the other room.

Mad.

Probably still thinking about everything.

And Paige is out here on the couch, wide awake, knowing she’s the reason for most of it.

She shifts again, sitting up this time, elbows resting on her knees as she leans forward slightly, running her hands together like she’s trying to get rid of the restless energy sitting under her skin.

She should just leave it.

Let her sleep.

Talk in the morning when everything isn’t so raw.

That would be the smart thing to do.

That would be the logical thing to do.

She lasts maybe ten more seconds before that thought falls apart.

Because she knows Azzi.

And if she’s quiet in there right now, that doesn’t mean she’s fine.

It probably means the opposite.

Paige’s head tilts slightly, her focus shifting without her even realizing it, listening to the silence like she’s trying to catch something hidden inside it.

And then—

A sound.

Soft.

Barely there.

A sniffle.

Paige freezes.

For half a second, she doesn’t move, like her brain needs time to process what she just heard, like maybe she imagined it, maybe it was something else, maybe—

Another one.

Quieter.

And her chest drops instantly.

“Fuck.”

She’s already moving before the word fully leaves her mouth, pushing off the couch so fast it barely makes a sound, her feet hitting the floor as she crosses the space in a few quick steps, all the hesitation from earlier completely gone.

She reaches the door in seconds, not even bothering to knock, her hand already on the handle as she pushes it open just enough to slip inside.

The room is dim, the only light coming from somewhere faint, barely outlining the space, but it’s enough.

Enough for her to see her.

Azzi’s curled slightly on the bed, facing away from the door, shoulders drawn in like she’s trying to make herself smaller, like if she just stays still enough she won’t fall apart completely.

And even from here, Paige can tell.

She’s trying not to cry.

Trying to keep it quiet.

Trying to hold it in like no one’s supposed to see this part.

Paige’s chest tightens immediately, something sharp and heavy hitting all at once, guilt and concern and something softer underneath it that pushes everything else aside.

Because she’s not supposed to look like that.

Not tonight.

Not after everything.

For a second, Paige just stands there, taking it in, like the sight of her like this caught her off guard more than anything else tonight.

And then she steps closer.

Slower this time.

Careful.

Like she’s approaching something fragile she doesn’t want to break any further.

“Az…”

The mattress dips slightly as she climbs onto the bed, the movement gentle but noticeable, and for a second she hesitates, watching Azzi’s back rise and fall unevenly, hearing the quiet effort she’s putting into keeping herself together.

Paige reaches for her anyway.

Her hand finds Azzi’s shoulder first, warm and familiar, sliding gently as she pulls her closer, not forcing it, just guiding her until Azzi turns enough to fall into her.

And then she really pulls her in.

Both arms wrapping around her, firm and steady, one hand pressing softly against her back while the other comes up to cradle the back of her head, guiding it down until Azzi’s face is tucked against her chest.

Right where she always ends up.

Right where she belongs.

For a second, Azzi holds it together.

Just a second.

And then she breaks.

It’s quiet at first, like she’s still trying to keep it contained, but it doesn’t last, her shoulders shaking slightly as everything she’s been holding in all night finally spills out, her hands gripping at Paige’s shirt like she needs something solid to hold onto.

Paige tightens her hold immediately, instinctively, her chin resting against the top of Azzi’s head as she pulls her even closer.

“Hey, hey… I got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and soft. “You’re okay, baby, I got you.”

this is where they always end up no matter how bad it gets.

“I’m sorry,” Paige says after a second, the words coming out quieter now, more real. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Azzi shakes her head slightly against her chest, her voice breaking when she finally manages to speak.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says, pulling in a shaky breath. “I was being dramatic, I made it a bigger deal than it needed to be, I just—”

“No.”

Paige cuts her off immediately, her hand coming up to tilt Azzi’s head just enough so she can look at her, even in the dim light.

“Don’t do that,” she says, her voice firm now, not harsh but certain. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for that.”

Azzi blinks at her, still teary, still a little shaky, clearly not expecting that.

“You were right,” Paige continues, softer now but just as serious. “You were completely right. I should’ve been there, like actually there, when it started. I know how much that meant to you, and I hate that I missed it.”

She exhales slightly, her thumb brushing lightly under Azzi’s eye, catching what she can of the tears.

“And then I made it worse,” she adds, a small, almost frustrated laugh slipping out. “Standing there with those girls like that was gonna fix anything. That was stupid.”

Azzi lets out a quiet breath at that, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she leans back into Paige again, not fully pulling away this time.

“I just wanted you there,” she admits, her voice softer now, less defensive, more honest. “Like before everything started. I had this whole thing planned in my head and it just… didn’t go like that.”

Paige nods slightly, her hand still resting against her back, steady, grounding.

“I know,” she says quietly. “And I’m sorry I messed that up for you.”

There’s a pause after that, not uncomfortable this time, just… calmer, like the tension that’s been sitting between them all night is finally starting to loosen.

And then Azzi lets out a small, almost embarrassed laugh against her chest.

“I even bought a special lingerie just for tonight.”

she mutters, like she’s debating whether she should’ve said it at all.

Paige blinks, then lets out a soft laugh, the tension breaking just a little more.

“Of course you did,” she says, shaking her head slightly, her voice lighter now.

Azzi groans quietly, hiding her face again.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” Paige says, even though she clearly is, just a little. “I mean, I am, but not like that.”

She shifts slightly, pulling her closer again, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the top of her head.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she murmurs. “I promise.”

Azzi huffs quietly, but there’s no real attitude behind it now, just tiredness settling in where everything else used to be.

“I’m too exhausted for any of that right now,” she says, her voice already softer, slower. “My feet actually hurt so bad, those heels were a mistake.”

Paige lets out another quiet laugh at that, her hand moving down to rub lightly along Azzi’s back.

“Yeah, I could’ve told you that,” she says.

Azzi doesn’t respond.

Not right away.

Because somewhere in the middle of that sentence, somewhere between the exhaustion and the comfort and finally letting everything go, she just… stops.

Her breathing evens out, her grip loosens slightly, her body settling fully against Paige like she doesn’t have the energy to hold herself up anymore.

She falls asleep right there.

Still tucked against her.

Still holding onto her.

Paige goes still for a second when she realizes, her hand pausing slightly against her back before continuing again, slower now, more absent, like she doesn’t want to disturb her.

She looks down at her, the faint light catching just enough to make everything softer, calmer, like the version of Azzi she knows best is finally back.

And something in her chest settles with it.

“Yeah,” she murmurs quietly, more to herself than anything. “I’ll fix it.”

Her arm tightens just slightly around her, careful, protective.

And this time.

She actually lets herself sleep too.

The next morning (Azzi’s pov)

The first thing Azzi notices when she wakes up is the cold empty space beside her, and for a second she just lays there, eyes half-open, trying to place it.

Because for a moment it feels wrong.

Like she missed something.

Her hand drifts slightly across the mattress, like she expects to find Paige there anyway, like maybe she just shifted or got up for a second, but there’s nothing except the faint imprint where she used to be.

Azzi frowns slightly, still waking up, still caught somewhere between sleep and reality.

And then she smells it, eggs and coffee and Something sweet underneath it all that she can’t fully place yet but knows instantly isn’t random.

Her brows lift just slightly, confusion easing into something softer as she blinks herself fully awake, pushing herself up slowly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Okay…” she mutters quietly, more to herself than anything.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, standing up, still a little slow, still feeling the leftover exhaustion from last night sitting in her body.

Before she makes her way to the door her eyes land on the shopping bag and remembers the lingerie she got.

For a second she just looks at it, and then something shifts in her expression, something softer, almost amused, like a memory clicking back into place.

“Oh my God,” she breathes out quietly, a small smile pulling at her lips.

Because she remembers.

What it was for.

What she had planned.

What the night was supposed to look like before everything went sideways.

Her fingers curl slightly as she stands there for a second longer, then she lets out a quiet breath, shaking her head just a little.

And instead of walking out—

She turns back.

A few minutes later, she’s standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the robe around her, making sure it covers just enough, her hair still a little messy from sleep, her expression softer now, lighter.

She takes one last look at herself, then turns and heads out.

The smell hits stronger the second she steps into the kitchen.

And the sight of it—

She actually pauses.

The table is set.

Not perfectly, not like something out of a movie, but clearly thought out, plates, food, coffee already poured, flowers sitting in the middle, balloons everywhere and more flowers.

And Paige—

Paige is standing by the oven, pulling out a tray with a look on her face that already says she’s about to complain about something.

Azzi just stands there for a second, taking it all in, that warm feeling in her chest growing, spreading, settling in a way that makes everything from last night feel further away.

She notices the effort.

Every part of it.

And it means everything.

Paige turns slightly, setting the tray down, already shaking her head.

“Yeah, I’m never making these again,” she says immediately, not even realizing Azzi’s there yet. “Who the hell decided cottage cheese belonged in cookies, because that’s actually criminal.”

Azzi lets out a quiet laugh, the sound slipping out before she can stop it.

Paige looks up at that.

Sees her.

And something in her expression shifts instantly.

“Hey—”

She doesn’t even get the word out fully before Azzi starts walking toward her.

Slow at first.

Then not so much.

Paige’s still mid-rant, already continuing like she didn’t just get interrupted.

“I’m serious, they smell weird, they look weird, I don’t even think—”

Azzi cuts her off.

Completely.

Her hands come up, sliding around the back of Paige’s neck as she pulls her in and kisses her.

Paige freezes for half a second, clearly not expecting it, and then everything else just drops.

The rant.

The thought.

Her hands move automatically, finding Azzi’s waist, pulling her closer like there was never any distance to begin with.

The kiss deepens slightly

Paige's hands tighten on Azzi's waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of the robe. Azzi makes a quiet sound against her mouth, something between a sigh and a hum. Her fingers slide up into Paige's hair, tangling gently at the nape of her neck, tugging just enough to tilt Paige's head slightly, changing the angle, deepening the kiss even more. her tongue brushing against Paige's lower lip in a way that's deliberate, teasing, like she's reminding Paige exactly who she's kissing.

Paige exhales sharply through her nose, her grip shifting, one hand sliding up Azzi's back, the other dropping lower, fingers grazing the curve of her hip through the robe. She can feel Azzi's heartbeat, or maybe that's her own, they're so close it's hard to tell anymore.

"You're distracting me," Paige murmurs against her lips, but there's no complaint in it, just breathless recognition.

Azzi pulls back just enough to look at her, close enough that their foreheads are almost touching, her eyes darker now, warmer, still a little puffy from crying last night but somehow more beautiful because of it.

"Good," she says softly, her voice low, almost a whisper. "You deserve to be distracted."

And then she kisses her again.

Harder this time.

More certain.

Her teeth graze Paige's lower lip, just barely, just enough to make Paige's stomach tighten, and then she soothes it with her tongue, slow, deliberate, like she has all the time in the world now. Paige makes a sound she didn't mean to make, something low in her throat, and Azzi smiles against her mouth at that, small and satisfied, like she's keeping score.

When they finally pull back, it’s not far.

Not enough to break it completely.

Azzi’s hands are still wrapped around her neck.

Paige’s hands are still firm at her waist.

Close enough that their breaths still mix.

Paige exhales softly, a small smile pulling at her lips as she looks at her.

“So…” she murmurs, voice quieter now but still carrying that teasing edge. “How does it feel being a Dallas Wing and being with an amazing girlfriend and teammate like me?”

Azzi’s lips twitch, her expression shifting just enough to match the tone.

“Oh, I’m dreading it already,” she says, completely straight-faced.

Paige recoils slightly, hand coming up to her chest in fake offense.

“Ouch, bro. That’s crazy.”

Azzi laughs softly at that, but instead of pulling away, she just pulls her back in again.

Another kiss.

Shorter this time.

But just as intentional.

Paige kisses her back immediately, but there’s a flicker of confusion when Azzi doesn’t stop there.

Because she starts moving.

Guiding them backward.

Still kissing her.

Still holding onto her.

Paige stumbles slightly with it, trying to keep up, a quiet laugh slipping through the kiss.

“Wait—” she mumbles against her lips. “Babe, let’s at least—”

Azzi doesn’t let her finish.

She kisses her again.

And keeps moving.

Back into the room.

The door closes behind them with a soft click, and Paige barely registers it before she’s being pushed gently onto the bed, the movement smooth but confident enough to make her blink in surprise.

Azzi stands over her for half a second.

Then reaches up.

Lets the robe fall.

And Paige forgets what she was about to say entirely.

"Is this—"

"Yeah," Azzi says, her cheeks flushing slightly, but she doesn't look away, doesn't hide. "The lingerie."

Paige swallows.

"You're wearing it right now."

It's not a question, but Azzi nods anyway, her teeth catching her lower lip briefly.

"For you," she adds quietly. "I mean... I bought it for last night. For after. But..."

"You're trying to kill me," Paige says, her voice rougher now, her eyes not leaving Azzi’s perfect body.

"You started it," she says. "With the flowers. And the balloons. And the cottage cheese cookies."

Paige groans, dropping her head back against the mattress.

"Don't bring up the cookies right now."

"Why? You don't want to think about cottage cheese while you're—"

Paige doesn't give Azzi a second more to respond hands gripping Azzi's waist firmly, pulling her flush against her chest. Azzi's breath hitches, eyes widening, but she doesn't pull away—her hands hover uncertainly before settling on Paige's arms. 'P, wait—' Azzi starts, voice soft, but Paige cuts her off again.

“ Nah, no waiting. I promised I'd make it up to you”

Her fingers dig into Azzi's hips, steering her back toward the bed with unyielding pressure. Azzi stumbles slightly, a mix of surprise and heat flushing her cheeks, but she lets Paige lead, submissive under the weight of that promise.

Paige pushes her down onto the mattress, not rough but insistent, climbing over her to straddle her thighs. Azzi's legs part instinctively, giving Paige space, her body arching up just a fraction. Paige's hands pin Azzi's shoulders, holding her in place as she leans down, capturing her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss—tongue thrusting in, claiming every inch. Azzi moans into it, soft and yielding, her fingers clutching at Paige's shirt.

“Hands above your head,”Paige orders, breaking the kiss with a nip to Azzi's lower lip. Azzi hesitates, biting her lip, but obeys, stretching her arms up, wrists crossing like an offering. Paige smirks, satisfied, grabbing the robe's belt from the floor and looping it around Azzi's wrists, tying them loosely to the headboard—not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough to remind her who's in control. “Good girl. Stay just like that. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Azzi squirms, a whine escaping. “P.. stop teasing, I need you.”

Paige chuckles, low and teasing, her hands roaming down to take the lingerie fully, trailing nails over her bare skin, scraping lightly over her collarbone, down to her tits. She cups one, thumb flicking the hard nipple, then pinches it sharp enough to make Azzi gasp and arch.

“Lemme get you right baby,” Paige says as she lowers her head, mouth latching onto the other nipple. She sucks hard, tongue swirling, teeth grazing the sensitive place.

Paige presses her thigh down between Azzi's legs, grinding just enough to tease without relief.

“Oh god, P—yes” Her hips twitch up, seeking contact but Paige pushes it back down. “Not yet. Beg for it if you want more.” Paige pulls back, watching Azzi's face flush deeper, her bound hands tugging futilely at the tie.

Azzi bites her lip, eyes pleading.

“please Paige... touch me. I need you”

The words come out small, and Paige's core tightens at the sound. She slides lower, hands hooking under Azzi's knees to spread her wide, exposing her fully—pussy glistening, clit swollen and begging.

Paige's fingers trace her inner thighs first, slow and deliberate, building the ache.

“Look at you, so wet already. All for me?' Azzi nods frantically, hips lifting. “Yes,I've been wanting this since yesterday.”

Paige rewards her with a single finger along her slit, parting the folds, circling her clit lightly before dipping just the tip inside. Azzi whimpers, thighs trembling. “More—please, deeper.”

Paige obliges but on her terms—thrusting two fingers in slow, curling them against Azzi's walls, finding that spot that makes her cry out. Her thumb presses her clit, rubbing firm circles, the wet squelch of Azzi's arousal filling the room.

“Take it, babe. This is me making it right.” Paige pumps faster, free hand pinning Azzi's hip down to stop her from chasing too hard. her face contorted in pleasure—mouth open, breaths ragged.

“Paige—fuck, I'm close. Don't stop.”Azzi's voice breaks pleas turning desperate. Paige leans in, lips at her neck, sucking a mark high enough to show. “Cum for me then. Show me you forgive me.”

She adds a third finger, stretching her, thrusting deep and rough, thumb flicking her clit hard. Azzi shatters, pussy clenching tight around Paige's fingers, juices coating her hand as she rides the waves, back arching off the bed. “Yes—P! Oh shit, yes!”Her cries echo, body shaking, bound wrists straining.

Paige doesn't stop immediately, drawing it out with slower strokes until Azzi slumps, panting. She pulls her fingers free, slick and shiny, and brings them to Azzi's mouth. “Taste how good you are.”Azzi parts her lips obediently,eyes locked on Paige's with that hazy look. Paige watches, arousal throbbing between her own legs, then unties the belt, rubbing Azzi's wrists gently. “Flip over. Ass up.”

Azzi nods, still catching her breath, rolling onto her stomach with a soft whimper. She pushes up onto her knees, arching her backHer face presses into the pillow, arms stretched out in front, fully surrendered.

Paige stands from the bed, her own sweatpants hanging low on her hips, pussy aching and damp against her boxers. She glances at Azzi's trembling form, smirking at how eagerly she's obeying.

“Stay right there, don't move,” Paige commands, voice firm as she steps over to her duffel bag by the nightstand. She unzips it quick, digging past clothes and toiletries until her fingers close around the strap.

Paige pulls it out, strips off her sweats and boxers in one go, kicking them aside and steps into the harness, buckling it tight around her hips and thighs, the base of the dildo pressing snug against her clit with every adjustment.

She tugs the straps secure, the weight of the cock settling heavy between her legs, ready to thrust. Glancing back, she sees Azzi peeking over her shoulder, eyes widening at the sight, a fresh flush creeping up her neck. “You brought that? For me?” Azzi asks, voice small and needy, ass moving back n forth slightly in anticipation.

“Knew I'd need to fuck you proper to make up for last night,” Paige replies, climbing back onto the bed. She kneels behind Azzi, hands gripping her hips to pull her back, aligning the tip of the strap-on with Azzi's dripping entrance. The silicone head nudges her folds, slicking up immediately from Azzi's arousal. Paige teases it there, sliding up and down her slit, bumping her clit on each pass. Azzi moans, pushing back desperate. “Please, P—put it in. I want it so bad.”

Paige slaps her ass cheek hard, leaving a red handprint that makes Azzi yelp and clench. “Beg nicer. Tell me how much you need my cock.” Azzi bites the pillow, then lifts her head.

“Fuck me with it, Paige. Stretch my pussy—make me cum on your dick. I'm yours.” The words hit Paige like fire, her own clit pulsing against the base as she grips Azzi's waist tighter.

With one smooth thrust, Paige sinks halfway in, Azzi's walls gripping tight around the intrusion. Azzi cries out, fingers clawing the sheets. “Oh shit— p it’s big!” Paige pauses, letting her adjust, then rocks her hips forward, burying the rest inch by inch until her pelvis slaps against Azzi's ass, fully sheathed. The pressure on Paige's clit makes her groan low, already chasing her own build.

Paige starts slow, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the wet sounds of Azzi's pussy taking the cock filling the room. Azzi's tits sway with each thrust, nipples dragging against the mattress. “Harder—yes, like that,” Azzi gasps greedy, rocking back to meet her. Paige obliges, pace picking up, hips snapping forward with force, the harness rubbing her clit relentlessly. She reaches around, fingers finding Azzi's swollen clit, rubbing fast circles to match the rhythm.

“Your pussy's sucking me in so good. Taking it all for me,” Paige pants as she pounds deeper, the curve of the dildo hitting Azzi's g-spot on every stroke. Azzi's moans turn to screams, body jolting forward with the impacts. “P—I'm gonna cum again! Don't stop”

Paige spanks her other cheek, alternating the slaps to keep the sting fresh, skin blooming pink under her palm.

Paige leans over her back, chest pressing against Azzi's spine, one hand tangling in her hair to yank her head up. “Cum on my cock then. Squeeze it tight.” She thrusts erratic now, chasing her own edge, fingers pinching Azzi's clit. Azzi let’s go agai, pussy clamping down hard on the silicone, juices squirting out around the base as she wails, thighs shaking uncontrollably. The clench pushes Paige over too—her clit grinding against the harness sends sparks through her, orgasm ripping free with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as she rides it out buried deep.

They collapse together, Paige easing the strap out slow, both panting heavy. She unbuckles the harness quick, tossing it aside to wrap arms around Azzi from behind, kissing her shoulder. “You good? That make up for it?”Azzi turns her head, lips finding Paige's in a lazy kiss.

Azzi lets out a quiet laugh at that, the sound lazy, warm, her head tilting back just enough to meet Paige halfway.

“Maybe,” she says, teasing, even though there’s no real edge left in it.

She turns slightly in Paige’s arms, just enough to face her, her lips finding Paige’s in a slower kiss this time, not rushed, not trying to prove anything, just… there.

Paige hums softly against her, her hand sliding up Azzi’s arm, fingers tracing absent patterns like she’s grounding herself in the moment.

“I’m serious though,” Paige adds after a second, her forehead resting lightly against Azzi’s.

“I really am sorry,” she says, softer this time.

Azzi doesn’t pull away.

She just reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together.

“I know.”

And she does.

Paige presses another soft kiss to her shoulder, lingering just a little longer, like she’s still making up for it in small ways.

They stay like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other, everything finally feeling… right again.

And then—

Paige groans quietly, letting her head drop back against the pillow.

“Damn,” she mutters. “The breakfast is probably cold now. All that hard work, gone.”

Azzi lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she shifts slightly to look at her.

“You’re actually upset about the cottage cheese cookies?”

“I’m upset about everything,” Paige says dramatically, turning her head to look at her. “I cooked, I decorated, I emotionally matured, and this is the thanks I get.”

“Do I hear complaining beuckers?”

“Nah I’d do it again.”

Azzi rolls her eyes at that but she’s still smiling, still close, still not moving away.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “We can reheat it.”

Paige raises an eyebrow.

“You’re really about to make me eat those cookies.”

“Yes.”

“That’s messed up.”

Azzi just kisses her again, quick and easy this time, like the conversation doesn’t even matter.

And Paige doesn’t complain after that.

Not really.

Because she’s smiling too.

And everything feels okay again.

“Officially a wing.” Paige says.

“Offcally a wing.” Azz repeats.

The end

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #pazzi #pazzi au #uconn wbb #paige and azzi #pazzi series #uconn huskies #uconn women’s basketball #dallas wings #wnba draft #pazzi fics #fanfics #fanfic

and just a preview, this is what I mean by they was staying professional but the clues are there, miss nonchalant

I’ll post the video ect when people are awake and I have time to get the video to load

The evolution of every time she tried playing it cool in a span of like 2 minutes, but like I get it my boy, just had to keep an eye out

And then she made her move 15 secs later haha

#wnba #uconn huskies #uconn wbb #paige bueckers #dallas wings #azzi fudd #pazzi

wrapped around your finger

pairing: uconn!gf!paige bueckers x uconn!gf!reader

setting: uconn wbb, 2023–24 season

summary: You and Paige have known each other since freshman year, dated for almost three, and somehow she still looks at you like she cannot believe she got lucky enough to keep you. Everyone at UConn knows Paige talks back to everybody, argues with anybody, and competes with literally everything. Everyone also knows that when it comes to you, Paige Bueckers folds in record time. She carries your bag, remembers your matcha order, saves your seat, follows you around, and listens the second you say her name. It’s normal. At least, it’s normal to you. But when your childhood friend visits Storrs and sees Paige orbiting you in real time, he starts noticing what you and Paige barely clock anymore: Paige is absolutely, embarrassingly, permanently down bad.

warnings/tags: fluff, established relationship, private relationship, soft jealousy, childhood friend visit, paige being down bad, golden retriever paige, teasing, flirty banter, uconn 2023–24 timeline

word count: 10.8k

THE SHOOT - PAIGE BUECKERS X READER

| synopsis: you’re an athlete working a nike campaign shoot in manhattan alongside paige bueckers. you’ve known of each other for years as big east rivals and now wnba opponents, but you’ve never really spoken outside the court. what starts as professional collaboration during the shoot quickly turns into heavy flirting, charged conversation, and an invitation back to your apartment that neither of you can resist.

| warnings: nike campaign, slow burn flirting, heavy sexual tension, smut, dom!paige, jealous undertones, established attraction, overthinking reader, cocky paige, paige receiving, and use of strap

| word count: 6.5K???

──────────────────────

PAIGE SAT on the edge of the king-sized bed in her Four Seasons suite, elbows resting on her knees, staring at the floor like it might give her answers.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below the windows. Manhattan stretched out in every direction, all glass and steel and endless movement, but up here it felt strangely removed from everything. Too clean. Too perfect. The kind of luxury that still felt a little foreign even if she’s about to enter year two of being in the league.

She was exhausted.

Not the good kind of tired she got after a hard practice or a game where she left everything on the floor. This was the heavy, bone-deep kind that came from too many flights, too many early calls, and not enough real sleep.

Coach shoot in LA, CeraVe in Miami, and now this Nike campaign in New York. Tomorrow she had one more shoot here for Secret, then it was straight to Phoenix for Team USA training camp.

She kept telling herself she was lucky. She was lucky. She knew that. Growing up she used to stay up late scrolling through Nike’s website, adding shoes to carts she could never afford. Now they flew her out and paid her to wear them. That wasn’t lost on her.

Still… some days she just wanted to lie down and not move for twelve hours.

Paige rubbed her hands over her face and stood up. She had maybe five minutes before the car came.

She kept it simple, with a white Nike hoodie, gray Nike sweatpants, and slides on her feet. Hair pulled up into a messy bun and glasses on because she couldn’t be bothered with contacts right now. She looked in the mirror for half a second, decided she didn’t care, and grabbed her bag.

The driver was already waiting when she got downstairs. Nice older guy. He gave her a warm smile as she slid into the backseat. Paige returned it, then immediately put her headphones in. The city blurred past the tinted windows—yellow taxis, pedestrians moving like they had somewhere important to be, the morning light hitting the buildings just right.

She leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes, hoping for even a short power nap. Her mind, of course, went straight to the shoot.

And to you.

She knew you were going to be there today. Nike had told her weeks ago. The campaign was focused on the future of women’s sports—new shoes, new apparel, a whole multimedia push celebrating the next generation of athletes pushing boundaries.

She was excited about the work. Nike shoots were usually fun, even when they pushed her physically. But the fact that you were part of it added a whole different layer.

You two had been circling each other for years.

Big East rivals back in college, you at Marquette and her at UConn. Then in the WNBA, you on the Liberty and her in Dallas.

You guarded each other hard. Respected each other’s game. But friends? Not really. Not yet, at least. There was always this charged space between you. Respect mixed with something sharper. Something neither of you had ever named.

Paige opened her eyes and stared out the window again. New York always did something to her. The energy was different from Minnesota where she grew up. This was more louder, faster, and relentless.

She liked it, though. There was something freeing about being in a city where people were too busy living their own lives to stop and stare at her every five seconds. Back in Connecticut or Dallas, she couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. Here, she could still blend in if she wanted to. It felt normal. Grounding, even.

Her thoughts drifted again, this time to Team USA.

She was honored to be there, of course she was. Four gold medals already and now she was on the senior team, one of the older voices in the room. It felt serious in a way the younger camps never had. She was excited, but there was pressure too. The standard was higher. The expectations heavier. She wanted to show up ready. She wanted to earn her spot, not just ride the wave of her name.

She prayed about it a lot lately—asking God to keep her grounded, to let her play with joy instead of fear, to use the platform for something bigger than herself. Faith had always been her anchor. In the hardest moments last season, it was one of the only things that kept her from spiraling completely.

Then her mind went to Dallas.

Last season had been brutal. She came in as the face of the franchise, Rookie of the Year, the future of it all, and somewhere along the way, it all started to slip. Injuries stacked up, rotations never settled, and no matter how hard she tried, nothing ever really clicked the way it was supposed to.

She stayed late after games, taped up and exhausted, trying to patch together chemistry that never fully formed. Tried to be steady when everything around her wasn’t. Even when her own body started to give out, she kept going, like stopping wasn’t really an option she was allowed to consider.

Some nights she’d sit in her apartment after a loss and just stare at the wall, wondering if she was doing enough. If she was failing them. The losing wore on her more than she let anyone see. She wasn’t used to it. UConn had spoiled her with winning. Dallas taught her humility the hard way.

And Coach Koclanes…

she still didn’t like talking about him. She tried not to speak ill of people publicly, especially not coaches. But privately? She had feelings. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt for so long. It was his first head coaching job, after all.

She prayed about this too, asking God to help her be patient and respectful. But month after month, the same mistakes kept happening. Plays that cost them games. Teammates she’d grown close to leaving mid-season. A coach who smiled in her face, but didn’t seem to actually see her or fight for the team the way she needed.

When he was finally fired, she felt a quiet wave of relief she didn’t let show. She hated that she felt it. But she did.

This season feels different, though. Not loud or guaranteed, just steadier. More direction. More trust. Azzi possibly coming in only adds to that feeling she can’t quite name yet. For the first time in a while, there’s space for hope again. She knows not because everything is going to be fixed, but it finally feels like it might be building toward something special in this organization.

The car pulled up to the Nike headquarters sooner than she expected. Paige thanked the driver and stepped out into the cool morning air, adjusting her hoodie. She took the elevator up, still half-asleep but buzzing with that low, familiar anticipation.

When she walked into the studio, the energy hit her immediately. Lights, cameras, racks of clothes, people moving with purpose. A few assistants greeted her warmly and led her toward hair and makeup.

She sat down in the chair, letting them do their thing, mind still drifting.

And then she saw you.

You were already on set, doing solo shots on the other side of the massive studio. The lights caught you perfectly as you moved through a series of poses. Paige’s stomach tightened before she could stop it.

You looked good. Focused. Professional. Exactly like someone who belonged in front of cameras.

She forced herself to look away, but the image stayed burned behind her eyes.

This was going to be a long day.

—

YOU WERE already on set before you even needed to be there.

It was a habit you’d had since you were a kid— always early, never late. Some people called it anxiety. You called it respect. Respect for the work, for the people giving you the opportunity, and for yourself. Being early gave you time to breathe, to settle, to get your mind right before the cameras started rolling.

The Nike studio in Manhattan was already alive with movement when you arrived. The space smelled like fresh paint, coffee, and that distinct scent of new athletic gear.

You loved it.

Working with Nike had always felt like an honor, one you didn’t take lightly. And finding out you were shooting this campaign alongside Paige Bueckers made it even better.

You sat in the makeup chair, letting the artists do their thing while your mind wandered

This campaign meant a lot. Being apart of the new wave of the league alongside Paige, Caitlin, Angel, and a few others felt surreal sometimes. The spotlight on your group had grown so fast.

“The new faces of the league,” people kept saying. It was exciting. It was also heavy. You felt the pressure privately, even if you never showed it publicly. The expectations, the comparisons, the weight of representing something bigger than yourself.

You were grateful, deeply grateful, to be in this position—a professional athlete in the league you’d dreamed about since you were little, playing for the Liberty in the city you’d grown up in. Calling teammates like Sabrina, Breanna, and Jonquel your people still felt crazy when you let yourself sit with it.

Your former coach, Sandy Brondello, crossed your mind as the makeup brush moved across your cheek.

She was hard. Passionate. Demanding.

The season hadn’t gone the way any of you wanted, and the changes afterward, including her departure stung more than you liked to admit. You hoped it was for the better. You prayed it was. But endings were never easy, even when they were necessary

The hair stylist finished pinning the last curl just as the makeup artist stepped back.

“Ready for wardrobe?” one of them asked.

You nodded and changed quickly—simple black Nike tank top, black Nike basketball shorts, and your Sabrina 3’s.

Clean. Comfortable. You liked representing your teammate like this.

They told you to start with some solo shots. Some bouncing the ball, behind-the-back moves, simple athletic motion. It felt automatic, muscle memory kicking in the second the ball hit your hands. You moved through the poses easily, the lights warm on your skin, the faint click of cameras filling the studio.

And then you saw her.

Paige walked in.

She wasn’t dressed for the shoot yet. She looked tired but focused, scanning the studio as an assistant led her toward hair and makeup.

Your stomach did a small, annoying flip.

You’d known of Paige for years. You didn’t play four years in the Big East without knowing exactly who Paige Bueckers was. She was a bucket. The kind of player who made everything look easy and impossible at the same time.

Guarding her in college had always been a task— physical, mentally draining, full of fouls and arguments with the refs. She had this confidence, not just in herself, but in her teammates. Every pass she made felt intentional.

In the league it was different. She was stronger now. Smarter. Faster.

The Liberty beaten Dallas almost every time last season. She’d only gotten the best of your team once. Which happened to be the game you’d missed with a concussion. You gave credit where it was due. That night? It was hers.

You remembered the day you heard about her ACL tear back in 2022.

Flashback August 3rd 2022

The locker room smelled like sweat, deodorant, and the faint rubbery scent of fresh tape. Pick up had ended twenty minutes ago, but no one was in a rush to leave.

The team was sprawled across benches and lockers, half-dressed in practice gear, hair still damp from showers. Someone had pulled up their phone and the group had slowly gravitated toward it like moths to a flame, voices overlapping in that easy, post-practice chatter.

You were sitting on the floor with your back against your locker, legs stretched out, water bottle half-empty in your hand. The cool tile felt good against your sore back. You were laughing at something one of the seniors said about a botched play when the energy in the circle shifted.

“Wait, what?” one of your teammates muttered, leaning closer to the screen. “Is this real?”

The group went quiet for a second. Phones started lighting up around the room as more people opened Instagram.

You sat up a little, frowning. “What are y’all looking at?”

Someone turned the phone toward you without a word. The screen showed Paige’s Instagram post. The caption was long, honest, and hit like a punch to the chest.

“It's so so crazy because you work so hard to get back healthy, you teel stronger than ever, and you are playing your best basketball and with one sudden movement it all shifts. It's hard trying to make sense of it all now but I can't help but think that God is using me as a testimony as to how much you can overcome with Him by your side. Some little kid that just tore their ACL or had a major surgery might need this story P, because it's going to be one hell of a comeback.There is going to be good days and there is going to be bad days but my absolute love for the game and Godly strength will get me back to where I need to be. l've worked too hard for the little kid in these pictures to keep going for the dreams Ive had since I first picked up the ball, so why would I stop now? The prayers and love means so much to me and the doubts that I won't get back to where I was might mean even more. God put a dream in my heart and even if I have to walk through a nightmare to get it I'm going to keep believing. All love, P 🤞🏼”

You stared at the words. At first you wanted to believe it was fake news, but the post was real.

The locker room noise faded into a low hum in your ears.

Something heavy settled in your chest. Not pity. Paige wasn’t the type of player you pitied. It was more like a strange, quiet ache. The kind you felt when someone who pushed you so hard suddenly couldn’t push anymore. You wondered how she was feeling right now. If she was angry. Scared. Or already thinking about coming back stronger like the caption said.

Later that night, back in your dorm, you pulled out your phone again. The room was dark except for the glow of your screen. Your thumb hovered over the message box for a long moment before you typed something short and honest.

You

Wishing you a speedy recovery. You got this. Trust God’s timing ❤️.

You hit send before you could overthink it. Then you set the phone down and stared at the ceiling, the weight of the day still sitting on your chest.

A few minutes later your phone buzzed.

Paige had replied.

Paige

Thank you. Means a lot. Looking forward to coming back and shooting buckets on you again 🤫.

You stared at the message for a long time. A small smile tugged at your lips despite everything. You hearted it and left it at that.

But the feeling in your chest didn’t go away.

Present Day

You blinked when you realized you’d been staring too long.

Paige sat down in the makeup chair across the studio, still looking a little tired but already chatting with the artists. She hadn’t noticed you yet.

You turned your focus back to the ball in your hands and took another dribble, trying to ignore the low buzz of awareness in your chest.

—

Paige stood up from the makeup chair, she was dressed for her solo shots now. A simple white Nike tank, white basketball shorts, and the purple colorway of the Sabrina 3’s.

Her hair was still in that messy bun, but the makeup artists had done their thing, giving her that clean, fresh look that would pop under the lights. She looked good. Effortlessly good.

You had just finished your own solo shots and were heading back toward the makeup chairs for quick retouches when she passed you.

“Hey,” Paige said, voice casual but warm.

“Hi,” you replied, offering a small smile.

She gave you a quick nod and kept walking toward her set. Nothing more. Just enough to be polite.

You sat back down in the makeup chair, letting the artist fix a few flyaways and touch up the shine on your face. From this angle, you had a perfect view of Paige as she started her solo shots.

You hated how much you were staring. But you couldn’t help it.

She moved with that same effortless confidence she always had. Dribbling the ball smoothly, crossing behind her back, taking sharp cuts like it was nothing. Even tired, she looked good doing it. The lights caught the definition in her arms and shoulders as she moved. You tried to look away, but your eyes kept drifting back.

You’d never really taken the time to just look at her like this before. Not in games, where everything was fast and competitive. But here, under the studio lights with no crowd noise and no refs yelling, it was different. She was beautiful. Everyone knew that. But up close, it hit different. The way her bun sat messy on top of her head, the focused look in her eyes, the small smirk she gave herself after a clean move.

Your mind wandered to your private TikTok. The edits. The slow-motion clips of her crossing someone over, the way her ponytail swung when she pulled up for a three, the way she smiled after a big play. You’d saved more of them than you’d ever admit to anyone. You’d watched them late at night when you couldn’t sleep, telling yourself it was just “studying her game.” Yeah. Sure.

Paige finished her solo shots a few minutes later and walked straight toward the chairs. She dropped down in the seat right next to yours, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of her cologne on your way and clean sweat.

The artists immediately started touching up both of you at the same time. For a moment, it was quiet. Just the soft brushes on skin and the low hum of the studio around you.

Paige broke the silence first.

“How you been?” she asked, voice low and easy, that Minnesota accent curling around the words.

You shrugged lightly. “Good. Busy. Excited to be here, honestly. Feels good to be home in New York for a bit before everything ramps up again.”

Paige nodded, leaning back as the artist worked on her hair. “Yeah, I feel that. I’ve been in the city for like two and a half days now. Back-to-back shoots. I got one more tomorrow before I head to Phoenix for camp. I’m fucking exhausted, but I’m grateful.”

You smiled. “You’re a busy girl.”

Paige let out a soft laugh, the sound warm. “This is my version of a break right now. No games, just ads and meetings. Kinda nice, actually.”

The conversation flowed easier than you expected. You talked about the upcoming season, the coaching changes on both sides, how different it felt going into year two. Paige mentioned how excited she was for Team USA camp.

“You’re gonna do great,” you told her honestly.

She looked over at you, eyes soft for a second. “Appreciate that.”

Then, because the tension was always there, she couldn’t help herself.

“I can’t wait to beat you on the court again,” she said, that familiar cocky smirk appearing.

You raised an eyebrow. “You only beat me once. And I was on concussion protocol that game.”

Paige laughed, loud and genuine. “Still counts though.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Whatever. College doesn’t count either. You fouled me every possession.”

“I did not,” she protested, grinning. “Nah you fouled me. Every time. Refs just loved you more.”

The artists chuckled quietly around you, clearly entertained by the back-and-forth.

Paige leaned forward a little, her blue eyes sparkling under the lights. “How does it feel guarding me now? I’ve been in the gym heavy. I’m stronger.”

You let your gaze drop to her arms for half a second—the way the tank top hugged her shoulders and biceps when she moved. You looked away quickly, but not quick enough.

Paige noticed.

“So?” she teased, voice dropping just a little. “Can you tell?”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “It’s obvious.”

Paige’s smirk deepened. She didn’t even try to hide the way she looked you up and down slowly. “You’ve been in the weight room too. I can see that.”

The air between you felt thick. Charged. The kind of tension that made the studio noise fade into the background.

Before either of you could say anything else, one of the directors called out, “Alright, we’re ready for you both!”

You both stood up at the same time. The tension didn’t disappear. It followed you onto the set like a shadow.

—

Lunch was set up in a quieter side room off the main studio—Mediterranean food, colorful bowls of hummus, falafel, grilled chicken, fresh salads, and warm pita laid out on a long table. The smell of lemon, garlic, and spices filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of coffee from the craft services station. You grabbed food for both of you without thinking and found a quiet corner table near the windows.

Paige sat across from you, legs spread casually. She looked relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, focused on you in a way that made the rest of the room feel distant.

“Thanks for grabbing this,” she said, digging into her bowl. “I was starving.”

“No problem,” you replied, taking a bite of your own food.

For a few minutes the conversation stayed light— how the solo shots went, how different it felt being on the same side instead of guarding each other. But it didn’t stay surface level for long.

Paige took a slow sip of water, then looked at you across the table.

“I see you showing out today,” she said, voice lower. “The way you move… it’s different from when we played against each other last time.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “Thanks P. You’re not so bad yourself.”

She smirked, but it softened quickly. “Can I ask you somethin?”

You nodded.

“How you do it?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her eyes. “Handle all this? The spotlight, the expectations, being on a team like the Liberty where there’s already so many stars. I know it’s not the same as Dallas, but I see how much pressure you carry. How do you stay grounded?”

You were quiet for a second, surprised by how direct she was. You set your fork down.

“It’s hard sometimes,” you admitted, voice softer than you expected. “I love being on the Liberty. Growing up here, getting drafted there… it felt like a dream. But there’s pressure to prove I belong. To carve out my own space without stepping on toes or being ‘the new girl.’ Some nights I lie awake wondering if I’m doing enough. If I’m living up to what everyone expects.”

Paige listened like every word mattered. Her blue eyes stayed on you, steady and intense, making your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the food.

“I get that,” she said quietly. “Last season in Dallas… it was rough. Really rough. I went in thinking I could carry a lot of it, but we kept losing. I felt this pressure to keep everything together—for the team, for the fans, for the organization.”

She paused, then continued, voice gentler.

“And Coach Koclanes… he wasn’t the best. There were times I genuinely didn’t think he knew what he was fucking doing. Prayed about it a lot. But it was hard to be coached under him. The bad days in the locker room—the anger, the frustration, the quiet moments where nobody knew how to lift each other up, those didn’t get posted.

The fans only saw the losses. One wrong move and suddenly thousands of people are telling you that you suck, that your teammates suck, that the whole team is a joke. It was hard. Especially when it came from our own fans sometimes. That part hurt the most.”

Paige exhaled slowly, then looked at you with a small, honest smile.

“That’s why I lean on my faith so much. It keeps me grounded. Reminds me that none of this…. the fame, the numbers, the expectations is mine to carry alone. I want to be a role model. I know a lot of kids look up to me, and I take that seriously. I want to give back, use my platform, help the community the way people helped me growing up. But it’s heavy sometimes. My bad days don’t get posted. The doubt doesn’t make the highlight reels. That’s why I love the game so much. When I’m on the floor, none of that noise matters. It’s just me, the ball, and my teammates. Pure. Honest.”

You stared at her, something warm and heavy settling in your chest. You admired that about her, the way she carried herself with so much grace even when things were hard.

“I feel that,” you said quietly. “The pressure to be ‘on’ all the time. To represent something bigger. It’s a blessing, but it can feel like a weight too.”

Paige nodded, eyes never leaving yours. The tension between you shifted—still charged, but softer now. More vulnerable.

Then, because the air felt too heavy, you tried to lighten it.

“So… how’s Azzi doing? I keep seeing the rumors about her coming to Dallas. Your girlfriend joining you soon?”

Paige blinked, then let out a surprised laugh.

“Azzi’s not my girlfriend,” she said, shaking her head. “We had a thing for a little while. Years ago. She’s my best friend. Nothing more than that anymore. It was… safe, I guess. Easy. But it’s not like that now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Safe?”

Paige shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yeah. When you’re in the spotlight, sometimes it feels easier to keep things close. With someone who already knows you.”

You took that in, feeling something shift in your chest.

“So… you’re single?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Paige’s eyes darkened, that cocky little smirk returning. “Yeah. Single. Not seeing anybody.”

The tension snapped back into place, thicker now. Her foot brushed against yours under the table again. Her gaze dropped to your lips for a second before coming back up.

You swallowed. “Good to know.”

Paige leaned forward slightly, voice low. “What about you?”

You hesitated for half a second, then answered honestly.

“I had this fling with a girl here during the season. Nothing serious. We both said we weren’t looking for anything heavy.”

Paige’s eyebrows lifted slightly, curiosity clear in her eyes. “But?”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool even as the conversation turned more intimate. “She started catching feelings. I broke it off. It wasn’t… great anyway. She wasn’t really good in bed, but she was familiar. Comfortable. I let it go on longer than I should have.”

Paige let out a low hum, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I know how that goes. In Dallas it was wild sometimes. Some of them definitely knew what they were doing, but ion know. I haven’t found anyone that really does it for me lately. That really makes me feel good, you know?”

The air between you thickened instantly. Heavy. Hot. The kind of tension that made it hard to breathe normally. Her foot stayed pressed against yours under the table. Her eyes held yours, dark and unblinking, like she was daring you to look away first.

You felt your pulse in your throat.

Before either of you could push it further, one of the directors popped their head in.

“Alright it’s time for the final shots of the shoot.”

Paige sighed softly, but her eyes stayed locked on you, full of promise and something much hotter.

“Saved by the bell,” she murmured, voice low enough to send heat straight down your spine. “For now.”

You both stood up, the charged energy following you back onto the set like a live wire.

—

The final duo shots wrapped up smoother than expected.

The dark blue lighting and smoky set captured exactly what Nike wanted. The crew clapped after the last take, the director calling it a wrap with genuine excitement.

Nike staff handed out goodie bags filled with new gear—stacks of socks, fresh sweatpants, hoodies, and a personalized thank-you note that read..

Thank you for bringing your fire, focus, and undeniable talent to the “Future of Women’s Sports” campaign. You helped us capture exactly what this campaign is about, the next generation of athletes who are redefining what’s possible.

Inside this bag you’ll find some fresh Nike gear as a small token of our appreciation.

We can’t wait to see what you do next, both on and off the court. You’re not just part of the future, you’re helping build it.

With gratitude,

Your Nike Family ✓

You accepted yours with real appreciation, fingers brushing over the high-quality fabric, feeling the soft weight of it in your hands as you folded it carefully and placed it in your bag.

Paige stood beside you, bag in hand, still glowing from the long day, her skin carrying that post-shoot sheen that made her look even more alive under the studio lights.

“This was fun,” she said, voice warm, a little rough from talking all day. “Thanks for making it easy.”

You smiled, heart beating a little faster than it should have. “Same. You killed it.”

The studio started clearing out. People packing up lights and cables, the energy slowly winding down. You glanced at her, the tension from earlier still humming low in your chest, making your skin feel too warm.

“So… what are you doing tonight?” you asked, trying to sound casual even as your pulse picked up.

Paige shrugged, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Nothing really. I’ve got another shoot tomorrow, so I was just gonna order room service and crash early. You?”

“Not much,” you replied, the words feeling heavier than they should. “Probably just head home and settle in. Maybe watch something.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with everything neither of you had said yet. Then you took the leap, the words leaving your mouth before you could second-guess them.

“You know… if you don’t want to spend the night alone in a hotel, you could come over to my place. It’s nothing crazy, but it’s home.”

Paige looked surprised for a second, her blue eyes widening just a fraction, but then a slow smile spread across her face, that cocky little tilt at the corner of her mouth that made your stomach flip.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, though her eyes said she wanted you to insist. “Ion wanna bother you. You’ve seen me all day.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite the nerves fluttering in your chest. “It’s not a bother. I invited you, didn’t I?”

She laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “Fair point.”

—

The Uber ride to your apartment was quiet but charged. Paige’s knee kept brushing yours in the backseat. Neither of you moved away. The city lights streaked past the windows in soft blurs of yellow and white, the low hum of the engine mixing with the faint scent of her cologne and the lingering warmth from the shoot. You could feel the heat radiating off her thigh where it pressed against yours despite you both having on sweatpants. Your heart was beating too loud in your ears, a steady thrum that matched the low buzz of anticipation in your stomach.

Your building had a doorman who nodded politely as you both walked in, the marble lobby cool under your shoes. You used your key card for the elevator. Paige looked around with quiet curiosity as you unlocked your door, her eyes scanning the space like she was trying to learn something about you from it.

The apartment was modern but warm—bougie in a lived-in way. Soft lighting from the lamps you’d left on, family photos on the walls, plants in the corners soaking up the low glow, a big comfortable couch facing a large TV. It felt like a home, not just a place to sleep.

“Damn,” Paige said, stepping inside and looking around slowly. “This looks nice. Way more put together than my place in Dallas. Some of my stuff is still in boxes and bare walls. Hard to decorate when you’re on the road all the time.”

You laughed softly, setting your bag down by the door, the sound of it echoing a little in the quiet space. “It helps when you’ve lived in the same city your whole life. My family helped move stuff in while I was away.”

Paige nodded, still taking it in, her fingers brushing the back of the couch as she walked further inside. “Must be nice.”

She paused for a second, eyes drifting over the family photos on the wall, the lived-in details that made the space feel like a real home. Something in her expression softened, almost wistful.

“My parents split when I was three,” she said quietly, the words coming out easy but weighted. “I don’t really remember them ever being together. They both got remarried, so I’ve got three younger siblings now. My little brother Drew’s basically like my twin and my best friend all in one.”

She let out a small laugh, but it was gentle, almost fond. “I try to do everything I can for them. Send them stuff when I’m on the road, call them every chance I get, make sure they know they can talk to me about anything. That’s kind of where my whole ‘role model’ thing started, I guess. I want them to see that even when life gets messy, you can still show up for the people you love. I don’t want them to ever feel like they’re on their own the way I sometimes did when I was younger.”

You listened, the quiet honesty in her voice hitting you somewhere deep. Paige didn’t talk about this stuff often, at least not publicly. But hearing her open up like this felt intimate in a way that made the apartment feel smaller, warmer.

She shrugged lightly, trying to play it off, but her eyes stayed soft. “It’s not perfect. Nothing ever is. But they’re my why, you know? The reason I keep pushing even when it gets hard.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle in your chest. “That’s really beautiful, Paige. They’re lucky to have you.”

She gave you a small, genuine smile, the kind that showed her gums just a little. “Nah, I’m the lucky one.”

You grabbed two glasses of water from the kitchen and joined her on the couch. She was man-spreading comfortably, arm resting along the back of the couch, legs spread wide like she owned the space. You turned on an NBA game— more for background noise than anything, the low commentary filling the room like a buffer.

For a while you just sat there, sipping water, the game playing low. But the tension from earlier never left. It only grew, thick and heavy in the air between you, making every small shift on the couch feel electric.

Paige eventually turned to you, voice casual but eyes intense.

“So… that fling you mentioned earlier. What was it about her that made her bad in bed?”

You almost choked on your water. You set the glass down, cheeks warming under her stare.

“She… didn’t really know how to eat me out,” you admitted, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “She never made me cum. I kind of just faked it sometimes. Tried to convince myself it felt good even when it didn’t. And after she left, I’d just… touch myself.”

Paige looked genuinely surprised, then almost offended on your behalf, her eyebrows lifting as she leaned in closer.

“She never made you cum?” she repeated, her voice low and rough around the edges. “Deadass?”

You shook your head, laughing a little awkwardly, the sound shaky in your throat. “Nope.”

Paige leaned in even closer, her knee pressing firmly against yours, “Damn. That’s crazy. Trust me, there’s stuff in Dallas that can satisfy you in ways she never could.”

You raised an eyebrow, heart racing so hard you could feel it in your throat. “Oh yeah? Like who?”

Paige held your gaze, not hiding anything anymore, her blue eyes dark and hungry.

“Me.”

The air thickened instantly. Heavy. Hot. Electric. The kind of tension that made it hard to breathe normally, like the room had suddenly lost all its oxygen.

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. “Paige…”

She shifted closer on the couch, her hand resting on your thigh, fingers warm and firm through your jeans. “What? Just sayin the truth baby.”

You felt yourself getting wet just from the way she was looking at you, the weight of her hand on your leg sending heat straight between your thighs, and definitely the way she said “Baby.”

Before you could overthink it, you nodded. That was all she needed.

Paige pulled you into a deep kiss, her hands sliding under your hoodie, gripping your waist like she’d been dying to touch you all day. She was confident, dominant, but not rushed. She kissed you like she’d been thinking about it for hours—slow at first, savoring the taste of your lips, then deeper, her tongue sliding against yours while her hands explored, mapping every curve like she was memorizing you.

She picked you up effortlessly, strong arms wrapping around you as she carried you to the bedroom, laying you down on the bed with a gentleness that contrasted the hunger in her eyes. She stripped you slowly, kissing every inch of skin she revealed, her mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, your stomach, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

“Look at you,” she murmured, kissing down your stomach. “So fuckin pretty baby. Been wanting this since I saw you this morning.”

When she finally settled between your thighs, she took her time. She ate you out like she was savoring you. Her tongue flat and slow at first, dragging through your folds, tasting every inch of you while her hands gripped your hips, holding you open for her. She circled your clit with deliberate pressure, then sucked gently, her tongue flicking in tight, perfect patterns that made your back arch off the bed.

“Paige—” you gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily, fingers tangling in her hair.

“That’s it, baby,” she praised, voice muffled against your pussy, the vibration sending sparks through your entire body. “Let me hear you. You sound so good for me. So fucking wet already.”

She added two fingers, pushing inside you slowly, curling them perfectly against that spot that made your toes curl. The wet, slick sounds filled the room, obscene and intimate, mixing with your shaky breaths and her low hums of approval. She pumped them deeper, faster, while her mouth worked your clit relentlessly, sucking and licking until your thighs started trembling around her head.

You came hard the first time, a broken moan tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching around her fingers. She didn’t stop. She kept fingering you through it, curling and stroking while her tongue flicked faster, drawing out the second orgasm until you were whimpering, begging, your voice hoarse.

“Please Paige, I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can,” she murmured, eyes dark as she looked up at you from between your thighs, her lips shiny with your arousal. “One more for me, ma. Be good for me. I know you’ve got it. Let me feel you cum again.”

You came again, harder, body trembling violently, fingers gripping her hair so tight it must have hurt as waves of pleasure rolled through you, leaving you gasping and oversensitive.

Only then did she climb back up and kiss you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue, the kiss deep and messy and desperate.

You tried to return the favor, pushing her onto her back with shaking hands. Paige let you for a little while. You went down on her, licking and sucking while your fingers worked inside her. She fell apart beautifully, moaning your name, hips grinding against your mouth, hands in your hair as she guided you.

“Fuck—just like that, baby… you’re doing so good… right there, don’t stop—”

She came hard, loud and shaking, thighs clamped around your head as her body tensed and released, her voice breaking on your name.

Then she flipped you again, eyes dark with want.

She grabbed your strap, holding it up with a smirk. “You ever use this with anyone else?”

You shook your head, breathing hard, still trembling from the aftershocks. “No.”

Paige’s smirk was pure sin. “Good. Because I need to know it’s only been me.”

She fucked you with it—hard, deep, confident strokes while talking you through every thrust, her voice low and rough in your ear.

“Whose dick is this, baby?” she growled, pounding into you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks, the other rubbing tight circles on your clit.

“Yours,” you moaned, nails digging into her back, legs wrapped around her waist. “It’s yours, Paige—fuck. Please—”

She made you beg. Made you wait. Teased you right to the edge and pulled back until you were crying out for release, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it felt.

“Please Paige, I need to cum. I can’t take it anymore—”

“Not yet,” she whispered, slowing her thrusts to a torturous grind, kissing your neck, sucking marks into your skin. “Tell me how bad you want it. Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”

“I need to so bad, please, baby. I’ll be good. It’s you, it’s only you—”

She finally let you cum, fucking you through it hard and deep while praising you the whole time, her voice wrecked and possessive.

“Good girl… that’s it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You both collapsed afterward, sweaty and spent, breathing hard in the quiet of your bedroom.

Paige cleaned you up gently with a warm cloth from the bathroom, her touch soft and careful now, pressing gentle kisses to your forehead, your temple, your hair as she pulled you into her chest, arms wrapped tightly around you like she never planned to let go.

“Stay,” you whispered, your voice hoarse but warm. “I don’t want you going anywhere tonight.”

She curled closer, smiling against your skin, your body still humming with aftershocks. “Okay.”

She held you tighter, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back, her heartbeat steady under your cheek.

“I wasn’t expecting this tonight,” she murmured, pressing another soft kiss to the top of your head. “But I’m really glad it happened.”

“Me too,” you whispered, voice sleepy and content.

Paige smiled, soft and sure, her arms a warm, safe weight around you.

“Next time you’re in Dallas… let me know where you gonna stay. We’re not done here.”

You fell asleep like that—tangled together, her chain cool against your skin, the city lights of New York glowing softly through the window.

This was just the beginning.

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Azzis already sick of her shit again

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