Probably my favorite part about Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid is that Joan never once feels shame or like she's broken for being a lesbian. Joan spent her whole life thinking that love just wasn't for her, and she was FINE with that; it was a non-issue. But once she realizes she is a lesbian (even if the word is never used), she's ecstatic. She is scared because she knows society and NASA won't accept and embrace her, but that's their problem; they're in the wrong for that, it has nothing to do with her.
The book does have period typical homophobia, it is the 80s after all. But there is no guilt, no shame, and no apologizing for being queer. We do still get the mourning of a life that the world won't let you have, the longing for the casual affection afforded to everyone else; however, this lack is framed as a great injustice the world has done to us, one that has absolutely nothing to do with us, and everything to do with them.
Tags: Slice-of-life / Diana at UConn / Pazzi at UConn / Player D / Lover Girl P
Summary: Diana Taurasi once turned a forgotten Gampel storage room into a lesbian sex scoreboard and famously never made it to five. Two decades, one Paige Bueckers later, Azzi Fudd walks into the same creepy closet.
Notes: I promised? I delivered! Here's a gift for Azzi's 30 ball
AZZI (2024)
The hallway didn’t look like much.
That was the first thing Azzi thought as she followed Paige down it: the fluorescent lights hummed, and the paint on the cinderblock walls had yellowed just enough to show age, like someone had repainted once, a long time ago, and decided that was as much as this corridor deserved.
It didn’t smell like the locker rooms or the main gym.
“Paige,” she said, her voice echoing a little too loud for her comfort, “this is literally a murder hallway”
Paige tossed the look over her shoulder that she always did when Azzi complained, like she’d been expecting the line and liked it anyway.
“Relax, princess,” Paige said as her sneakers squeaked lightly on the floor “I’ve walked down this hallway, like, a million times.”
“Exactly,” Azzi muttered.
They were supposed to be normal today, that had been the plan.
Classes, lift, practice, film, whatever Geno had scheduled to remind them they were never doing enough. But then Paige caught her eye with that look — the one that said I’m bored and I’m in love with you, do something.
Today it started in the training room, of all places.
Paige on a table getting her ankle iced, Azzi leaning against the doorframe, scrolling through something on her phone. Trainer leaves for five seconds, Paige taps the table like a drummer impatiently
“Come here.”
“No.”
“Azzi.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
She’d gone, of course. Stopped right beside the table, and Paige had smirked, grabbed her gently by the hips, and tugged her closer until Azzi was nearly between her knees.
“You know what we haven’t done in a while?” Paige asked,
Azzi had an idea, but she played dumb. “Sleep?”
Paige suppressed a laugh, her fingers pressing lightly into the waistband of Azzi’s sweats. “We haven’t made out in places we’re not supposed to.”
Azzi rolled her eyes, because of course that would be the concern “We have a room in the dorm.”
“Yeah, and it’s boring,” Paige argued. “It’s too… allowed. I liked us when we were sneaking around. Feels more…”
“Immature?” Azzi suggested.
“Alive,” Paige corrected. “Come on. I know a place close to CD’s office that nobody goes to anymore. Used to be storage or some shit.”
Azzi had fought it for about twenty seconds.
Long enough to say she wouldn’t, long enough to remind Paige that they were adults now, that sneaking around at UConn felt different when you were twenty-something and everyone had their name on a jersey.
But Paige had leaned close, had whispered, “Please,” in that small voice she never used on anyone else.
And that was that.
Now here they were, deep in a corridor Azzi hadn’t known existed, following Paige like she was the tour guide for haunted lesbian history.
“Why do you even know this place?” Azzi asked, because the silence was starting to sit heavy on her shoulders.
Paige shrugged, brushing a hand against a door as they passed. “Old admin offices. They used to store film back here, before everything went digital”
“You made that up.”
“Okay, yeah,” Paige admitted, grinning.
She stopped at a door on the left, there wasn’t a label anymore, just the ghost of one, the outline where a plastic plaque used to be.
Paige tried the handle
“Voilà,” she said, pushing it open.
Azzi stepped inside second, because of course Paige went first.
The room was bigger than she expected, boxes were stacked against one wall, some half-open with old file folders spilling out.
It smelled like dust and wood.
“Paige,” Azzi said, softer this time, “this is actually creepy.”
Paige had already closed the door behind them, her fingers slipping the lock in place with a decisiveness that made Azzi’s heart stutter.
“That’s the point,” Paige said, stepping closer
There was something about this version of Paige that always got to her, the one who could go from class clown to completely focused in two seconds.
Azzi could feel her shoulders relax even as her pulse sped up.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said anyway “You know that, right?”
Paige hummed, hands finding Azzi’s waist, sliding under her hoodie to the band of her shorts like she’d done it a thousand times. “Yeah,” she said, completely unbothered. “And yet you still follow me. Interesting.”
Azzi tried to muster a glare, failed, and kissed her instead.
It started soft, it always did. Paige had never been gentle about much in her life, but with Azzi, she always started soft.
Azzi let herself sink into it.
Let the weirdness of the room blur out until all she felt was the familiar press of Paige’s mouth, the warm slide of her hands.
The world outside had felt so loud lately. Paige was the face of women’s college basketball now, and Azzi felt it by proximity, as if being near Paige made her public property.
Here, though, in this stupid forgotten room, the building itself had no idea what year it was, and therefore no idea what Paige and Azzi were supposed to mean to anyone.
Just two girls, making out.
Paige pressed her gently back toward the center of the room, and Azzi went, step by step, until her shoulders bumped something solid. A column, she realized.
She felt the roughness of it through the fabric of her T-shirt, a tiny scratch against her shoulder blades.
“You planned this,” Azzi accused, breathless.
“Maybe a little,” Paige admitted, kissing down the line of her jaw “I figured you’d appreciate it”
Azzi laughed, as Paige’s hands slid lower, fingers expert in the way only time could teach. They’d known each other for almost ten years now, sometimes that number still stunned her.
“It’s gross in here,” Azzi muttered, but her hands were already in Paige’s hair, tugging lightly at the roots, making Paige give her a delicious little sigh of appreciation.
“You have high standards for makeout spots,” Paige said, words warm against her neck. “In case you haven’t noticed, we go to a college.”
“Romantic,” Azzi said dryly.
“You knew what you signed up for.”
Azzi would’ve kissed her again, happily, but something sharp dug into the back of her shoulder, a tiny pinch that made her flinch.
“No, you’re fine” Azzi twisted a little, trying to see what had poked her.
She turned enough that her back peeled away from the beam and she could glance over her shoulder.
That was when she saw it.
Carved into the wood at about the level of her shoulder blades, someone had etched a set of letters and numbers, the carving was stark, deep, like whoever had done it hadn’t been shy about pressing the blade in.
DT
1 — 2000
2 — 2001
3 — 2002
4 — 2003
Azzi stared for a second, her fingers came up tracing lightly over the grooves. The cuts were clean but a little uneven, like they’d been made quickly.
“What is it?” Paige asked, leaning sideways to look around her.
“There’s something carved into this,” Azzi said “Look.”
Paige stepped to her side, messy ponytail brushing Azzi’s cheek as they both focused on the beam.
“DT,” Paige read aloud. “And… numbers?”
“Years,” Azzi said. “2000, 2001, 2002, 2003.”
“What do you think it is?” Paige asked.
Azzi shrugged, still touching the carved “1 — 2000” like it might give her an answer. “I don’t know. Maybe DT tracking how many times she made it through Geno’s suicide drills without throwing up?”
Paige snorted. “If that was it, the numbers would be way fucking lower”
Paige reached out and dragged her fingertips lightly over the letters, too. Her hand was warm when it brushed against Azzi’s.
Something about it made Azzi’s stomach twist, just a little.
“Maybe it’s a tally,” Paige said. “Like… one thing in 2000, two in—”
“Don’t say murders,” Azzi cut in.
Paige’s mouth curved up. “Fights”
Azzi blinked. “Fights?”
“Yeah,” Paige said, grin stretching wider. “Like, first fight in 2000, second in 2001, third in 2002, fourth in 2003. Like a little scoreboard”
Azzi rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t deny it did sound like something Diana Taurasi would do.
“Who fights four times and carves it in wood?” Azzi asked, half to herself.
Paige shrugged. “Someone with a knife and a lot of time.”
Paige leaned back, tilting her head to read from another angle, then finally stepped away, as if she’d decided she’d wrung all the meaning she could from the letters for now.
“Well,” she said, clapping her hands once, “mystery unsolved. I came here with a purpose, baby.”
Azzi blinked out of the little trance. “Right. The very important task”
“Exactly,” Paige said, sliding her hands back to Azzi’s hips. “Don’t get distracted. You know your coach would say we need to focus on the fundamentals”
“You piss me off,” Azzi said, but her voice was soft, her fingers slid under the hem of Paige’s hoodie, brushing warm skin.
They kissed again, picking up the thread where they’d dropped it.
For a while Azzi managed to stop thinking about the beam, about the letters, about whoever had been here before them.
For a while, it was just Paige’s mouth, Paige’s hands, the familiar rush of wanting and being wanted by the same person.
Azzi didn’t know it yet, couldn’t know it here with Paige’s lips on hers, but this wasn’t the first time someone had pinned another girl against that beam.
She was touching someone else’s history without meaning to.
DIANA (2000–2003)
1 — April 1, 2000
The first time Diana Taurasi ever noticed that room, she was mostly looking for somewhere to put her hands.
Not on a ball, for once.
On a girl.
The building was quieter than it should’ve been on a Saturday night. Out in the main halls of Gampel, the air still carried the ghost of a game.
Diana shoved the door open with the same casual force she used on defenders in the lane.“Relax,” she said over her shoulder, grin crooked. “It’s not haunted.”
The girl behind her laughed.
Brown hair, messy ponytail, UConn hoodie that technically wasn’t team-issued but might as well have been with how many of them you saw on campus.
She was… what? Someone from the training room? Her name was Melissa or Marissa… something with an M.
Diana had clocked it once and then immediately filed it away under the broader, more useful category of down.
She’d met her after the game, the girl shyly saying good game, you’re insane out there, and Diana had said thanks and leaned in just a little too close when she said it. The rest was inevitable.
The room itself was nothing special, boxes stacked high along one wall, and a portable whiteboard with some old play half-erased. It looked like work, necessary work. (Diana had no intention of doing any)
“This is where they keep the bodies,” she said, deadpan.
The girl snorted “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” Diana agreed “Come here.”
And that was the thing about being Diana Taurasi, even as a freshman: she hadn’t quite realized she was yet, but she knew enough.
She knew she was good, she knew she was funny, she knew people watched her when she walked into a room.
She knew, especially, that girls watched her. The right kind of girls.
And somewhere between the way she walked and the way she sprawled in chairs and the way she said, “Come here,” a certain type of girl tended to listen.
They kissed by the desk at first, because it was there and because Melissa-Marissa-whatever tripped over a power strip and Diana caught her by the waist, laughing into her mouth.
It was sloppy, the way kisses sometimes were, teeth clicking, noses bumping. Diana liked it. She liked the tug of fingers at the hem of her practice shorts, the scrape of the wooden desk edge against her hip, the little thrill of knowing there was a whole arena twenty feet away and they were doing this here.
“Is this… allowed?” the girl asked at one point, breathless, breaking away just enough to look around.
“Probably not,” Diana said cheerfully.
The details after that didn’t matter as much.
Clothes stayed mostly on, which was fine; they were both too keyed up and too nervous to be fully naked on some office floor. There were hands under shirts and at waistbands, the wet sound of kisses and the surprised noises people make when someone touches them right for the first time.
Later, the girl tugged her hoodie back down and fixed her hair with trembling fingers, cheeks flushed.
“I should go,” she murmured, “My roommate’s gonna think I died.”
“Tell her you saw God,” Diana said, smirking.
“Oh my God,” the girl groaned, laughing, and swatted her arm. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Someone has to be,” Diana said, and she walked her to the door, cracked it open, and peered into the hallway. “You’re good. Go. Before someone catches my corrupting influence.”
She slipped out with one last quick kiss, sneakers squeaking as she ran away.
The door shut again with a soft click, and Diana was alone.
The silence pressed in differently now that there wasn’t another body filling it. Part of her wanted to bolt back to the dorms, find Sue, flop on her bed and tell her some redacted version of the story just to see the look on her face.
Another part of her… didn’t move.
She looked around the room properly for the first time. In the middle of it all, there was a thick wooden support beam, boxed in with rough boards, running floor to ceiling like the spine of the room.
She found herself drifting toward it, maybe because she’d had the girl pressed against that very spot at one point, her fingers splayed on either side of her head.
Diana ran her palm over the wood.
She’s the first girl I hooked up at UConn, she thought, suddenly.
She glanced down, and someone had left a box cutter on the desk. She picked it up, felt the weight of it in her hand.
This is stupid, she told herself.
Then again, so was everything fun.
She popped the blade out and pressed it into the wood.
The carving wasn’t neat, she had strong hands, but the angle was awkward.
Still, she managed it: big, blocky letters “DT” at the top, then a crooked 1, then the year underneath because why not commit properly if you’re already doing something dumb.
DT
1 — 2000
She stepped back when she was done.
It looked… ridiculous
“Congratulations, kid,” she muttered to herself.
The idea landed in her brain fully formed: five marks by the time she left UConn, like her favorite number.
Five seemed like the right number, not too greedy.
A private scoreboard in a place built entirely around keeping score. She grinned, capped the blade, left it back on the desk, and walked out of the room without looking back.
2 — 2001
By the time the second mark came around, the room didn’t feel random anymore.
It was a choice.
UConn in season was its own planet, and Diana lived half her life in jerseys and the other half in sweats. But there were always cracks in the schedule, little pockets of time where no one was paying attention to her, and she had a talent for finding them.
And for filling them with trouble.
“Number Two” was blonde. She played on some other team — field hockey, maybe — one of those sports with sticks. They met at some gross house party near campus where the beer was definitely not checked for fake IDs.
Diana noticed her because she laughed at the right time.
That was the test, always. Diana could talk to anyone, she knew that, but when she was actually interested, she looked for the ones who met her halfway.
The blonde did. And every joke, every stupid flex Diana dropped into the conversation, she volleyed it right back.
So at some point, when the house felt too crowded and her head felt too big, Diana leaned close and said, “You wanna see something better than this?”
The girl raised a perfect eyebrow. “You got something better than this?”
Which was how they ended up here again, weaving through the same corridor, Diana’s hand at the small of her back like she owned it..
“You work here or something?” the girl asked, amused but suspicious.
“Star employee,” Diana said solemnly. “Employee of the month, every damn month.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“See? You’re paying attention.” She liked that.
The room looked exactly the same as last time, the only difference was in the way Diana saw it. Now, her eyes went straight to the beam.
The lines had darkened with age, the edges catching dust.
She hustled the girl toward a different part of the room at first, though. No need to make it weird.
This girl was bolder, hands finding her hips faster, mouth hot and confident against hers, and they stumbled and laughed and hit a filing cabinet hard enough that something inside clanged.
Somewhere in the middle of it, the girl tugged at her shirt and said, “Is this a thing with you? Taking girls to, like, janitor closets?”
Diana sucked a bruise into the side of her neck, grinning against her skin. “Only the special ones.”
“You’re an asshole,” the girl said, but she was smiling, fingers already in the waistband of Diana’s sweats. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Relax, baby,” Diana murmured, “You could be doing much worse.”
Later, when they were both catching their breath, clothes rumpled but mostly intact, Diana felt the itch in her fingers again.
“Hold on,” she said when the girl straightened up, reaching for her hair tie.
She grabbed the same beat-up box cutter from the desk. No one had moved it in a year, which felt like a sign.
“What are you doing?” the girl asked, half laughing, half wary, as Diana walked over to the wood.
“Art installation,” Diana said.
This time, the carving was a little easier
2 — 2001
She thought about adding the full date, and decided she didn’t care enough to be that precise.
When she stepped back, sweat-damp hair sticking to her neck, she felt stupidly proud.
“Are you… keeping score?” the girl asked, coming up behind her, following her gaze.
Diana’s mind flicked through options: deny, joke, deflect. In the end, she went with the simplest version of the truth.
“Yeah,” she said.
The girl made a face somewhere between scandalized and entertained, like she couldn’t decide how offended she wanted to be “Do I… get a plaque or something? For contributing to the cause?’”
Diana bumped her shoulder into hers “You get to say you were here. That’s enough.”
She didn’t ask if the girl actually wanted that. That was the thing about being nineteen and invincible — you assumed other people would find you charming, even when you carved your initials to commemorate a hook-up.
The girl shook her head, still smiling, and left a lipstick print on Diana’s jaw before they snuck back out into the hallway.
The door closed, the second mark stayed.
Two out of five.
Ahead of schedule.
3 — 2002
By her junior year, Diana had the routine down to muscle memory.
Practice, film, weight room, class, sleep.
Somewhere in between: the room, the scratch of a blade through wood.
“Number Three” was a brunette from one of her lectures who spent half a semester pretending not to stare at her and the other half making it aggressively obvious she definitely was.
They ended up in the old office after a home win where Diana had hit something ridiculous late in the game and the whole campus seemed to vibrate.
She didn’t even think about it this time, and one minute, they were pressed up against the wall, the other girl mumbling “you’re insane” into her mouth, and the next, Diana was carving:
3 — 2002
Three out of five. Not bad.
The night she told Sue about it, it wasn’t because she planned to. It was because Sue had always been the one person on earth who could get things out of her she hadn’t finished thinking yet.
They were in Sue’s dorm room, which looked exactly how you’d expect a senior point guard’s room to look: textbooks in stacks, laundry half under the bed, an obscene amount of Gatorade.
ESPN hummed on low in the background, talking heads arguing about something neither of them cared about.
Sue was sitting cross-legged on her bed, flipping a pen between her fingers with the concentration of someone adjusting a game plan in her head.
She had that particular kind of prettiness that made parents relax around her — soft features, dark hair, easy smile. Girl next door, if the girl next door could also absolutely kill you with a pick-and-roll.
Diana was sprawled on the floor, long legs stretched out, back against the mattress, rolling a ball under her foot to work out a knot.
“You’re quiet,” Sue said eventually, eyes still on her notebook.
“I can be quiet,” Diana said.
“No, you can’t,” Sue said. “You either talk or you sleep. There’s no third option.”
Diana snorted, tossing the tennis ball up and catching it. “You’re such a hater, Sue.”
“I’m a realist.” Sue looked down at her finally, eyebrows raised. “So what’d you do?”
Diana considered lying, and then she remembered that every time she’d tried to bullshit Sue, it had ended with Sue giving her that look like she was particularly dumb.
“I started a project,” Diana said.
Sue blinked. “A project. Like… extra credit? Are you okay?”
“Not that kind of project.” Diana’s mouth curved into a grin. “More like… performance art.”
“Jesus,” Sue muttered. “Here we go.”
Diana explained it in pieces, because she liked watching Sue’s face go through phases of understanding.
By the time she got to “and now I’m at three,” Sue had put the pen down and was just staring at her, expression stuck somewhere between genuine horror and a laugh she was trying not to give into.
“Let me get this straight,” Sue said slowly, “You have a secret lesbian sex scoreboard in a random office inside our actual basketball facility.”
Diana opened her hands. “When you say it like that, it sounds tacky.”
“How else is it supposed to sound?” Sue demanded. “That’s, like, vandalism. And also—” she gestured vaguely “—morally questionable.”
“Might be good for team culture,” Diana offered. “Adds history”
Sue threw a pillow at her head “Oh my God.”
Diana batted it away, grinning. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I would ever…” Sue trailed off, shaking her head. Her ears were a little red. “You know they’re gonna tear that building down someday and some poor construction guy’s gonna be like ‘who the hell is DT and what was she counting?’”
“Legacy,” Diana said, smug.
Sue stared at her for another long moment, then covered her face with her hands.
“You’re impossible,” she said from behind her fingers. “You’re actually impossible.”
“You love me,” Diana said easily.
“Unfortunately,” Sue dropped her hands and pointed the pen at Diana like a weapon. “You’re never getting to five.”
Diana narrowed her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because this is karma, that’s why.” Sue leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. “The universe keeps a ledger, you think you’re just gonna hit five and walk away clean?”
“I will,” Diana said, unbothered. “I’m at three already. You’re graduating, what, in, like, five minutes? I still have time.”
Sue made a face but let it slide “I’m telling you, you’re gonna get stuck at four. The universe loves that shit.”
“You’re insane,” Diana said. “This is why you’re not fun at parties.”
“I am fun at parties,” Sue said. “I just don’t tag them into wood.”
Diana laughed. “You’re boring about it
“Yeah, I respect women,” Sue shot back.
Diana shrugged, leaning her head back against the mattress, looking up at the ceiling “Good. I’m going for five, though.”
Sue shook her head with the weary fondness of someone who had seen this girl trip over her own ego before.
“You’re gross,” she said. “And you’re never getting number five.”
Diana just smiled, because if there was one thing in the world she trusted more than her jump shot, it was her ability to bend the odds the way she wanted.
Three down, two to go.
4 — 2003 (the fourth)
The fourth one snuck up on her.
Not the girl, “Number Four” was obvious as hell. Blonde, sharp jawline, one of the women’s soccer players with calves that should’ve been illegal.
She’d been circling Diana in the periphery of parties and post-game hangouts for months, always close enough to catch her eye. What snuck up on her was the year.
2003 sounded like a fake date, somehow she’d become an upperclassman. Somehow, Sue was gone, the locker beside hers reassigned to a freshman.
Somehow, the beam had three lines on it instead of one.
They ended up in the room after the kind of win that technically counted but left everyone feeling like they’d lost anyway. Geno had yelled, of course, and practice had been worse.
Diana needed to get out of her own head.
So when the blonde had made some vague suggestion about “getting out of here” at the team house, Diana’s brain had supplied the route automatically.
Relief.
“You sure we’re allowed back here?” the girl asked, looking around with comically wide blue eyes. “This looks… official.”
“I’m an official person,” Diana said. “I’m, like, the mayor of this building.”
“You’re so annoying,” the girl said, but she was already stepping in, closing the door.
This one kissed like she played, aggressive, decisive. It was exactly what Diana wanted: no hesitancy to wade through, no, “Are you sure?” or, “Is this okay?”
Blondie knew the answers. They were written in the way Diana pulled her closer and the way the girl went willingly.
For a little while, the beam was just the thing at Diana’s back, the wood she hit her shoulder on when they stumbled.
Later, the girl tugged her top down, fixing her hair.
“You’re a menace, Taurasi,” she said, cheeks flushed, “You know that?”
“I’ve heard,” Diana said. “Is that a complaint or a compliment?”
The girl thought about it, then smirked. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
Diana watched her slip out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.
Then she turned back to the beam, and she picked up the box cutter.
Her hand didn’t even shake.
4 — 2003
“Almost there,” she murmured, to herself or to the beam or to the building that had held all of this without comment.
She pocketed the box cutter this time instead of putting it back.
5 — 2004
By the time Number Five walked into her life, Diana had started to believe her own myth.
Four girls who blurred together into a hazy montage of lip gloss and giggles and you’re insane whispered against her mouth.
Five was supposed to be the punchline, the victory lap.
And then she met the girl in the bookstore.
She didn’t look like the others.
She was standing in front of the film section when Diana noticed her. Brown skin, brown hair, curls half-tamed into a messy bun that kept threatening to fall apart. A faded UConn sweatshirt, sleeves shoved to her elbows, notebook tucked into the crook of her arm.
Her dimples flashed in and out as she read the back of a DVD case.
Diana hadn’t meant to stare. She just… did.
She realized she’d been standing in the same spot, holding some dumb Intro to Philosophy textbook, for a full minute before the girl glanced up and caught her.
Their eyes met.
Diana cleared her throat, looked down at the DVD in the girl’s hand. Italian Cinema: A Retrospective.
“Haven’t seen that one,” Diana said. “I’m more of a Remember the Titans girl myself.”
The girl raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Diana put a hand to her chest, mock offended. “You saying I don’t look cultured?”
The girl’s dimples dug in “Right. My mistake.”
The conversation rolled from there.
The girl mentioned liking messy women in movies; Diana replied that she knew a thing or two about messy women in real life. The girl snorted, and they traded names.
Her name was April, like the month.
When she walked out of the bookstore, Diana felt something strange: light and buzzy and not entirely under her control.
She muttered to herself. “Here we go.”
She saw April again a few days later, in the dining hall, then again at the library, then again outside some humanities building Diana had only ever entered by accident.
Every time, they had a quick exchange, a joke, an eye roll, dimples that stuck in Diana’s brain long after they’d walked in opposite directions.
“Who is that?” one of her teammates asked once, catching her watching the girl cross the quad.
“Nobody,” Diana said automatically. “She just haunts the campus.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Her name is April Walker,” Diane said finally, she knew her name.
She learned little things first.
That the girl liked studying in loud places because silence made her anxious, that she drank her coffee black and then added sugar packets until it basically wasn’t, and that she was taking some woman’s history theory class that made her roll her eyes even as she clearly loved it.
“You’d hate it,” she told Diana once, leaning against a lamppost outside the library. “Too many people using the word ‘discourse’”
“You think I know what discourse is?” Diana scoffed.
The girl shrugged, like it was obvious. “You’re good at what you do.”
Diana walked away from that conversation feeling lightheaded.
Nobody talked about her like that. They said: star, face of the program, Geno’s favorite headache.
Not… that.
She started looking for excuses to go where she thought the girl might be. It felt stupid, borderline embarrassing, but she did it anyway.
So if she happened to take the long way around to the gym to maybe pass the student union, that was between her and whatever god handled stupid gay crushes.
The crush part, she refused to admit out loud.
“Careful,” Morgan said one day when she caught her staring across a campus bench line, tracking brown curls in the distance. “You’re drooling.”
“Shut up,” Diana said, swatting her with the sleeve of her warmup jacket.
Morgan followed her gaze, hummed. “Oh. She’s cute.”
“Yeah,” Diana said, too fast. “Whatever.”
The night it finally happened, it wasn’t planned.
UConn had just won big, and someone threw a house party. Someone else texted her the address, and she showed up in jeans and a white tee under a denim jacket, trying very hard not to look like she’d put effort into her appearance.
April was there.
Of course she was there, her hair was down, curls framing her face, gold hoops glinting at her ears.
“Stalker,” the girl said when she saw her.
“Happy accident,” Diana countered
“Is this the only party on campus?” April asked.
Diana grinned. “I plead the fifth.”
They talked. It was easy with her.
When someone cranked the music up too loud and a crowd started dancing in the living room, the girl leaned in, close enough that Diana could smell her: something sharp, citrus maybe.
“Do you want to get out of here?” she said.
Diana’s heart lurched.
She knew exactly what “get out of here” meant.
She had a route already burned into her muscle memory: out the door, down the back streets, through the side entrance of the practice facility, past the trophy case, past the offices, down the hallway to the ugly door.
She could practically feel the box cutter in her hand.
“Yeah,” Diana said, without thinking. “I know a place.”
They walked together into the cool night air, and their shoulders brushed once, each touch lit up a different set of nerves.
“You sure you’re not just dragging me to watch game film?” the girl teased. “Because I swear to God, if you make me sit through a forty-minute—”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Diana said. “You’d be lucky to hear my analysis”
The banter carried them all the way to the side door of the facility.
The girl looked around, impressed despite herself. “You really are the mayor of this place.”
Diana said: “Welcome to my office”
She led her down the back corridor, and the air cooled, as Diana felt the walls closed in.
At the end of the corridor, the ugly door waited.
She stopped walking.
The girl nearly bumped into her. “What?” she joked softly. “Why’d you stop?”
“Just—” Diana swallowed.
Her eyes flicked to the door, then back to the girl. Brown eyes, wide and curious, her dimples just hovering.
Suddenly, the room on the other side of that door didn’t look like a tradition. It looked cheap.
Sue’s voice echoed in the back of her head: Respect women.
Diana’s fingers tightened around the strap of her jacket.
She could take this girl in there, she could get her five.
She could stand in front of that beam tomorrow morning, hungover and triumphant, running her thumb over the fresh grooves and thinking: I did it.
Or she could not.
For the first time in a long time, the second option felt more real.
The girl tilted her head. “You okay?”
“I, uh…” Diana dragged a hand over her face, huffed out a laugh. “This is going to sound insane.”
“Pretty on brand for you so far,” the girl said gently
Diana nodded toward the door. “I used to… bring girls in there.”
“Like… on a tour?” the girl asked, though her eyes said she already knew.
Diana snorted “Not like a tour.”
She took a breath, forced herself to keep going.
“There’s this beam in there,” she said. “First time I hooked up with someone here, I carved my initials into it. DT. And then I put a 1, and the year. Just being stupid, I guess”
She could hear how it sounded, like something sixteen-year-old boys brag about in locker rooms.
“And then I just… kept doing it,” Diana said. “Every time I brought someone back there, I’d put another number”
She met the girl’s eyes, suddenly needing her to see it all and somehow not hate her for it.
“I was gonna bring you in there,” she said quietly. “But I don’t… want to put you on a wall.”
The girl blinked.
“Do you know my last name?” she asked.
“Walker”
“That’s right,” the girl said, gently, “I’m not saying I don’t want to be with you,” the girl said finally. “But I don’t want to be a notch on… whatever that is.”
“A scoreboard,” Diana muttered.
She got a soft punch in the shoulder for that. “You see what I mean, though, right?”
“I do,” Diana said, and she did “I don’t want you to be a notch either.”
April's shoulders relaxed a little. “Good. Then take me somewhere else, Taurasi.”
Diana swallowed.
For a second, panic flared. The idea of bringing someone back to her actual space, made her stomach flip in a completely different way.
“Okay,” she said. “My dorm’s not far.”
“Do I get a tour there too?” the girl asked. “Or is that only for the administration wing?”
“You get the deluxe package,” Diana said
She reached for April's hand without thinking.
The girl let her take it, so they left the ugly door behind, untouched.
And Diana’s dorm room had never felt smaller.
She pushed the door open with her foot, suddenly hyper-aware of every dumb detail. The pile of practice gear in the corner that she’d meant to pick up, the half-empty bag of chips on her desk.
Sue’s old sticky note still stuck to the mirror: Don’t be gross.
She grabbed the chips and chucked them into the trash like that would fix anything.
“Wow,” April said, stepping inside, looking around. “You live in luxury.”
“Five-star,” Diana said, kicking her laundry pile under the bed.
April turned back to her.
“So,” she said. “No haunted sex room”
“Just this,” Diana echoed.
For once, she didn’t pin someone to a wall or make a crack about how honored they should be.
She stepped forward slowly, giving Aprill every chance to move or laugh or say she’d changed her mind, and they met in the middle of the room.
The first kiss was hesitant, their teeth clicked, and they both laughed into each other’s mouths.
“Hi,” April whispered.
“Hi,” Diana whispered back.
It was different, she’d kissed plenty of girls, this was slower.
They ended up on her bed, shoes kicked off, limbs twined together, and Diana found herself brushing the girl’s hair back from her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw, fingers lingering in the soft curls at the nape of her neck.
She’d never done that before, not with this kind of tenderness that made her chest ache.
“You’re staring,” the girl said, slightly breathless, blinking up at her.
“You’re pretty,” Diana said, blunt because there was no other way to say it “Like… stupid pretty.”
The dimples appeared again, full force this time.
Up close, they were devastating.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” the girl replied, voice gone soft around the edges.
Later — skin warm, breath slowing, the steady weight of another body pressed along hers — Diana realized something else.
So this is what they mean, she thought, watching the girl’s chest rise and fall, watching her lashes flutter as she drifted to sleep. This is what they mean when they say making love.
The phrase had always sounded corny to her, something people’s moms said in bad movies.
But lying there, gently untangling the curls at the back of the girl’s neck, feeling the phantom press of her mouth everywhere they’d touched, she couldn’t think of a better word.
“You okay?” the girl murmured, eyes half-open now, big and brown and honest.
“Yeah,” Diana said. Her voice came out quieter than she intended. “I’m… really good.”
The girl smiled, slow and real. “Good.”
Diana lay awake longer than she should have that night, watching her sleep, counting freckles, counting breaths.
April wasn’t a one-time thing, that was the part that really messed her up.
They had inside jokes, she started showing up at some of Diana’s games, sitting a few rows back, clapping politely when everyone else shouted themselves hoarse.
Afterward, they’d meet up in Diana’s room again.
Each time it happened there, it felt less like a hookup and more like something else she refused to name.
She caught herself memorizing things she had no use for.
The exact shape of the mole near the girl’s left collarbone, the cadence of her laugh when she was truly surprised, the way she got a little mean in a debate and then instantly softened, apologizing even when she was right.
You’re in trouble, a small, annoying voice inside her whispered. You’re so in trouble.
She ignored it.
One night, Diana got back to campus exhausted.
She found the girl sitting cross-legged on her bed, hair in a messy bun, wearing one of Diana’s UConn shirts that she absolutely had not been officially given.
Her big brown eyes softened when Diana walked in, and something in Diana’s chest clicked into place like a puzzle piece.
“Hey,” the girl said.
“Hey,” Diana replied.
That night was particularly soft, they took their time, laughing, kissing, pausing to talk about nothing.
Afterwards, the girl lay with her cheek on Diana’s chest, drawing idle shapes on her stomach with one finger.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“Miracles happen,” Diana answered, but it lacked its usual bite.
The girl tilted her head up, studying her. “What’s going on in there?” she asked, tapping lightly on her forehead.
“Illegal stuff,” Diana said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m serious,” she insisted. “You look like you’re thinking hard.”
Diana exhaled, long and slow. “I just… like this.”
“This?” The girl’s lips twitched.
“Yeah,” Diana said. She swallowed. “Sharing a bed with you.”
The girl’s fingers paused on her skin. Then started again, tracing a little heart near her hipbone.
“Careful, Taurasi,” she murmured. “You’ll make me think you have feelings.”
Diana’s mouth moved before she could stop it.
“Maybe I do,” she said.
The girl froze for half a second, and then laughed.
“Don’t say that,” she said.
“Why not?” Diana asked lightly, even as something in her stomach dropped. “You’re allergic?”
“I just…” The girl sat up, adjusting the shirt, suddenly not quite meeting her eyes. “It’s… we’re having fun. Right?”
“Yeah,” Diana said quickly. “Yeah. Of course.”
April nodded, hair falling into her face as she looked down. “Okay. Good. I don’t want to… make it a thing.”
She swallowed the words, and she swallowed the feeling.
The end came, finally, in the hallway outside the library where they used to “accidentally” run into each other.
“Hey,” Diana called, jogging a few steps to catch up. “You’ve been…” She gestured vaguely “Gone”
April stopped, shoulders stiff “I’ve been busy,” she said.
“With him?” Diana didn’t mean for it to sound bitter, but it came out that way anyway.
A flicker of guilt crossed the girl’s face “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Diana demanded “Use my eyes? I saw you”
“It’s not your business,” she said, “What I do.”
Diana swallowed, hard “You were my business when you were in my bed.”
“That’s exactly it,” she replied, voice tightening. “It was… it was a moment, okay? We were in a moment.”
A moment. Diana felt the word slice through her.
“A moment,” she repeated, slowly. “I didn’t realize moments lasted months now. Must’ve missed that memo.”
The girl winced. “Don’t make it like that.”
“How am I supposed to make it?” Diana asked. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought, but it wasn’t that I was some… experiment for you”
The guilt sharpened “That’s not fair”
“Isn’t it?” Diana shot back. “You disappear, you start hanging off some guy”
The girl’s eyes flashed. “What do you want me to say, Diana? That I’m gay now? I’m younger than you. I’m still figuring shit out. I got confused. You… confused me.”
“I’m very confusing,” Diana said, laughter scraping at her throat.
April broke off, exhaled “I was trying something. With you. I liked it. I liked you. But I… I don’t think I’m like you.”
“Like me how?” Diana asked, even though she already knew.
“I can’t be what you want. I can’t be your… big love story or whatever. I’m not there.”
There it was.
“So that’s it?” she asked, forcing her voice to stay steady. “We just… forget it?”
“I don’t expect you to forget,” the girl said quietly. “I just need you to… let me go.”
Diana watched April walk away, toward the guy waiting by the steps, who put a hand on her back like it was the easiest thing in the world, and for him it was.
Diana stood there until her legs felt like they might give out.
Technically, April counted. More than any of the others ever had, they’d been in her room, in her life, in her head. If anyone deserved a line in this stupid record, it was her.
It felt wrong.
Carving her felt like reducing everything they’d just been to a tally.
“Nope,” she muttered. “You don’t get her.”
The beam stayed as it was, a monument, yes, but not to conquest anymore. To something else, to a version of herself she’d outgrown.
On the way to the dorm, she tossed the old box cutter into the trash.
Diana’s great love story didn’t look anything like that girl in the dorm bed.
It was a blonde, older than her, with sharp elbows and softer hands, who’d already lived a whole life by the time they collided.
Penny had a ring on her finger and a husband at home when they met, a whole straight future sketched out in front of her, and still, somehow, they rewrote the script.
It was messy, complicated, and grown. This was the love that didn’t leave her in a hallway saying “it was just a moment”. This was the one that stayed.
But the human brain is rude, and patterns don’t disappear just because you’ve healed from them.
So the first time she saw Azzi Fudd — on a screen, on a court, all brown eyes and dimples — Diana felt a little jolt she thought she’d outgrown.
“Jesus,” she muttered to herself, watching the kid hit a three like it was nothing. “Trouble.”
She recognized the trouble in Azzi’s eyes. She just knew, with a kind of tired, fond certainty, that this time, the trouble was meant for someone else.
PAIGE (2024)
Paige had always known Diana Taurasi had been a menace, but she hadn’t expected proof of it in the form of a wall.
They were at one of those off-season events. There were cameras, forced laughter, an interviewer who kept calling her “kiddo” in a way that made her want to dunk on his ass, and Sue and Diana sitting on either side of her like the angel and devil of women’s basketball.
Diana was in full relaxed mode: hair up, half-zip, chains, looking like she’d slept twelve minutes and liked it that way.
Sue was in a blazer, because of course she was, expression hovering between amused and babysitting DT.
Eventually they got a quiet-ish moment in one of those side lounges, and Sue was talking about some old UConn story, something about J.J almost missing a bus, and Diana threw her head back laughing.
It was all normal conversation, and then Paige’s brain, which had been politely minding its business, decided to open one specific tab.
The wall.
So, casually, like she was commenting on the weather, Paige took a sip of soda and said:
“Hey, this is random, but — did you ever have a storage room with, like, carvings on the wall in Storrs?”
Sue’s eyebrows lifted, and Diana’s entire face changed.
“What kind of carvings?” Diana asked, too fast.
Paige shrugged, trying to play it off “I don’t know. Just… initials? Marks? There was this wall in an old equipment room. Had DT on it, some tally marks, a few dates. Looked like—”
Sue started laughing first, not the usual polite chuckle, but a full body, head thrown back, hand to her stomach.
Diana swatted at Sue’s knee “You’re such a snitch,” Diana muttered.
Paige stared between them. “Okay, what”
Sue had to wipe her eyes. “Oh my God, I forgot about that.”
“You forgot?” Diana turned toward her, offended
“That was filth,” Sue corrected.
Paige didn’t know what she was expecting, “What,” she said, putting the soda down carefully, “was the wall?”
Diana sighed like someone who’d just been asked about a crime: “There was no wall,” she lied, badly.
“There was definitely a wall,” Sue said. “With a very specific purpose.”
“Oh my God,” Paige said. “Okay, someone talk”
Sue shifted in her seat, folding one leg over the other, still smiling. “Okay, so. Back when we were at UConn, before Paige was even born—”
“Relax, Grandma,” Diana said.
“—there was this storage room in the back of Gampel. For some reason, people just… gravitated there.”
“For some reason,” Paige echoed, deadpan.
Diana raised her hand “In my defense, it was well located.”
Sue rolled her eyes “And certain people decided it would be fun to keep a… scoreboard.”
Paige already hated where this was going.
“A scoreboard,” she repeated.
Diana met her eyes, and the grin fully appeared now, unapologetic “Not for basketball.”
Sue pressed her lips together, like she was trying to hold back more laughter.
“DT,” she said, “decided she was going to mark every time she—”
“Exchanged services,” Diana cut in.
Paige raised both hands “You cannot call it that. I’m begging you.”
“—hooked up with someone in that room,” Sue finished smoothly. “One mark per girl.”
“That’s disgusting,” Paige said, but it came out half-laugh. “You’re foul.”
Sue nodded. “Thank you.”
“It’s so on-brand I can’t even judge you,” Paige added, which was unfortunately also true.
“I wasn’t the only one,” Diana protested. “People have done worse things on that campus”
Paige thought of the marks she’d seen: four little lines “There were four tally marks,” she said slowly “And a bunch of dates.”
Diana’s grin went crooked. “Yeah. I wanted five, I never got the fifth one.”
Paige frowned “What happened?”
Diana opened her mouth, then closed it again, eyes going distant for half a second.
Whatever she was seeing, it wasn’t this lounge, and Sue’s expression softened almost imperceptibly, watching her.
“That one’s a long story,” Diana said finally. “The girl was trouble.”
“Weren’t they all?” Paige asked.
“This one was special trouble.” Diana ran a thumb along her cup “Younger than me, which already should’ve been a red flag. Thought I was hot shit, thought I was going to be her great awakening or something.” Diana shook her head, huffing out a laugh “I fell so fucking hard I forgot the scoreboard existed”
“And?” Paige asked.
“And she broke my heart,” Diana said simply. “Got a boyfriend. Called it a phase. Stopped talking to me”
Paige winced.
“After that, I swore off brunettes, swore off dimples,” Diana went on “Didn’t take anyone else to that fucking room”
“And then you met Penny,” Sue said, nudging her.
The sharpness faded out of Diana’s eyes, replaced with something warm. “And then I met Penny,” she agreed. “Absolutely not my ‘type’ if you asked my college self. Turned out to be my whole life.”
“So your actual love story didn’t even happen on campus,” Paige said.
“No,” Diana said “Just practice runs.”
She said it lightly, but it landed heavy in Paige’s brain.
Paige filed it away, half as a cautionary tale, half as a challenge she couldn’t name yet.
“Why?” Sue asked, turning to her, eyes sharp. “Why were you in that room, anyway?”
Paige took a sip of soda, suddenly very interested in the wall opposite them. “No reason”
Sue arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
Diana pounced. “Oh, you’ve definitely done something in there.”
“I didn’t — we didn’t— it’s just a room, bro” Paige stammered.
Sue laughed “She’s lying.”
“I’m not lying,” Paige lied, forcing her face blank “Anyway,” she said, desperate to change the subject, “that room should be condemned”
Diana snorted. “You’ll survive, kid. You UConn ones always do.”
Paige nodded, letting the conversation move on.
PAIGE (2025)
They won the natty in Florida, under a rain of confetti and LED lights.
Paige thought it was the ugliest arena she’d ever played in, which somehow made winning there even better.
She barely slept, and at some point, Azzi had crawled into her bed in the dark, muttered “you’re disgusting” into her shoulder in the most affectionate way possible, and passed out.
The next day, they flew back to Connecticut.
The campus greeted them like some kind of conquering army, the official celebration was already being planned.
The unofficial one was scheduled for that night.
Everyone except Paige, who was suddenly aware that her time here had a countdown on it now.
Azzi’s hair was up, no makeup, legs bare under big shorts, absolutely devastating without even trying.
“Hey,” Paige said, jogging a few steps toward her “Come drive with me.”
Azzi lifted her head, one eyebrow already raised. “We have, like, two hours before the party”
“I know,” Paige said. “I want to see campus one more time. With you.”
Azzi’s face shifted, the teasing easing into something softer “Okay,” she said immediately. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
They didn’t even go far, at first.
Past the practice facility, where Paige could almost hear Geno yelling, past the dining hall, past the dorm where she once realized how much she missed home.
Paige drove one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the console so Azzi could play with her fingers.
“It looks smaller,” Paige said quietly.
“What does?” Azzi asked.
“Everything.” Paige nodded toward the buildings. “My first week here, it felt like a movie set. Now…” She shrugged. “Now it’s just a place. I know where all the ice machines are”
Azzi smiled. “That’s kind of beautiful, though”
She kept driving, letting muscle memory take over.
And, God, she didn’t aim for it. Not consciously.
She just took a left where she always took a left after late practices, then cut down the side road, then pulled into the back lot behind the practice gym.
It wasn’t until she turned the engine off that she realized where they were.
Gampel’s back entrance, and to the right: the side door that led, eventually, down the hallway to that forgotten equipment room.
The hairs on Paige’s arms rose.
Azzi looked up from their joined hands, following her gaze “You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Paige said “There’s something I want to show you. Or, like, tell you.”
Azzi narrowed her eyes, amused. “You’re being creepy.”
They stepped out of the car into the cool evening, but she didn’t go inside yet. Instead, she started walking along the side of the building, Azzi matching her pace.
“Do you remember I told you about that event I did with Sue and Diana?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Azzi said. “You came back insufferable for two days.”
“I was not insufferable.”
“You called Diana on FaceTime in front of me like four times,” Azzi reminded her.
Paige made a face. “Okay, fair. Anyway, they told me a story. Really a Diana story. About that storage we found last year in Gampel.”
Azzi tilted her head. “I hate where this is going already.”
Paige said. “Apparently D took girls there, and she—” Paige grimaced, feeling secondhand embarrassment just repeating it “She carved a sex scoreboard on the wall.”
Azzi stopped walking “A what?” she demanded.
“A scoreboard,” Paige said, trying not to laugh. “One mark for each girl she hooked up with in that room.”
Azzi’s mouth dropped open, then curled in pure disbelief. “That is so gross,” she said.
“I know,” Paige said. “I told her she was foul. Sue agreed.”
They started walking again.
“There were four marks,” Paige went on. “And she said there was supposed to be a fifth one. Diana thought she was going to be the big one, you know? The girl. And instead, she broke her heart. Got a boyfriend, called it a phase, and didn't talk to her again.”
Azzi winced. “Poor D.”
“Yeah,” Paige said softly. “Never finished the wall.”
Azzi was quiet for a moment “So she never got her fifth mark,” she said.
“No,” Paige said. “She got Penny instead.”
“She was, like, the sixth,” Azzi mused.
“Don’t call Penny the sixth,” Paige said automatically.
Azzi laughed. “I’m just saying. It’s a good story. Just… unfinished.” She glanced up at the building. “It’s sad”
“You want closure for Diana’s horny wall?” Paige asked, incredulous. “That’s where your empathy goes?”
Azzi shrugged, smiling.
“I mean…” Paige cleared her throat. “Technically, there is a number five now.”
Azzi looked at her, eyes narrowing “What are you trying to say, Paige.”
“I’m not saying anything,” Paige lied badly. “I’m just stating facts. I’m number five.”
“What?” Azzi asked, laughing.
Paige said. “Everyone calls me the new generation of her. So like…”
Azzi rolled her eyes “Wow, the ego is loud today”
“But,” Paige added, more carefully now, “I’m not keeping score of the girls I hook up with. I have one, and she’s… kind of a lot.” her thumb brushed the back of Azzi’s hand.
Azzi’s smile softened “So what?” she said. “You want me to go in there and put my name on the board like I’m some notch on DT’s sexpost?”
“No,” Paige said instantly. “God, no. I would never— that’s not—”
Azzi laughed, saving her “I know, P. I’m messing with you.”
“But,” Paige went on, “I do kind of love the idea of stealing the ending of that thing. Just…” she shrugged, suddenly shy “Us being the love on campus, she didn’t get to have.”
“You’re trying to convince me to hook up in a closet,” Azzi said.
Paige grinned “Is it working?”
Azzi opened her mouth to say absolutely not, that it was unsanitary, then she realized where her feet had taken them.
They were standing by the side entrance.
Azzi stared at the door, then back at her. “Bro,” she said slowly. “Did you drive us here on purpose?”
“No,” Paige protested. “We were talking about it, and my hands just… happened to steer this way.”
“So it was premeditated,” Azzi said.
“Spontaneously premeditated,” Paige corrected
Azzi looked at the building again, then at Paige, then sighed “You know what?” she said. “Fine.”
She let go of Paige’s hand and started toward the door.
Paige blinked. “Wait, what does ‘fine’ mean?”
Azzi didn’t look back. “Come on, Bueckers.”
They slipped into the building like they’d done a hundred times before, the air changing immediately, past the locker rooms, past the trainer’s office, down the back corridor nobody used unless they had to.
The storage room was exactly where Paige remembered.
She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the way Azzi’s breathing sounded beside her.
“You know we have actual beds,” Azzi said softly behind her
“We can still use the bed,” Paige replied. “This is for…character building"
Azzi huffed a laugh.
Paige pushed the door open.
And the wall. DT was still there, carved near shoulder height. Underneath: four short marks, clustered together, more permanent than they had any right to be.
Azzi stared for a long moment, arms folded over her chest. “It’s so gross,” she said eventually, then, quieter: “It’s kind of sad, too.”
Paige came up beside her, shoulders almost touching.
“Come here,” she said.
She’d never heard Diana say it, didn’t know that once upon a time, in this same room, those exact words had been a line.
All she knew was that Azzi turned immediately, stepping into her space like it was the most natural thing in the world, and for them it was.
Azzi’s hands slid up to Paige’s jaw, thumbs warm against her skin. Paige’s fingers hooked in the hem of Azzi’s hoodie.
Azzi’s back bumped the wall gently, and she laughed against Paige’s mouth. “Ow,” she muttered, smiling.
“Sorry,” Paige whispered, then kissed her again just to hear her laugh into it one more time.
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, Paige pulled back just enough to look at her properly.
Hair slightly frizzy from the humidity, lips swollen, dimples deep as she tried not to grin too hard. Her brown skin glowed even in this ugly light.
Paige’s chest ached.
“You’re perfect,” she said, before she could stop herself.
Azzi rolled her eyes, blushing. “Gross place for you to say that.”
“I’m glad you’re my only score on this board,” Paige went on, voice softer “Out of all the girls who ever touched this wall, you’re the only one that actually matters.”
Azzi’s smile faltered more “I don’t want to be a score,” she said quietly
“You’re not,” Paige said, immediate and sure “You’re the ending.”
They kissed again, slower now, until the need to breathe and the faint awareness of time forced them to stop.
Paige scanned the room. In the corner, on top of a crate, lay a small, battered multitool.
She grabbed it before she could talk herself out of it “It’s for closure,” Paige said.
“You’re copying Diana,” Azzi accused.
“I’m editing Diana,” Paige corrected.
She stepped back to the wall.
Up close, the wood looked even rougher, DT was carved with unnecessary force.
Paige flipped the small knife open. Her hand trembled just a little.
“Last chance to tell me this is deranged,” Paige said.
Azzi crossed her arms, watching with a strangely fond expression. “It is deranged,” she said. “Go ahead.”
Paige chose a spot just beneath the four old marks, close enough to feel connected, far enough to feel like its own thing.
She pressed the point into the wall and carved the number carefully:
5 - 2025
The line of the dash was a little crooked, the 2 in 2025 slightly too big, but it was legible.
Azzi stepped closer, reading. “You really wrote the year,” she said, half laughing, half choked “You’re such a dork.”
Paige swallowed, and above the new mark, right next to DT, she carefully carved two more letters.
PB
She stepped back, eyes scanning it: the old initials, the four old lines, the new number with its date
“Okay,” she said. “Your turn.”
Azzi blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You said you wanted closure,” Paige said, holding the tool out to her “Put your initials.”
Azzi recoiled like it was a spider “Absolutely not. I’m not putting ‘AF’ next to ‘DT’ in a sex dungeon”
“It’s not a sex dungeon,” Paige protested.
Azzi stared blankly at her.
“Fine,” Paige relented, laughing
Azzi hesitated, biting her lip, “It doesn’t make me feel like a tally,” she admitted, voice low. “If it was anybody else, it would”
Paige’s chest felt a million little butterflies at that.
“There,” Paige said, flipping the knife closed. “Now it’s official”
Azzi stepped beside her, shoulder brushing hers.
“It’s kind of ugly,” Azzi said.
“It’s hideous,” Paige agreed. “I love it.”
Azzi laughed.
On her way out, Paige paused and, almost as an afterthought, added one more tiny mark.
Not on the main cluster, but up above, beside DT. Just a small plus sign between their initials.
DT + PB
“There,” she said.
Azzi watched her, head tilted. “You really like being part of the lineage, huh.”
“Somebody has to keep the brand strong,” Paige said.
Azzi shook her head, smiling.
PAIGE (Late 2025)
Paige found herself on another set, another studio, another “past meets present” segment.
This time it was just her and Diana playing golf.
Paige nailed her lines, made Diana laugh twice, refrained from swearing on camera. Overall, a success.
“Hey,” Paige said quietly. “I did something, and you can’t yell at me.”
“That’s an insane way to start a sentence,” Diana said.
“It’s about the wall,” Paige blurted.
Diana froze. “What did you do to my wall.”
“Your wall,” Paige repeated. “Relax. I upgraded it.”
Diana’s eyes narrowed, “Explain.”
Paige picked at the edge of her chair. “After we won the natty,” she started, “Azzi and I came back to campus. I took her for a drive, we ended up back at Gampel, one thing led to another… we went to the room.”
Diana groaned, delighted “You corrupted my wall?.”
“It was already corrupted,” Paige said. “You did that. I just added a little something.”
She took a breath. “Azzi said she felt bad for the wall. Like it needed closure.”
“Dimples would say that,” Diana said
“Anyway,” Paige went on, “I carved something.”
Diana’s stare sharpened. “You touched the wall.”
“I touched the wall,” Paige confirmed. “I put a five. And ‘2025’. And I changed your ‘DT’ to ‘DT plus PB’ at the top”
Diana was silent.
Paige worried she’d actually crossed some weird, invisible line, then Diana started laughing.
“You little freak,” she said, grinning. “You really went in there and finished my scoreboard for me.”
“She wanted to give you a happy ending,” Paige said, trying not to smile too hard “I told her, actually… that she kind of looks like your almost-Number-Five.”
Diana’s eyebrows shot up. “Brown hair, brown skin, dimples,” she recited. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“But she’s not trouble,” Paige said, reflexive, protective. “She’s—”
“She’s trouble for everyone else,” Diana cut in. “Not for you”
Paige blinked. “I don’t like that you’re weirdly poetic about my girlfriend.”
“I like her,” Diana said simply. “Dimples scare the shit out of me, but she likes you for some reason, so I’ll allow it.”
Paige’s mouth twitched.
“So what now?” Diana asked. “The great saga of the wall is over.”
“Yaehn” Paige repeated.
Diana said. “In reality, four was already too many”
Paige laughed. “Do you ever think about what happens if some player, ten years from now, finds that wall? Like some little guard with a headband and attitude, poking around where she’s not supposed to?”
“All the time,” Diana said, immediately. “I hope she has good taste”
“What are you going to tell her?” Paige asked. “‘Oh yeah, that’s my sex scoreboard”
Diana grinned, sharp. “I’ll tell the truth,” she said. “That I was an idiot. That I met the right person later and married her, and that some other idiot decided to carve that into the same wall.”
Paige relaxed a little.
“And then? Then I’m going to lie,” Diana added.
Paige groaned. “Of course you are.”
“I’m going to tell her the goal was ten,” Diana said.
“So someone else tries to finish up your scoreboard?"
Diana smirked. “Our scoreboard, Bueckers. And…yes. The legend has to live on”
Paige laughed hard, then eventually settled into her chair.
If, years from now, some other girl wandered in and ran her fingers over the marks, Paige would tell her the truth, though.
The story had started as a scoreboard, and it ended as a love story.
Words: 7k
Tags: Slice-of-life / Azzi Fudd Deserves the World / Paige Bueckers Can’t Say No To Her / Family
Summary:
Four moments in which Paige Bueckers can't say "no" to Azzi Fudd, and One where she realizes she only wants to say "yes"
Notes: Happy Azzi Day
(2019) — The Princess doesn’t have to watch sports
Paige swore the remote had a personality, and it kept vanishing into Azzi’s duvet like it had a moral objection to ESPN.
Every time she rescued it from the sea of throw pillows and knitted blankets (how did one person have this many textures in a dorm room?), it disappeared beneath an aggressively soft lavender pillow.
Paige, sprawled on her stomach across the foot of Azzi’s bed, kicked her heels and narrated the TV guide like she was calling a game. “And up next in the Paige Bueckers ‘Culture Your Girlfriend’ agenda… the NBA 2016 Finals”
“I don’t want to watch men sweat,” Azzi said, without looking up.
She was sitting cross-legged, laptop open, Disney+ blue reflecting in her eyes “I want to watch Hannah say she’s just like a normal girl, but not really, because she is secretly brunette"
“Bro, you'd rather watch Disney than the NBA” Paige countered, rolling onto her back. “Also, Game 7 in 2016 is so fucking good, it should be restriced by age”
Azzi blinked, unimpressed. “My mom won’t let me watch Pretty Little Liars”
“Your mom loves me,” Paige said, sitting up and fluffing a pillow, entirely too proud of the fact. “If I told Mrs. Fudd that you needed to learn about pick-and-roll coverage, she’d hand me the remote.”
Azzi’s mouth tugged into a smile she was trying and failing to hide.
She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and stirred the laptop trackpad with a finger. “You know what I think you are? Loud.” She shot Paige a lazy look. “Loud and very pretty”
“Guilty,” Paige said, because, well, yes “But also, a visionary. You don’t watch sports.”
“I play sports,” Azzi said. “That’s more than enough sports. After practice, my brain only contains Disney Channel” Her voice softened. “And a nap. A nap would be so good.”
Paige tried to ignore the part of her that was obsessed with how Azzi said nap like they could do it together.
The blonde gestured at the TV. “If you watch Kyrie hit that three, your handle gets three percent tighter.”
“My handle is already perfect,” Azzi said, with a prim little tilt of her chin that set Paige on fire “What are you going to improve? My defense against Miley’s double life?”
“Exactly,” Paige said. “How are you supposed to guard against deceit in this world if you won’t watch the Warriors blow—”
“Stop,” Azzi said, and there it was: the beginning of it. The tiny downturn of her mouth, the bright, wounded puppy-look “I’m serious. I don’t want to watch that. I don’t want to watch sports right now.”
Paige opened her mouth to argue, because she genuinely believed in the formative power of a well-timed highlight reel, and because teasing Azzi until she got mock-mad was one of Paige’s top five hobbies.
But Azzi’s fingers went still on the trackpad and she looked up through her lashes, not coy, just tired “Can we just watch something easy?” she asked, quiet.
Paige’s reply dissolved in her throat.
She didn’t like the feeling of losing the miniature debate in her head, but she liked less the faint shine building in Azzi’s eyes.
Paige’s bravado flipped, and her impulse to fix things kicked in so hard her chest ached.
“Okay,” she said, softer. “Okay” She flopped onto her side like she’d been shot by mercy. “Put on Miss Montana”
Azzi blinked, surprised by the quick surrender. “Really?”
Paige scooted closer, until their knees touched. “But I need to be transparent about the emotional manipulation you’re doing.” She poked Azzi’s lower lip “This is a weapon”
Azzi tried — tried so hard — not to smile. She failed; the dimples appeared “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing things, bro,” Paige said, “You are pouting”
“It’s my face,” Azzi protested.
“Your face is illegal, mama” Paige said “Turn yourself in.”
Azzi’s laugh came out sheepish, which Paige adored in an embarrassing way. Azzi slid the laptop toward Paige, who took it with a sigh.
On the TV, Disney+ bloomed and Hannah Montana’s theme glittered into the room and turned Azzi’s posture into something loose and twelve again.
Paige didn’t want to like it. She liked it. It was bright and stupid and unthreatening and it made Azzi’s shoulders settle.
“You can lean on me,” Paige said suddenly
Azzi looked at her, eyes big in a way that made Paige straighten her back on instinct. “Okay,” she said, then tipped, slow and deliberate, until her head found Paige’s shoulder.
It should have been awkward. It wasn’t. Paige felt the shape of Azzi’s cheek against her, the light vanilla of her conditioner.
She wanted to make a joke to earn the moment, to prove she could still be funny, but the laugh that came out was small.
“Fine,” Paige whispered, as the theme song chirped about living the best of both worlds. “But —”
“Shh,” Azzi said, “Miley’s speaking.”
Paige shut up and watched the show. She pretended not to notice that, halfway through the episode, Azzi’s hand found the hem of Paige’s sleeve and held it.
. She pretended she wasn’t already lost.
The remote, a traitor to the cause, stayed perfectly still on Azzi’s blanket, exactly where Azzi wanted it.
Of course it did.
By episode three, Paige had developed opinions.
She’d also developed a relationship with a bowl of microwave popcorn that Azzi had brought.
“Okay,” Paige said, mouth full “I don’t fuck with Hanna”
Azzi, sprawled now with her feet in Paige’s lap “Why?”
“She’s messy,” Paige said
“You’re just jealous,” Azzi said, toeing Paige’s thigh. “You wish you had a wig and a secret.”
“I do have a secret,” Paige said, wiggling her brows. “I’m secretly—” she lowered her voice “—humble.”
Azzi snorted and Paige feel like she’d scored. “You’re not humble”
“Wow,” Paige said, laying a hand over her heart. “In my own home?”
“This is my room,” Azzi said.
“And I feel very at home,” Paige returned, and then realized she meant it in a way that made the air weird, to cover it, she pointed at the screen. “So we agree Lilly is the point guard of this trio.”
Azzi pretended to consider it, curls haloing out over the pillow “Yes,” Azzi said. “Lilly directs. Miley finishes. Oliver… rebounds?”
“Oliver talks trash,” Paige said. “He’s your dad.”
Azzi laughed so hard she had to put the bowl down. “Do not compare my father to Oliver.”
“Too late,” Paige said.
They drifted in that soft, stupid way for a while.
During a commercial bumper, Paige found herself watching Azzi instead of the screen.
Azzi’s lashes were ridiculous, and there was a tiny dent in her left cheek that made her face younger.
“This isn’t about the game, is it,” Paige said, before she could stop herself.
Azzi blinked. “What?”
“You not wanting to watch,” Paige said, more careful now. “It’s about… not wanting your brain to be in sports for one second.”
Azzi tilted her face away “I just wanted to be normal for an hour,” she said. “I wanted to watch something stupid. I didn’t want to think about being good.”
Paige wanted to say a hundred competing things, she picked the one that felt simplest.
“Okay,” she said. “Then we’ll not think together.”
They finished the episode.
“Paige?” Azzi said, almost shy.
“Yeah?” Paige’s voice came out a bit too bright.
“Next time we can watch your thing,” Azzi murmured.
Paige swallowed down a grin “I’ll hold you to that,” she said
“Also,” Azzi added, dropping their hands back “don’t argue with me when I pout. You always lose.”
Paige scoffed, scandalized for form. “Excuse me. I am a competitor, bro”
“Against everyone but me,” Azzi said, and her smile was big.
Paige stared for a beat, then put her forehead to Azzi’s shoulder and muttered into her sweatshirt, “Yeah, okay”
Later, when Paige paused at the door, one hand on the frame, another tugging her hoodie straight. Azzi was propped against the headboard, hair messy, mouth pink from kissing and laughing.
“Hey,” Paige said, because she needed one more line “For the record? This was… better than the 2016 Finals.”
Azzi’s eyes softened “You’re lying.”
“I’m lying a little,” Paige admitted, shoulders lifting. “But between you and Bron, it’s close.”
“Go,” Azzi said, trying to hide the way that made her smile misbehave.
(2023) — The Princess doesn’t have to be okay
Hospitals had a smell that Paige could never quite describe.
It was colder than antiseptic, and Paige hated it. The air always seemed too still, like grief had been scrubbed in the walls.
Azzi’s leg was propped up on a pillow, her brace still shiny and new, an ironic little gift bag of post-surgery flowers from Coach Auriemma sitting on the table beside her (“Get well soon, kiddo, before I start losing money on you.”).
It would’ve been funny if she wasn’t so sure he meant it.
Azzi lay half-sitting, half-slumped against the white pillows, her hair flattened on one side where the hospital cap had been, IV line taped to her hand.
Everyone had left already: the trainers, the doctors, her parents.
Tim had cried — quietly, quickly — before promising to be right outside. Paige had stayed seated in that stupid chair through it all, hands clenched, pretending she wasn’t freaking out.
Now it was just the two of them.
Azzi had said maybe ten words since the anesthesia wore off, and half of them were “I’m fine”
“You look bad” Paige said softly, breaking the silence. “Pretty, but bad”
Azzi didn’t laugh, she didn’t even look up.
The ice wrapped around her knee was already melting, a wet ring staining the hospital blanket.
Paige stood and adjusted it for her, too gently, because she didn’t trust her own hands not to shake.
“You don’t have to do that,” Azzi murmured.
“Yeah, I do,” Paige said, not looking at her “It makes me feel useful.”
Azzi’s voice cracked “You’re not supposed to be the one taking care of me.”
Paige finally looked at her. “Why not?”
“Because it’s me,” Azzi said, frustrated. “I’m supposed to be the one who’s fine.”
That word again: Fine.
“You don’t have to be fine right now,” Paige said softly. “You tore your ACL”
Azzi’s jaw tightened, and Paige could see the shine of tears she was trying to blink away.
She looked small in that bed, impossibly young, like all the light had been dimmed inside her.
“I can’t do this again,” Azzi whispered, the words barely audible. “I don’t know if I can go through all of it again”
Paige sat on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to think about all of it right now.”
“But it’s already here,” Azzi said, her voice breaking open. “It’s already in my head.” She swallowed hard. “People are gonna think I’m—.”
Paige didn’t even realize she was moving until she was already pulling Azzi into her arms. The IV line tugged, the monitor beeped a warning, but she didn’t care. She just wrapped her arms around her and held on, hard enough to make her feel real.
Azzi trembled against her, a tiny, broken sound escaping her throat, a noise Paige had never heard from her before.
“Oh, baby,” Paige whispered into her hair. “Don’t cry. You’re killing me.”
Azzi’s fingers fisted in Paige’s sweatshirt. “I’m so tired.”
“I know,” Paige said.
“I did everything right,” Azzi whispered, the words shuddering. “I did everything they told me to do last time. And it still happened.”
Paige felt a sharp, helpless kind of anger in her chest — at fate, at bad luck, at whatever cruel god kept testing this girl. “It’s not your fault,” she said, fierce.
“I don’t know” Azzi said, shaking her head. “I keep thinking maybe my body’s just… not made for this.”
Paige’s throat closed.
She wanted to scream at the ceiling, but instead, she just pressed her forehead to Azzi’s and said, quietly:
“Hey. You don’t have to be made for it. You’re not just a player. You’re—” Paige’s voice cracked. “You’re you.”
Azzi blinked, confused. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Paige said, swallowing hard, “that if basketball disappeared tomorrow, if your knee never healed, if you never stepped on a court again, You’d still be right here. I’d still love you. Exactly like this.”
Azzi’s breath hitched “You don’t mean that.”
Paige looked at her like it was the simplest truth in the world. “What? I do”
And that was it, the breaking point. Azzi burst into tears, real, ugly sobs that shook her entire body.
Paige felt them through her chest and cried, too, because she couldn’t help it.
For a long time, there was nothing else, just the sound of Azzi’s crying, and Paige whispering her name.
Eventually, Azzi quieted though her breathing was still uneven, her face buried in Paige’s shoulder.
Paige kept her arms around her, rubbing small circles into her back. She felt the damp patch of tears spreading against her hoodie.
“Sorry,” Azzi whispered, voice hoarse.
“For what?”
“For falling apart.”
Paige tilted her chin up gently. “Hey. You’re allowed to. You’ve been holding it together for months. Let someone else do it for a while.”
Azzi sniffled, her eyes red. “You?”
“Me,” Paige said. “Forever, if you want.”
Azzi let out a shaky breath, then leaned her forehead against Paige’s again, eyes closing. “I hate that you’re so good at this,” she whispered.
Paige laughed. “It’s natural when it’s you.”
Paige sat cross-legged at the foot of Azzi’s bed, chin propped in her hand “You know,” she said, “if you want, I can sneak you out. We’ll make a run for it. I’ll carry you.”
Azzi groaned. “You’d trip”
“I would,” Paige agreed.
A tiny smile, progress.
Then Azzi shifted, grimacing as the brace tugged at her leg, and Paige was immediately on her feet. “Hey, hey. Don’t move too fast.”
“I’m fine,” Azzi muttered, then winced again.
Paige frowned. “Don’t say fine. I hate that word.”
Azzi glanced at her. “Why?”
“Because it’s a lie,” Paige said.
Azzi looked away. “I’m fine.”
“Bro,” Paige said softly. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
For a while, the only sound was the hum of the heater.
“I’m scared,” she said finally, barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that I don’t know who I am without basketball.”
Paige’s chest hurt. “You’re Azzi,” she said. “You’re the prettiest, most stubborn, most dramatic human being I know.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is to me.”
Azzi swallowed “And you really mean that?”
Paige smiled, “You could never touch a basketball again and I’d still look at you like this.”
Azzi blinked, her expression softening. “Like what?”
Paige hesitated. “Like I can’t breathe unless you’re okay.”
Azzi’s lips parted, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Azzi said, voice trembling: “You shouldn’t love me like that.”
“Too late,” Paige said simply.
Azzi laughed weakly, pressing her hand to her face. “You’re so — God, you’re so dramatic.”
“Me? You’re the one crying”
Azzi threw a crumpled tissue at her. “You’re such an idiot.”
Paige caught it, smirking. “But I’m your idiot.”
Azzi stared at her for a second, then reached out, grabbing her sleeve and Paige moved closer.
Azzi’s hand found her cheek, thumb tracing over her jaw “I hate that you’re so calm,” Azzi said quietly.
Paige’s eyes softened. “Me losing it doesn’t help you.”
“So you’re just going to hold it together?”
“For as long as I have to.”
Azzi studied her face for a moment, then smiled faintly, tiredly. “You’re really bad at pretending you’re not obsessed with me”
“Who says I’m pretending?”
Azzi smiled faintly. “You’re sappy.”
“You love it.”
Azzi didn’t argue. She just closed her eyes, breathing her in.
Paige brushed a thumb over her cheek. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to be brave. You just have to let me take care of you.”
Azzi sighed, soft and shaky, but her shoulders loosened. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is,” Paige said, and kissed her temple “Princess treatment, mama. Let me handle you”
Azzi smiled, tiny but real “You’re ridiculous.”
(2025) — The Princess gets as many kisses as she wants
There were a few things Paige Bueckers would never get used to: high heels, cottage cheese, and Azzi Fudd in a short dress.
The 2025 WNBA Draft had officially ended hours ago, but the after-party felt like the real event.
Paige had changed out of her perfectly tailored suit jacket into something looser: a crisp white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, hair half undone. She had a beer in one hand, the other tucked casually in her pocket like she wasn’t vibrating with nerves.
Not because of the cameras. Not because she’d just been drafted number one to Dallas.
No, it was because of Azzi.
She was standing by the bar talking to Nika, the dim light glancing off her skin like she was dusted in gold. Her dress was short — short enough to make Paige look too much— silver sparkles that shimmered every time she moved.
Her hair was slicked back into a bun, earrings catching light, the faintest gloss on her lips. Fuck, she didn’t even have to try.
Paige was halfway through a sip when she realized she was staring, mouth slightly open.
“Stop drooling,” Nika said, walking past her, balancing two drinks.
“I’m not, bro” Paige lied immediately.
Nika didn’t even glance back. “Wipe your mouth, Bueckers.”
Paige scowled “You’re annoying.”
“I’m right,” Nika tossed over her shoulder, laughing.
And she was.
Because when Azzi turned, her eyes scanning the crowd, her gaze landed right on Paige — and that was it. Azzi smiled, soft and slow, and Paige almost dropped her beer.
Azzi walked toward her, her heels clicking against the tile, her dress flashing with every step. Paige had been to hundreds of events, but somehow, in this very normal hotel ballroom, she forgot what her hands were supposed to do.
“You clean up nice,” Azzi said, stopping in front of her.
Paige grinned, a little lopsided. “You like it?”
“I do,” Azzi said, eyes flicking up and down her. “You look like you just came from a frat party and stopped here to flirt with me”
Paige laughed. “I’m not flirting. I’m enjoying it.”
Azzi tilted her head. “Enjoying? ”
“Looking at all that,” Paige said solemnly.
Azzi rolled her eyes but she was smiling. “You’re drunk.”
“Barely,” Paige said, her hand moving naturally to Azzi’s lower back.
“Paige,” a familiar voice called out — Tim Fudd, Azzi’s father, holding a glass of wine and looking wary “You might wanna dial it down”
Paige instantly straightened “Yes, sir”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Don’t ‘sir’ me” and walked away
Azzi laughed so hard she had to lean against the bar for balance. “You’re hopeless.”
“I’m trying to be respectful of my future father-in-law,” Paige whispered.
“Don’t say that out loud,” Azzi hissed, though she was clearly fighting back another laugh
Paige leaned in conspiratorially. “What? He should know I’m in this for the long game.”
“Paige.”
“Mrs. Paige Bueckers-Fudd has a nice ring to it.”
“You’re done,” Azzi said, shaking her head. “You’re actually done.”
But the blush in her cheeks gave her away.
Paige talked to people for a while, but every time Azzi shifted, her dress caught the light again, and Paige’s brain short-circuited and her entire internal monologue was just don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her boobs.
“Paige,” Azzi said suddenly, snapping her fingers in front of her face “You’re not listening.”
Paige groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted.”
“By what?” Azzi asked, pretending to be innocent.
“You,” Paige said simply.
Azzi blinked, her smirk faltering. “You’re drunk.”
Paige countered. “Just honest.”
Before Azzi could come up with a reply, Nika appeared out of nowhere. “Okay, lovebirds,” she said, clapping her hands
“Quick PSA: everyone can see you, maybe dial it back before ESPN gets a headline.”
Paige groaned. “Everyone’s a critic, dog”
Azzi rolled her eyes. “We’re not doing anything.”
“Yet,” Nika said, walking away.
Paige sighed dramatically. “We’re being oppressed.”
“You’re being loud,” Azzi said.
Paige grinned. “I am loud.”
An hour later, the music had gotten louder, the drinks stronger, and Paige’s sense of self-preservation weaker. She found herself with one hand braced on the wall, trying very hard to look normal, while Azzi leaned against the corner beside her, laughing at something KK had said.
KK was holding a glass of water and looking far too amused.
“Why does she look like that?” KK whispered to Azzi, nodding toward Paige.
Azzi bit back a smile. “That’s just her face.”
KK laughed and patted Paige on the shoulder as she passed.
“I’m fine,” Paige said.
She wasn’t.
Because now it was just her and Azzi in that corner, Azzi tilted her head, “You really are a mess tonight.”
“I’m not a mess,” Paige said, indignant. “I’m—”
“Drunk and staring at me”
“I’ve seen you before,” Paige said. “You just… didn’t look like this.”
Azzi smiled. “Like what?”
“Well,” Paige said, stepping closer. “You look ridiculous in this dress”
Azzi didn’t back away, but her voice dropped. “You know everyone’s watching, right?”
“They’ve been watching,” Paige said.
Azzi’s eyes flicked to the crowd, then back to Paige. “Paige.”
“You’re going to get us in trouble.” Paige said “Stop looking at me like that,”
Azzi’s mouth twitched. “Like what?”
“Like you know I can’t say no to you.”
And then Azzi pouted.
It was subtle, barely there, but Paige saw it, and it was over.
Her spine melted, her willpower evaporated.
“Don’t do that,” Paige muttered.
“Do what?”
“That face,” Paige said, almost groaning. “That’s not fair.”
Azzi smiled sweetly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re evil,” Paige said, and then, helplessly, “God, you’re so hot.”
Azzi’s hand found Paige’s wrist, and Paige’s heart forgot how to function.
“Paige,” Azzi whispered, barely audible over the music.
Paige leaned in, her breath warm against Azzi’s ear. “Stop”
Azzi laughed softly, her eyes glinting. “Just give me a kiss.”
“Azzi, there’s people around.”
“Sure,” Azzi said, and before Paige could respond, Azzi’s hand slid up to the back of her neck, pulling her in.
It wasn’t a kiss, not yet.
“Kiss me,” Azzi murmured
And then they kissed.
It was quick and reckless. Paige’s hand slid to Azzi’s waist, thumb brushing the edge of her dress. Azzi kissed her harder, a tiny, muffled laugh caught between them.
“Fuck,” Paige breathed against her lips. “You taste like champagne."
“You taste really good,” Azzi whispered back.
They broke apart for half a second, breathless, and that’s when they heard it:
“Oh my God.”
Both turned.
Sarah Strong stood a few feet away, jaw dropped, eyes wide, holding a plate of mini sliders like she’d just caught them (And she did)
Paige froze “Sarah.”
Sarah blinked “Hi.”
Azzi groaned, covering her face.
“We were — uh,” Paige stammered. “It’s — for grown ups.”
“Very grown,” Sarah repeated, deadpan. She turned to leave. “And for the record? Everyone saw this, bro.”
When she was gone, Paige buried her face in her hands laughing. “Well, a lot of people just found out about something.”
Azzi giggled, shaking her head. “Sorry, my bad.”
“You’re lucky you’re easy,” Paige said without thinking, then froze.
Azzi’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Fuck, I meant easy to love!” Paige said quickly “Not easy-easy!”
Azzi was laughing so hard now she had to lean against her again “Stop talking.”
Azzi said, still giggling “But before you die—” she leaned in close, her voice soft and teasing— “you owe me for getting us caught.”
Paige groaned. “Azzi”
“You’ll make it up to me later.” Azzi said.
“Don’t say that,” Paige muttered, her ears going red.
Azzi smirked. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll actually do it,” Paige warned, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I’ll leave this party right now.”
Azzi lifted an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips “Promises, promises.”
Paige groaned, scrubbing a hand over her face “Seriously. Say it, and I’m calling the car.”
“We’re not leaving,” Azzi corrected, her tone softening slightly. “But I do find it sweet how you just instantly comply with whatever I say.”
Paige met her gaze, sober for the first time all night “You really shouldn’t pout in public.”
“Why?” Azzi asked, head tilting, playful again.
“Because then,” Paige said quietly, “I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
Azzi’s smile widened, bright and knowing. “Good.”
Paige laughed under her breath.
Azzi brushed a fingertip over her jaw, the gesture small but possessive. “I like you spoiling me”
And Paige, looking at her in that ridiculous sparkly dress, thought that maybe spoiling her was the point.
Because when Azzi wanted something — even a kiss in a crowded room — Paige always gave it to her.
(2025) — The Princess always gets a “Happy Birthday”
The day started wrong.
It wasn’t a tragedy, just the kind of wrong that made Azzi Fudd feel out of step with the world from the moment she opened her eyes.
Her phone had buzzed with half a dozen notifications before she even reached for it: texts from teammates, one chaotic group chat meme from Jana, a dozen tagged posts on Instagram, and a calendar reminder that said “You’re 23, congrats, you’re old now.”
Her roommates had done their best.
There was a lopsided Funfetti cake on the counter, pink frosting sliding to one side like it was trying to escape, and a glittery paper crown from Party City that said BIRTHDAY PRINCESS in sparkly font.
It was sweet. It was everything she should’ve wanted.
Except Paige wasn’t there.
Paige was in Dallas, halfway across the country, and Azzi had told her it was fine, that she understood. Paige had said all the right things — I’ll call you first thing in the morning, promise — and Azzi believed her.
It wasn’t that she doubted Paige. It was just… birthdays were weird. Too many people telling you you’re special while the person who made you feel that way every day was far away.
By late afternoon, the dorm was quiet again.
Azzi sat cross-legged on her bed, wearing one of Paige’s hoodies — an oversized gray one that still smelled faintly like her. She was scrolling mindlessly through TikTok when her phone buzzed.
Incoming FaceTime: Paige Bueckers
Azzi’s heart jumped before she could even breathe, she hit accept so fast she nearly dropped the phone.
And there she was: Paige, in her Dallas apartment, hair pulled back, face glowing with the kind of sunshine only the south could manufacture. She was in a loose white t-shirt, a chain glinting at her collarbone, a devastating smile.
“Happy birthday, baby!” Paige said, too loud, too bright.
Azzi laughed despite herself. “You’re yelling.”
“Hell yeah” Paige countered. “Do you see the confetti? Do you feel the love radiating through the screen?”
“I feel the volume,” Azzi said dryly, trying not to smile.
Paige gasped in mock offense. “I woke up early for this call!”
“It’s 3 p.m. in Dallas,” Azzi said, deadpan.
Paige blinked. “...Time zones are fake.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t be mean to me on your birthday,” Paige whined.
Azzi rolled her eyes, but her smile was already breaking through.
Paige propped her phone against something, leaning back so Azzi could see more of her — she was sitting on her couch, legs crossed, a takeout container next to her. She looked good, stupidly good.
The kind of good that made Azzi’s stomach with longing and a bit of frustration.
“You look tired,” Azzi said quietly.
Paige smirked. “You look perfect”
“That’s not an answer”
“I’m not interested in answers right now, Fudd. Only facts. Fact: you’re perfect. Fact: I’m in love with you. Fact: I miss you”
Azzi bit her lip to keep from smiling too hard “You’re a flirt.”
“You make it easy.”
“Stop.”
“Never.”
Azzi sighed, fighting the warmth creeping up her neck. “I hate that you’re good at this.”
Paige grinned “That’s why you keep me around.”
Azzi leaned back against her pillows, trying to look unimpressed, but her voice softened. “You really called just to say happy birthday?”
Paige nodded “That, and to tell you I made a cake.”
“You did not.”
Paige turned her phone camera. On her kitchen counter was a tiny, slightly charred cake covered in sprinkles that looked like a toddler had made it.
“Oh my God,” Azzi said, laughing. “You baked?”
“Don’t sound so surprised! I’m very domestic.”
“You can’t cook.”
“I can for you” Paige protested.
They fell into the kind of rhythm they always did. Azzi told her about practice, about her new obsession with baking sourdough, about how she’d almost fallen asleep in class because the professor spoke like an audiobook..
It was easy, familiar — until it wasn’t.
At some point, Azzi went quiet. Paige noticed immediately.
“Hey,” Paige said softly. “Where’d you go?”
Azzi hesitated. “Nowhere.”
“Liar”
Azzi looked at the screen, at the familiar curve of Paige’s smile, and something in her chest twisted. “I just wish you were here,” she said, voice small.
Paige’s face softened. “I know.”
“It’s stupid, I know. You’re doing important stuff, and I should just—”
“Stop,” Paige interrupted gently. “It’s not stupid”
Azzi’s eyes glistened. “It kind of is. I’m twenty-three and I’m pouting because my girlfriend couldn’t come to my birthday.”
Paige smiled sadly. “You’re allowed to pout”
Azzi huffed. “You say that like you’re not the reason”
Paige gasped dramatically. “I’m the villain?”
“Obviously”
Azzi tried to glare, but it didn’t hold.
“You know,” Paige said suddenly, eyes flicking to something off-screen, “I got you something.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“It’s not here yet,” Paige interrupted, smirking. “Shipping delays”
“Then what is it?”
“A surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“Paige.”
“Yes, my princess?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Paige said, deadpan. “You’ll like it”
Azzi groaned. “You’re going to make me nervous all night now.”
“That’s the idea.”
Azzi pouted, folding her arms.
Paige immediately groaned. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“That. The face.”
Azzi blinked innocently. “What face?”
“The face that makes me want to book a flight right now.”
Azzi smiled, slow and deliberate. “Then do it.”
Paige’s jaw tightened. “Don’t tempt me, bro”
“I’m not tempting,” Azzi said, voice soft.
Paige stared at her
“Azzi,” Paige said quietly. “If you keep pouting, I swear to God, I’ll be there before sunrise.”
Azzi giggled, delighted. “You wouldn’t.”
Paige tilted her head. “Try me.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Just two faces glowing in the light of their phones, too far apart and too close all at once.
Paige sighed dramatically, running a hand through her hair. “You’re evil, you know that?.”
“Me?” Azzi gasped. “I’m sweet.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m your menace.”
Paige groaned. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m going to lose my mind.”
Azzi leaned closer to the camera, her smile soft. “Then lose it.”
Paige pressed a hand to her face.
“Death by FaceTime,” Azzi teased.
“You’re lucky I’m not impulsive anymore,” Paige muttered.
Azzi laughed. “Anymore?”
“I’ve matured. I make responsible decisions now.”
“Like?”
“Like not flying halfway across the country to kiss my girlfriend on her birthday.”
The call fell into silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Paige leaned back, watching Azzi’s face, the way her curls framed her, the faint dimple in her left cheek, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
Paige lowered her voice. “You know what I was thinking about today?”
Azzi raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“When I said you were emotionally manipulative because you pouted every time things didn’t go your way.” Paige said
Azzi laughed, eyes lighting up “You still think I’m manipulative?”
“Worse,” Paige said. “Now you’re weaponizing the pout”
Azzi smirked. “Maybe you’ve just gotten weaker.”
Paige tilted her head. “Maybe you’re my weakness.”
Azzi’s smile softened. “You always say stuff like that, bro”
Paige’s grin faded into something gentler. “Azzi,” she said softly. “I miss you.”
Azzi rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable”
“I’m in love,” Paige said.
Azzi looked at her and said, almost shyly, “Say it again.”
“What?”
“That you love me.”
Paige smiled, all warmth. “I love you”
Azzi blinked fast, trying not to cry again. “Stop, you’re gonna make me—”
“Cry?” Paige teased. “You always cry on your birthday.”
“Not because of you!”
“Liar”
“Paige.”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
Paige grinned. “Make me.”
Azzi groaned. “You’re such a kid.”
“I can have a kid feeling,” Paige said automatically, then froze.
Azzi bit her lip, laughing. “So what now? You're gonna sing me happy birthday?”
Paige sat up straighter, feigning seriousness. “I will. But I’m doing the jazz version.”
“Oh, God.”
Paige cleared her throat dramatically. “Haaappy birthday to youuuu,” she crooned, off-key and with full commitment, “you’re so hot and I miss youuuu—”
Azzi burst out laughing. “Paige, stop!”
“—and if you keep pouting I’ll board a plaaaneeee—”
“You’re insane!”
“—to give you a birthday kiss, in person, tonight—” Paige sang, hitting an absurd falsetto note.
Azzi was laughing so hard she was crying now. “You’re so loud.”
Paige said, proud. “Admit it, you feel better.”
Azzi wiped her eyes, still laughing. “ I do.”
“Good,” Paige said softly. “That’s all I wanted.”
They talked for another hour, and when it was finally time to hang up, Azzi hesitated, biting her lip.
“Hey, Paige?” she said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I love you too”
Paige smiled, slow and genuine. “Yeah, of course you do.”
Azzi grinned. “Go away”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Too busy thinking about flying to Connecticut.”
“Paige.”
“I’m kidding,” Paige said. “Mostly.”
Azzi rolled her eyes, cheeks warm. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, birthday girl.”
Azzi hung up first, but the screen stayed lit for a second, Paige’s smile glowing in the dark.
And even though the room was quiet again, the hoodie still smelled like her, the air still sounded with laughter, so Azzi couldn’t stop smiling.
Maybe distance wasn’t so cruel, after all. At least, when love was this loud.
She was halfway to putting her phone down when it buzzed again — a voice memo from Paige.
Then another. And another.
“Happy birthday, princess, hour two.”
“Happy birthday, princess, hour three.”
“Happy birthday, princess, hour four—okay this one’s a whisper because I’m target—”
A stack of them queued up, each under ten seconds, each a new time stamp. In between memos, a text arrived: Alarm set for every hour until midnight your time.
(2044) — The Princess gets a Princess
There are moments in life that feel like reruns — not because they’re dull or repetitive, but because they look like something that happened long ago, somewhere deep in memory.
For Paige, this morning felt like that.
The house smelt of toast and baby shampoo and blueberry jam hanging in the air. The speaker was murmuring old songs somewhere in the background, the kind that used to play in hotel rooms when she and Azzi were younger.
Back then love felt like a secret instead of a routine.
Now, love was everywhere.
It was in the framed photos along the hallway — Azzi in her USA jersey, Paige with her arm slung over her shoulder; their wedding day, grinning under an arch of white roses; the hospital photo, both of them exhausted and radiant, with Maya between them.
Love It was in the little sneakers by the front door, in the half-drawn crayon doodles on the fridge that somehow still managed to resemble a basketball.
And love, at that exact moment, was also in the center of the kitchen floor, wearing purple pajamas, a mess of blonde curls haloing her tiny head, and the most exaggerated pout Paige had ever seen.
“Mommy said no candy before breakfast,” little Diana declared, arms crossed, lower lip trembling just enough to suggest she was preparing for battle.
Paige leaned against the counter, pretending to study her. “Hmm. And what did you say to that?”
“I said that’s rude.”
“Rude,” Paige repeated solemnly, biting back a smile. “That’s a strong word.”
“She said I could have some later,” Diana continued, chin lifting defiantly. “But I want it now.”
Paige crossed her arms to match. “And what do we say when we don’t get what we want?”
Diana hesitated, thinking, then replied with utmost seriousness, “Pout”
Paige almost choked on her coffee “Excuse me?”
“Mommy said you like it”
Paige blinked, torn between laughter and disbelief “Oh, did she?”
“Yeah,” Diana said with a sage nod, clearly proud of this new intel. “So… can I have candy now?”
Paige squatted to her level, brushing a stray curl from her daughter’s forehead. “You’re very sneaky, you know that?”
Diana grinned “I learned it”
Paige sighed dramatically, glancing toward the hallway. “I bet you did.”
Azzi appeared a few minutes later, still in her sleep shirt, hair piled up in a messy bun, rubbing her eyes. She moved like she always did in the mornings, like her body remembered she used to be an athlete but had since retired into the art of peace.
“Why are you interrogating our child?” she mumbled, pouring herself coffee.
“She’s blackmailing me,” Paige said flatly.
Azzi blinked, amused. “Blackmailing you?”
“Apparently,” Paige said, pointing at Diana, who was now sitting at the table drawing something that looked suspiciously like candy. “She said you told her that pouting works on me.”
Azzi froze, mid-sip, and her mouth twitched.
“Oh my God,” Paige said, realizing. “You did.”
Azzi tried to keep a straight face. “I was teaching her things”
“You were teaching her manipulation” Paige laughed, incredulous.
“Same thing,” Azzi murmured into her mug.
“God,” Paige said, leaning on the counter. “First you, now you’re passing it down.”
Azzi set her cup down, walking over to where Paige stood. “You can’t be mad at her for having my charm.”
“I’m not mad,” Paige said. “I’m terrified.”
Azzi tilted her head. “You’re saying I’m terrifying?”
“Yes,” Paige said. “You’re, and now there are two of you. I’m glad Maya skipped that”
Azzi’s lips curved into that same knowing smile she’d had since they were twenty, the one that always meant Paige was about to lose an argument she didn’t even know she’d started.
“Well,” Azzi said sweetly, “maybe you should’ve thought of that before marrying me.”
“I was young and in love,” Paige said, mock defensive. “I didn’t realize what I was signing up for.”
Later that morning, the kitchen became a symphony of small domestic sounds.
Paige watched them from the counter, chin propped on her hand. Sometimes she caught herself just… staring, like she still couldn’t believe this was her life.
Azzi looked up from the stove, catching her. “You’re staring.”
“I’m appreciating,” Paige said.
“Appreciate it by getting the plates.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maya giggled. “Mommy’s the boss.”
Paige pointed at her. “Only because I let her.”
Azzi turned, one eyebrow raised. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” Paige said quickly, grabbing plates. “Just talking to our future WNBA star about manners.”
Maya gasped “I don’t like basketball, mom”
Azzi smiled, setting the pancakes down. “Thank god! That makes two of us”
Azzi set the plate down in front of Diana, then leaned on the counter next to Paige.
Their shoulders brushed, and Paige turned her head slightly to catch the scent of her, the same smell that had lived in Paige’s memory since she was nineteen.
“Stop staring again,” Azzi murmured without looking at her.
“Can’t help it,” Paige said quietly.
“Why?”
Paige hesitated, then shrugged. “Because you look good.”
Azzi froze for a fraction of a second, the words sinking in, then smiled “You still say stuff like that.”
“You still make me.”
Azzi looked at her and Paige swore that even after all these years, her stomach still flipped like she was twenty again.
After breakfast, Diana wandered off to her playroom, clutching her crayons and a piece of pancake, and Maya went back to her bedroom.
Paige and Azzi lingered in the quiet kitchen, the morning sun painting everything gold.
“Do you ever think about it?” Paige asked suddenly.
“About what?”
“How far we’ve come.”
Azzi smiled faintly. “Every day.”
Paige laughed, a soft, watery sound “You’re too good at this.”
“Being married?”
“Being mine.”
Azzi leaned across the table and kissed her.
When they pulled back, Azzi’s hand lingered on Paige’s cheek. “You know, I never thought we’d end up this domestic.”
Paige looked around the room, the pancake mess, the crayon stains, the tiny basketball hoop on the pantry door. “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “It’s terrifying.”
Azzi laughed. “You love it.”
That night, after Diana finally surrendered to sleep and Maya’s room went dark, the house exhaled.
Paige and Azzi sat on the porch, twin mugs of tea steaming between them, the air thick with crickets and late summer.
Paige leaned her head on Azzi’s shoulder, watching the light from the window fall across the yard “You realize she’s going to use that pout on other people one day.”
Azzi groaned “God help them.”
Paige chuckled, “It’s poetic justice.”
Azzi glanced down at her, smiling “You still can’t say no to it, can you?”
Paige looked up, eyes soft and shining “Not once in twenty-six years, princess.”
Azzi brushed her lips across Paige’s forehead “Good.”
Paige smiled against her shoulder, the way she always did when love was too big for words.
And for a second, Paige thought that if this was what saying yes forever looked like, then she’d never need to learn how to say no.
summary: summer in storrs. they get high and forget the world exists. (one thing leads to another, and yeah...) just two girls in love, absolutely obsessed with each other.
a/n: hiii hello! so. yes, i may have gotten a little high myself and randomly got inspired to write this. it’s got little to no plot–sooo basically a pwp. sorry! i hope y’all enjoy it though. and i’ll be honest, i held off posting this for like two weeks because i wasn’t sure it was good...but then my duo had an incredible game on sunday, so here we are ꨄ︎
the summer heat clung to everything in paige's dorm room like a second skin, the kind of sticky warmth that made the air feel thick and heavy even as the sun dipped low on the horizon. outside the window, the sky bled into shades of orange and pink, casting a soft, glowing light across the space that turned the ordinary into something almost magical, calming in its lazy descent. paige sat propped up against the headboard of her bed, legs stretched out in front of her, wearing a hoodie that was starting to feel like too much, sweatpants that slung low on her hips. azzi leaned against the wall nearby, dressed in a loose tank and shorts that showed off the smooth lines of her legs.
azzi fiddled with her phone for a moment, scrolling until she found what she wanted. she tapped play on summer walker's last day of summer playlist, letting the sound wash over them from the small speaker on the nightstand. the music matching the mood of the evening. she set her phone down on the dresser and turned her attention back to paige, who was absentmindedly toying with a small metal box on the bed beside her. it was decorated with a bunch of kyrie stickers, that had begun to peel at the edges. faded from use but still proudly displayed, a little piece of paige's world right there.
the heat was getting to paige now, pressing in from all sides, so she shrugged off her hoodie, tossing it to the side. underneath, her tank top clung slightly to her skin, revealing the toned muscles of her shoulders and arms, the subtle definition of her abs peeking out where the fabric rode up just a bit. her sweatpants sat even lower now, the waistband of her boxers visible, a teasing glimpse that azzi's eyes lingered on for a second longer than necessary. tracing the v-line disappearing beneath the fabric, every shadow, every movement that felt effortlessly beautiful.
paige flipped open the box, pulling out a pre-rolled joint. she held it up, twirling it between her fingers as she glanced at azzi. “where'd you even get that?” azzi asked, her voice light with curiosity, pushing off the wall to move a little closer.
“ice hooked me up,” paige replied, her blue eyes meeting azzi's brown ones with that easy confidence she always carried. she lit the joint with a flick of her lighter, the flame dancing briefly and casting a warm glow across her face. “wanna smoke with me? it's been a minute.”
azzi nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “yeah, why not?” she watched as paige took the first pull, the smoke curling lazily from her lips.
the lighter's glow had azzi transfixed for a moment, the flame erupting bright and orange, highlighting the sharp lines of paige's jaw, the way her blue eyes sparkled in the dimming room. azzi lost herself in it, the sight of paige like this–relaxed, beautiful, utterly hers–making everything else fade away. she didn't even hear paige offering the joint the first time, or the second.
paige giggled softly, the sound breaking through azzi's haze. “baby.” she said, her voice warm and teasing, “you gonna take it or just stare all night?”
azzi blinked, heart skipping. “huh?” she said, cheeks warm.
paige leaned forward slightly, flame reflected in her eyes, voice soft but teasing. “i was asking if you want it, beautiful.”
azzi blinked, snapping back to reality with a flush creeping up her neck. “sorry, i...yeah.” but instead of reaching for it, she leaned in closer. “can you shotgun it?”
paige's grin widened, that spark of mischief in her eyes. “yeah, c'mere.” she pulled azzi in by the waistband of her pants, guiding her onto her lap. azzi straddled her easily, their bodies fitting together like they were made for it. they locked eyes, the world narrowing to just this, paige took a deep drag, held it, then leaned in, their lips brushing as she exhaled slowly into azzi's mouth. the smoke filled her lungs, and azzi inhaled it all, their breaths mingling in that intimate space.
they did it again, and again, each inhale pulling them closer, their touches lingering longer. paige's hands settled on azzi's hips, steadying her, while azzi's fingers traced light patterns on paige's shoulders.
by the time the joint had burned low, their eyes low, slightly rimmed with red. paige looked up at azzi with this awe-struck expression, the stupid smile paige always wore made her look radiant, almost unbearably beautiful to azzi. paige’s hands rested lightly on azzi’s hips, and azzi’s fingers found her neck, tracing gently, both of them lost in the quiet reverence of seeing each other fully, entirely. lost in each other.
paige reached up, her fingers tracing the line of azzi's jaw. she swiped her thumb over azzi's bottom lip, parting it slightly. “i don’t think you even realize how beautiful you really are, baby.”
azzi's breath caught, her eyes softening. “i do when you look at me like that.” she leaned in a fraction, noticing the faint marks on paige's collarbones–hickeys she'd left there last week, now fading into pale shadows.
paige caught her staring and smirked, tilting her head to expose more skin. “they’re fading. think you need to give me some new ones.”
azzi's mind flashed back to how they'd gotten there–the heat of the moment, paige's gasps under her mouth–and a rush of arousal hit her low in the belly. “it’s impossible to say no to you when you smile at me like that. always ends up with us like this.” she whispered, voice soft, eyes darkening with desire.
paige chuckled, her hand coming up to brush a curl from azzi's face. she pressed a soft kiss to azzi's forehead, lingering there as her other hand traced lazy patterns on azzi's back under her tank. their eyes met again, soft and full of that quiet understanding they'd built over time.
“quit looking at me like that, ma’am,” paige said softly.
azzi grinned, teasing: “oh, and i thought you said you don’t get flustered? hm, guess i was wrong.”
paige’s cheeks pinked up, hiding her face behind her hands for a moment, soft laugh escaping. “dude.”
azzi laughed, interlocking their fingers, tugging paige closer. “you’re so fun to mess with, i swear.”
“you’re so annoying.” paige replied, mock exasperation lacing her tone.
azzi grabbed her collar lightly, signaling she wanted more closeness, and paige shifted, letting her hands run through her hair. “i missed you today,” azzi murmured.
“i missed you too, beautiful,” paige said, voice soft, teasing rasp in it. “but i was gone only three hours. i had to help kk.”
“i know, i know,” azzi said, voice whining playfully, “but three hours is too long, baby.”
paige's heart did that little flip she loved–azzi got clingy like this when she was high, and it was adorable. “too long for you?”
“way too long.” azzi whispered, her lips brushing paige's. paige smiled knowingly, leaning in, cupping azzi’s face, and kissed her gently, letting the slow burn of intimacy take over, the way their lips met, tongues sliding together in a lazy rhythm that built heat between them.
the smoke lingered in the room, curling around the corners and drifting toward the ceiling, azzi’s hands rested lightly on paige’s shoulders at first, tracing little circles with her thumbs, memorizing the curve of her collarbones, the soft dips of her neck, the warmth that radiated from her skin and made azzi’s chest ache with quiet longing.
paige leaned forward slightly, brushing a curl from azzi’s forehead, and then pressed her lips there, soft, lingering, just a ghost of a kiss that made azzi close her eyes and let her head fall against paige’s chest for a moment, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath. fingertips traced the line of azzi’s jaw, drifting slowly over her cheek, and azzi felt her pulse pick up in response, the small, intimate contact more potent than anything else in the world.
paige’s hands slid slightly, skimming down azzi’s sides, just teasing, just brushing, and azzi felt herself lean in closer, hips pressing gently into paige’s, the heat of the connection palpable, heavy, almost tangible. their breaths mingled, slow and deliberate, and when paige ghosted her lips along azzi’s jawline, the tip of her nose brushing against her cheek, azzi bit back a soft laugh, caught somewhere between playful and flustered.
“p, you’re so...” azzi murmured, tilting her head to look up at paige, a slow, lazy smile curling her lips.
“so fun. yeahh, i know, baby.” paige’s eyes gleaming with mischief and warmth.
they leaned into each other, slow, almost languid movements– hips brushing, hands tracing, fingers teasing along the curve of the other’s back, the subtle dip of the spine. every touch was electric, a quiet conversation of need, desire, and adoration without a single word.
azzi tried to push paige back down onto the pillows, wanting to take control, but paige chased after her, desperate, whispering, “baby, please.” azzi pulled away just enough to tease, ghosting her lips over paige’s with a smirk, nipping at her bottom lip.
then azzi gave in, kissing her hard, their fingers interlocking above paige's head as she pinned her wrists lightly against the pillows, the mattress dipping under their weight. the makeout turned passionate, breaths coming faster, bodies pressing closer. azzi started grinding against paige's thigh through their clothes, the friction sending sparks up her spine, her shorts growing damp as she rocked steadily.
paige smirked into the kiss at azzi's little whimper. “show me what you want, baby. let me feel how wet you are for me.”
azzi grabbed paige's hand, guiding it down to her core, pressing it there. paige could feel the heat through the fabric, teasing her with light circles before slipping her fingers inside azzi's shorts and panties. she rubbed slow over her clit, kissing her deeply as azzi rocked into the touch.
minutes passed like that, the tension building until paige slid lower, her fingers dipping into azzi's wetness. “fuck, azzi.” she breathed, surprised and turned on, her own arousal throbbing in her. she pushed one finger in, then a second, curling them to hit that spot inside, pumping slowly as azzi's walls clenched around her.
azzi pulled back from the kiss, sitting up on her hands, grinding down onto paige's fingers with a moan that echoed softly in the room. paige watched her, heart swelling with how much she loved this– loved azzi, the way she made paige feel alive in a way no one else could. their eyes locked, paige's blue eyes full of raw emotion, and it only made azzi wetter, needier, her juices dripping down paige’s hand. “more, paige. please, i need more– make me feel you everywhere.”
“take your clothes off for me,” paige said, her voice husky, withdrawing her fingers with a wet pop to watch azzi obey. azzi stood, stripping quickly, leaving her bare in the sunset light. paige's eyes roamed hungrily. "i'm going to give you exactly what you need. lay down, mama. let me take care of you.”
azzi did, spreading her legs as she reclined on the pillows, and paige was on her in seconds, worshipping every inch with her mouth and hands. she kissed azzi's chest, sucking lightly on her nipples until they hardened under her tongue. “i love you.” she murmured against the skin, trailing kisses down azzi's stomach, over her thighs, up her arms, across her back as azzi arched into it. azzi's hands roamed too, dragging a nail down paige's neck and chest, making her shiver and press harder.
paige settled between azzi's legs, looking up. “this okay?”
azzi nodded. “yeah, so so okay.”
“spread wider for me, love.” paige pinned azzi's hips, leaning in to lick a slow stripe up her pussy, tasting her sweetness. azzi raked her nails down paige's back, gasping. paige dove in fully, tongue flicking over her clit, sucking gently. “that's it, fuck.” azzi ground up into paige's mouth, chasing the pressure. “do that again–shit, just like that, right there.”
“yes, paige, so fucking good.” azzi moaned, her voice breaking, the dorm walls thin but forgotten, her hands fisting the sheets. paige kept eye contact when she could, her tongue working relentlessly, praising between licks. "you can take it baby, i know you can. no, eyes open. let me see you."
azzi shattered, her body trembling as she came, paige lapping her through it, tongue soothing the oversensitive flesh, murmuring, “i’m so proud of you princess, so beautiful like this, ma.”
panting, azzi pulled paige up. “i need more, baby.”
“you sure?” paige asked, stripping off her own clothes quickly, her body lean and flushed.
“yes, please.” azzi watched as paige grabbed the strap from the drawer, but she took it from her. “let me.” she attached it to paige's hips, the base pressing right against paige's clit, making her gasp sharply, hips jerking forward.
azzi laughed softly at the reaction, but paige cupped her face, serious now, dark eyes with want. “beg for it, baby. tell me how bad you want it.”
they made out again, the strap teasing azzi's clit as she rocked against it, building her need until she was whispering pleas. “please, paige, fuck me. i need it…need you.”
paige grabbed a pillow, sliding it under azzi's hips to angle her just right, knees bent and spread wide. she spit on the dildo, slicking it up with her hand, then pressed the tip to azzi's entrance, rubbing it up and down her folds. “tell me if it's too much.” she pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching azzi stretch around it pausing every few thrusts to let her adjust. “you okay baby? talk to me. use your words for me pretty”
“yeah, i'm good. just need you closer. hold me.” azzi said, pulling paige down.
paige buried her face in azzi's neck, kissing the skin there–sucking a fresh hickey into the pulse point–as she started a steady rhythm, pulling out halfway before thrusting back in deep. “you feel so good around me, baby. so tight. i'm not going anywhere, i'm right here." they clutched at each other, gasping into open mouths, fingers intertwined. paige slowed sometimes, drawing it out, fucking deep so azzi could barely kiss back, just moan. wet sounds filling the room.
“quiet down a little,” paige whispered, mindful of the thin dorm walls, her hand covering azzi’s mouth gently as she pounded harder “or everyone's gonna hear how good i'm fucking you.”
azzi bit down on paige's shoulder to muffle her cries, the pain spurring paige on. “you sound so pretty. you're so beautiful, azzi.” paige pressed a hand to azzi's stomach, feeling the thrusts from the outside.
azzi grabbed that hand, holding it there as she wrapped her legs tight around paige's waist, heels digging into her ass to pull her deeper. “don't stop, please. you're making me feel so good–hit that spot. yes…right there.” paige kept praising, sweet and filthy words spilling out– "shhh i knoww mama i know. im right here princess, you got it."–until she felt her own climax building from the friction. “taking me so well. fuck. i'm close, baby. come with me. come all over it.”
a minute later, they shattered together, azzi's pussy clenching around the strap as paige ground against her, both crying out softly. exhausted, they collapsed tangled in each other, paige brushing azzi's curls from her forehead. “you were amazing. thank you for trusting me with your body, princess.”
“i trust you completely. you make me feel safe in every way, pretty.” azzi murmured, tracing paige's jaw with trembling fingers, feeling the sweat-slick skin. paige got up briefly, easing out carefully before grabbing a wet towel from the bathroom, returning to clean them both gently, then they slid under the sheets naked, cuddling close. paige traced gentle, lazy circles along azzi’s back, and azzi felt the soft shiver of pleasure just from touch alone, from being held, seen, adored. their fingers intertwined, a quiet, perfect clasp that said everything words never could.
they laughed softly, murmured playful teasing back and forth, pressed soft kisses to cheeks, shoulders, the top of each other’s heads. the closeness was intoxicating–not in a rush, not in urgency, but in the slow, perfect build of knowing, feeling, loving.
azzi nestled against paige’s chest, breathing in the warmth, listening to the steady, comforting beat of her heart. paige wrapped an arm around her, holding her close, thumb brushing along her hair, murmuring softly “i love you so much."
“i love you more.” azzi whispered back, voice muffled against paige’s shoulder, full of contentment, quiet joy, and a deep, abiding connection that didn’t need words.
when they finally shifted, paige brushed a few curls from azzi’s forehead, laughing softly at the tangled mess of hair, and azzi laughed back, pressing a quick kiss to paige’s chest. they rearranged themselves under the sheets, bodies entwined, hands tangled, soft murmurs of affection still floating between them. and there, tangled together in the warm, fading light of a summer evening, they fell asleep.
hearts beating in quiet rhythm, bodies pressed together, completely and perfectly at ease.
a/n: aaand we’re done! welp that was a little filthy. thank you so so much for reading. you’re the best. sending kisses to everyone who enjoyed. as always, i absolutely adore everyone who shares their thoughts about my work, so i’d love to hear what you thought about this one <3333
Summary: While researching old sports correspondence in the University of Minnesota archives, I stumbled upon a box, Inside were decades of letters between tennis star Paige Bueckers and an actress named Azzi Fudd.
A love story never meant to be found, told only through what they dared to write.
CW: With the intent of not spoiling the fic, I’ll just say it’s a really heartbreaking story. So if you’re not in the mood for something tragic, do not read this.
I was not looking for love when I found them.
I was in the archives of the University of Minnesota, a basement lined with beige boxes and an air conditioner older than I am.
My research had nothing to do with women, much less with what they whispered to one another. I was studying sports correspondence, precisely: the polite exchanges between fans and their idols.
The box that changed everything was marked simply “BUECKERS, P. — PERSONAL.” Inside were dozens of envelopes, most unopened, all addressed in the same steady hand: Miss Paige Bueckers, care of the Women’s Tennis Association, New York.
The return address varied, though never by much. Sometimes Los Angeles, sometimes Paris.
But always the same name, written in the same slanted script that looked almost too elegant to belong to a regular mortal person: Azzi Fudd.
It began with a single line: “I’ve been rehearsing this letter in my head for days now”
From there, it was impossible not to follow her voice, and what follows is an incomplete story, told only through what they dared to write.
Some letters were lost, others never sent.
I have arranged them chronologically (where possible)
Where time fails, emotion will guide us.
— Dr. Eleanor Hayes, Department of History, Columbia University
October 23, 2025
June 12, 1964
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
To Miss Paige Bueckers, c/o Women’s Tennis Association, New York City
Dear Miss Bueckers,
I’ve been rehearsing this letter in my head for days now, not unlike the way I rehearse my lines, which is to say: poorly, and out loud, and always at the wrong time. But the impulse wouldn’t leave me, so here I am, committing mild embarrassment to paper.
I saw your match against King last month (the one in Chicago) and I’ve thought about it far too often since.
Not the victory, though congratulations are deserved (and due). What I remember most was the way you smiled afterward, like you’d just remembered a private joke. It’s the sort of expression you don’t often see on television.
My name won’t mean much to you, though perhaps one day it will (the arrogance of youth, forgive me).
I’m an actress (a very new one) and my first picture just came out last month. It’s a small thing, barely an hour long.
But I worked hard on it, and I thought, if you ever find yourself in Los Angeles and can bear an evening of melodrama, I’d gladly buy your ticket.
I was told once that all athletes are actors, in a way.
Anyway, I hope this letter finds you between tournaments and with enough patience to read through my rambling. If it does not, well, perhaps you’ll forgive the intrusion of a stranger who simply wanted to say: watching you play made me feel braver.
With admiration (and perhaps a little envy),
Yours sincerely,
Azzi Fudd
(typed, but signed in ink, a neat, looping “A.” that smudged slightly at the tail)
June 28, 1964
From Miss Paige Bueckers, New York City
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
Dear Miss Fudd,
I almost didn’t open your letter.
Not because it looked suspicious, though the handwriting on the envelope was so elegant that for a brief, unflattering moment, I assumed it was from someone asking me for money.
But because it’s rare that I get mail addressed directly to me. My agent opens most of it, allegedly to “protect my focus.”
She would be horrified to know I’m corresponding with an actress.
Don’t tell her, Miss. She already thinks Hollywood is contagious.
But I do remember that match in Chicago, I remember it because my shoelace broke mid set.
You wrote about my smile, so I suppose the cameras didn’t catch the panic.
I haven’t seen your picture yet, though I did look for it this afternoon. The theater clerk said it finished its run last week, but he recognized your name. Said you had “eyes that didn’t blink enough for comfort.”
I told him that’s the mark of a true professional.
Dear, you said athletes are actors, well, I’ve always thought the opposite: that actors must be the real athletes. You train your faces, and your hearts, and that’s far more dangerous than what I do.
I’ll be in Los Angeles for an exhibition in late July.
It’s not glamorous, don’t fret, a charity event at some country club that sounds wealthier than God (but I hear the lemonade is good).
If I manage to escape my chaperone (otherwise known as Coach Auriemma), I might take you up on that movie offer. You can tell me which ones are worth pretending to enjoy.
Until then, thank you (sincerely) for your letter. It was the kindest thing I’ve read in months.
And for what it’s worth, you don’t sound like someone rehearsing, you sound like someone living.
Yours (in good humor),
Paige Bueckers
July 10, 1964
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
To Miss Paige Bueckers, New York City
Dear Miss Bueckers,
You’ll forgive me, I hope, for writing so soon again, it’s only that your letter was so unexpectedly human.
Most famous people write the way museums smell, but you sound like someone who trips while walking down the street, which I find terribly endearing.
I’m relieved to hear my eyes were memorable, even if they apparently unsettled a theater clerk. He’s not the first man to tell me I don’t blink enough. I suppose women are meant to flutter, but I’ve never been good at pretending not to look.
The film was small, yes, and the role even smaller. I played the sister of a woman who dies in the first fifteen minutes.
I spent most of the shoot looking mournful near a window. Still, I was proud of how I looked at that window. You’d be surprised how much emotion can be packed into staring at a drapery.
Your comparison between acting and athletics stayed with me. It’s true, both require a kind of self-erasure. But at least you get to sweat honestly.
We’re told to glow, never to perspire.
I’ll be in Los Angeles through July, and if your country club lemonade permits an escape, my offer still stands.
I’ll even take you to the beach afterward, though fair warning: I’m terrible at swimming and even worse at pretending not to mind the cold.
Also, and I say this with only mild horror, you should never tell a young actress she sounds like she’s living. We’ll take that as permission to do something reckless.
Fondly (and still blinking too little),
Azzi.
July 26, 1964
From Miss Paige Bueckers, Beverly Hills Hotel, Los Angeles, California
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
Dear Azzi (I’m assuming we’re past the stage of Miss and Miss),
I nearly didn’t get to write this.
My coach confiscated all my stationery this morning on the grounds that I “spend too much time thinking and not enough time training.” I told him thinking is the only thing keeping me from setting my racket on fire and joining the circus.
He didn’t laugh.
I arrived in Los Angeles two days ago and have already been scolded by three different people for not smiling enough. (Is there something in the air here that compels everyone to look like a toothpaste ad?) You’ll be relieved to know I survived the country club match.
The lemonade was, in fact, exceptional.
I caught a glimpse of your film at a screening last night. I only meant to stay for a few minutes, but I stayed until the end, even through the part where the projector jammed and your face flickered.
You said you were proud of the way you looked out the window. You should be.
I kept expecting you to blink. You didn’t. It was perfect.
If you’re serious about that beach offer, I might take you up on it. I warn you, though, I’m competitive about everything, bring your best sandcastle game.
Yours (in temporary sunshine),
Paige
August 2, 1964
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
To Miss Paige Bueckers, San Francisco, California
Dear Paige,
I have just returned home and, after one torn page, decided to give up on dignity altogether and simply write you as I am: barefoot, sunburned, and smiling like a fool.
You are, as it turns out, exactly as I imagined: quick with a joke, slower with a goodbye. I can’t tell if that’s good sportsmanship or cruelty, leaving someone with only half a sentence to hold onto.
You said, “Next time” and then never finished. I’ve been filling in the blank all day.
I wasn’t lying about being a terrible swimmer, though in my defense, it’s difficult to learn anything while laughing that hard.
Still, thank you for the afternoon. I can’t remember the last time I did anything without worrying how it would look in a photograph.
You left your towel in my car, by the way. It smells like sunscreen and I should return it, but I’ve selfishly decided to keep it a few more days. I tell myself it’s because I want to wash it first, but the truth is it’s because I miss you, and this is what’s left that still feels like you.
I don’t know what etiquette governs the aftermath of afternoons like ours.
Do we write thank-you notes? Apologies? I only know that it’s been hours, and I’m still thinking about the way your hair looked when it dried.
You asked why I don’t blink, maybe it’s because sometimes I’m afraid I’ll miss something worth seeing.
Yours (and still a little bit covered in sand),
Azzi
August 6, 1964
From Miss Paige Bueckers, Hotel Mark Hopkins, San Francisco
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
Dear Azzi,
You shouldn’t keep other people’s towels, it leads to dangerous sentimentality. Today I caught myself sniffing a tennis grip before a match just because it still smelled like coconut oil, and I thought: this is how madness begins.
(I’m glad you kept it, though. I’d have done the same.)
I haven’t slept properly since Los Angeles.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the beach, your ridiculous hat and your terrible attempts at skipping stones.
I’ve been trying to convince myself I’m only remembering because it was funny, but that’s not the whole truth.
That did something to me I can’t quite name.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how sunlight behaves on your skin. Not in a scandalous way (though it probably sounds that way), but scientifically, the way it seems to stay there a second longer than on anyone else.
I told myself I’d write a short note, just to say thank you for the day, for the laughter, for not minding when I got sand in your hair.
Instead I’ve filled a page and haven’t said a single useful thing.
I’m leaving for London next week.
Wimbledon’s over, but they’ve invited me to some exhibition, which is the polite word for “spectacle.” I’m supposed to smile and look demure and answer questions about whether women belong on the court.
I’ll write to you from there, if that’s all right. If it isn’t (if I’ve said too much) just don’t reply.
I’ll understand.
(But I hope you will.)
Yours, somehow,
Paige
Archivist’s Note — Missing Years, 1964–1968
The next surviving letter in the collection is dated September 17th, 1968 — four years after Paige’s note from San Francisco. There are no documents between them. Whether they were lost, destroyed, or never written is uncertain.
What we know from press archives is this: during those years, Paige Bueckers became the brightest name in American tennis.
She won her first U.S. Open in ’66, posed reluctantly for Life Magazine, and, according to one article, “made the crowd believe in grace under pressure.”
Azzi Fudd, meanwhile, crossed into cinema’s inner circle. Her first major picture, The Glass Waltz (1967) earned her a Golden Globe nomination.
In interviews, she was poised but evasive, fielding every question with charm except those concerning her personal life.
When asked about Miss Bueckers, she smiled and said, “Paige is the only person I’ve ever met who plays like she means it.”
The tabloids called them inseparable. They appeared together at charity events, tennis matches, premieres, always laughing.
And then, this letter.
— Dr. Eleanor Hayes, Department of History, Columbia University October 23, 2025
September 17, 1968
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Beverly Hills, California
To Miss Paige Bueckers, New York City
Dear Paige,
You were on the cover of Sports Illustrated again this week. My hairdresser fainted dramatically when she saw it, then had the nerve to tell me you look “even more handsome than usual.”
(I’m pretending to be offended, though I can’t quite disagree.)
I watched your final from the dressing room. There was a delay because our director couldn’t decide whether a scene should end in tears or applause.
I wish I’d been there. I wish I’d been anywhere but here. The party was a success, if measured by noise.
They keep asking about you.
Every journalist, every waiter with ambition
“How long have you known Miss Bueckers?”
“Do you attend her matches?”
“Is she as serious as she looks?”
I told one man that you laugh in fractions: one-third delight, two-thirds defiance. He didn’t know what I meant, well, I told him that’s why he’d never understand you.
I’ve been thinking about that night in London (Don’t panic, I won’t write details) I only mean that sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about that night.
The way you traced a line down my shoulder.
I’m starting a new film next month, The Hour Before Morning. They say it’ll make me a household name. I’m not sure that’s a blessing. You always said the worst part of fame is when people decide who you are before you can.
Write when you can (or don’t) Either way, I’ll still be listening for you when the phone rings, pretending it could be you, calling just to say something ridiculous.
Always,
Azzi
October 4, 1968
From Miss Paige Bueckers, New York City
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Beverly Hills, California
Dear Azzi,
First of all, I have a bone to pick with your hairdresser. Tell her that if she insists on fainting over my magazine covers, she’d better buy a ticket to my next match and do it properly in the front row.
I could use the ego boost.
As for being called “handsome” I laughed out loud, you know I like that better than pretty. Handsome means built for collision, and I’ll take that any day.
Now, on to you, Miss Hollywood.
I read that gossip column (yes, that one) the one that decided to discuss the “unmistakable exoticism” of your features as though your face were a geography lesson.
I wanted to throw my breakfast at the wall. Instead, I tore the page out and underlined every ridiculous adjective. You’d think they’d never seen a woman whose skin carries more than one race.
Are you all right with it? (I know that’s a loaded question)
They write about you like you’re a new species, not a person.
When I look at you, all I see is the dimple when your mouth tilts before your sentences. They’d have to invent new words to name what you are, and even then, they’d still fall short.
You mentioned London, you shouldn’t have.
I’ve spent the past three nights dreaming about it, which is terribly inconvenient given that I have to wake up at 5 a.m. for training.
Last night, I dreamed you were sitting courtside, wearing that green scarf of yours, and every time I served, you shook your head like I’d done something obscene
Sometimes I think the only place we’re safe is in imagination.
Here, in these letters, in the space between the words, where I can say things I’d never survive saying out loud.
For example:
1. I think about your laugh at least twice a day, usually when I’m pretending to stretch.
2. I still have sand in one of my shoes from that beach. I could have shaken it out years ago, but I didn’t.
3. And when I’m on court, mid-serve, I sometimes picture your hand resting on my wrist the way it did when you were showing me how to hold that champagne glass.
4. You once said I play like I mean it. The truth is, you ruined every match after you said that. Because now, when I win, it just feels like I’m proving something to you.
Write soon, and tell your tell your hairdresser to stop collapsing over my jawline.
And tell me (honestly) if you ever dream about London, too.
Yours (simply),
Paige
October 22, 1968
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Beverly Hills, California
To Miss Paige Bueckers, New York City
Dear Paige,
Your letter arrived yesterday, and I’ve read it every night since, pretending I’m just checking your punctuation.
You’re right “handsome” suits you.
“Pretty” belongs to people who never scraped their knees, you’ve always been a little more beautiful than that.
As for my face, you asked if I’m all right. I suppose the honest answer is: some days yes, some days no.
I’ve stopped correcting people when they guess what I am. It changes with the lighting.
Under studio lamps, I’m “Mediterranean.”
In sunlight, “Creole.”
A journalist once introduced me as “exotically unplaceable,” as though I were a misplaced country.
My mother says my father was a musician who played trumpet and had skin the color of mahogany and a laugh that filled a room. She met him once, and then he disappeared.
I sometimes wonder if I inherited his vanishing.
I used to think not knowing made me less of something. Now I think it makes me too much, too many pieces stitched together in a way that makes people nervous.
They like tidy boxes, and I’ve never fit into one.
Dear, at least you, never tried to put me in one, that’s why I miss you.
I do miss you, Paige. I keep looking for you, nothing holds.
The hairdresser stands by her opinion, by the way. She says you have “the kind of jawline that could start a war.” I told her it already did, and she didn’t understand, which is probably for the best.
Since you asked for honesty. I’ve been painting lately, nothing remarkable, just an attempt to see myself in color.
Some of the canvases have turned out rather daring, though I swear that wasn’t the intention. A few were inspired by us, if “us” can exist in paint.
I’d send it to you, but I’m afraid the postman would unwrap it out of curiosity and we’d both be arrested for indecency.
If you ever find yourself on this coast again, I’ll show it to you properly. I’d even let you name it, since you’re the reason it exists.
Always yours (in oil),
Azzi
December 3, 1968
From Miss Paige Bueckers, New York City
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
Dear Azzi,
You said the paintings were daring.
You should know that every line you’ve ever drawn of me lives in my imagination. Now I’ll be on court picturing whatever “daring” means to you, and if my serve goes long, that’s on you.
I keep thinking about your curls, how they never stay where you tell them to, like they’re rebelling on principle.
Your skin, too.
There’s something indecently soft about you.
I’m not supposed to write this, you’re not supposed to keep it.
But you will, won’t you? Fold it up somewhere private, between scripts or inside a book no one reads anymore. Read it again on a night when you forget you’re human and need reminding.
I’ll keep the memory of that shoulder, that freckle, the way you breathed like you’d been holding your breath for years.
Those things don’t fade.
Burn this if you must. But if you don’t, keep it well.
Yours, completely and dangerously,
Paige
Archivist’s Note
This letter was found water-damaged, the ink bled almost to illegibility.
Only fragments of the closing lines were decipherable.
It is believed to be the last of the surviving letters from the 1960s.
Later correspondence appears to have been shorter and more casual, suggesting that by this point Miss Bueckers and Miss Fudd saw each other often enough to forgo long exchanges.
— Dr. Eleanor Hayes, Department of History, Columbia University October 23, 2025
March 3, 1971
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Hôtel Raphael, Paris
To Miss Paige Bueckers, Palm Springs, California
My dearest Paige,
Paris smells like rain and perfume and fried butter. It's indecent, really, how many ways this city finds to tempt you.
The mornings are cold, but the light pours through the windows like warm milk, and it makes me think of your skin after the sun.
We’ve finished filming the café scene, and I can’t tell you much about it except that I kept thinking how you’d have laughed at me trying to smoke elegantly. You’d have teased me about it, and then taken the cigarette away.
I miss you.
Not the postcard kind of missing, but the physical kind, the way your voice sounds before it turns into a kiss, the weight of your hand when it lands on my hip as if it were always meant to be there.
There’s an imprint of you somewhere on me, Dear.
They talk about us here sometimes.
The magazines say we’re “inseparable friends,” which I find very poetic of them. If only they knew how true that was, how literal.
You once said that fame is a house made entirely of windows. You were right, I keep the curtains closed now.
I still wear that chain you gave me. Sometimes I twist it between my fingers during takes, and it feels like holding your name.
I’ll be back in California by the end of April.
Keep a few days free, I want to see you somewhere we can forget we were ever invented.
All my love,
Azzi
P.S. Burn this or keep this. You know which I hope you’ll choose.
April 1, 1971
From Miss Paige Bueckers, Palm Springs, California
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Hôtel Raphael, Paris
My darling Azzi,
You should have seen me the day your letter arrived. The postman caught me barefoot in the courtyard, and I nearly kissed him out of gratitude.
I pretended it was the heat that made me dizzy.
I read your description of Paris and could see it exactly, but all I could think was that the air there doesn’t deserve you.
You talk about my hand on your hip, the imprint it leaves. I think about that more often than I should admit, how small the space was between us that first night, how every time I see you, that space disappears faster.
Dear, I’ve learned to measure time by how long it’s been since I last touched you. It’s an imprecise science, but it’s all I have.
They’re photographing me again tomorrow.
The stylist said she wants to “capture my strength.” I told her to photograph my weakness instead, but she didn’t understand that.
Sometimes, after practice, when the courts are empty and the lights are shutting down one by one, I stand there and imagine you leaning against the net, smiling that dangerous, smile of yours.
The one that means come here.
It works every time, I start walking toward a ghost.
I love you. There, it’s written, finally, and since ink doesn’t blush, I’ll let it stay.
When you come home, I’ll meet you wherever you want, until then, keep writing.
All the light I can find,
Paige
P.S. Burn this or keep this. You know what I want.
August 14, 1971
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Beverly Hills, California
To Miss Paige Bueckers, Wimbledon Club Residences, London
My love,
You’ll be pleased to know I am officially the talk of the studio lot.
Apparently my co-star and I are the new “it” couple. He’s very polite about it: holds doors, quotes poetry badly, smells of after-shave.
The poor man blushes every time we’re photographed together, which of course makes the photographers swoon harder.
My publicist called a meeting this morning to discuss “optics.”
I nearly laughed through the whole thing. She kept saying how good this “romance” looks on the posters, how audiences love a story that spills off the screen.
They’re planning another set of photographs, the magazines will print it in black and white and call it love. You’ll know it’s acting because I’ll be standing too straight and my eyes will be looking somewhere just to the left of the camera, exactly where you’d be if you were there.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, there’s nothing to be jealous of. He’s harmless, a soft shadow. I laugh at his jokes because they’re gentle, not because they’re funny.
You’re the only one who’s ever made me laugh from the soul.
Still, it’s strange, isn’t it? How they invent stories for us while missing the real one hiding in plain sight.
When I finish this picture, I’ll come to you.
Always yours (in mischief and in truth),
Azzi
P.S. Burn this or keep this, I trust your instincts more than mine
September 3, 1971
From Miss Paige Bueckers, London
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Beverly Hills, California
My darling troublemaker,
So, the Golden and Tragic photographs have crossed the Atlantic.
I saw them this morning at breakfast, your co-star looking like he’s auditioning for sainthood, and you standing beside him glowing.
I’m proud, of course. I’m also considering writing him a strongly worded letter about personal space.
Everyone here keeps asking if I’ve seen your new romance. I keep answering, “Yes, and I taught her everything she knows.” It shuts them up long enough for me to finish my coffee.
You said he’s harmless. I believe you, but I also know how charming harmless men can be when they realize the most beautiful woman in the room is pretending to be in love with them.
If he ever forgets the pretending part, tell him I’ve got an excellent forehand and no sense of restraint.
You once told me that the cameras always find your eyes first. I wonder if that’s why I can’t stop staring at your photographs.
Don’t worry, I’ll behave. I’ll even cheer for the premiere when it comes, but afterward, when the lights go down, I want you to remember whose name your body already answers to.
Love (and too much of it),
Paige
P.S. Burn this or keep this. You know what I’d do.
April 14, 1972
From Miss Azzi Fudd, New York City
To Miss Paige Bueckers, Monte Carlo, Monaco
My love,
I read your last letter sitting in a trailer the size of a broom closet, listening to the rain hit the tin roof.
You always find a way to make me feel seen (jealousy and all). It’s a ridiculous luxury to be loved so completely that someone worries about who laughs at your jokes.
My publicist tried to bring it up again, how “these stories keep you relevant.” I told her relevance is the enemy of peace.
She didn’t like that, but I think you would have.
I miss your laugh. I miss your wrists, the way they look when you’re untying your grip after a match.
I whisper your name under my breath until the mirror forgives me.
All my steadiness, all my affection, all my ridiculous hope,
Azzi
P.S. Burn this or keep this. Either way, it’s yours.
December 18, 1972
From Miss Paige Bueckers, Sydney, Australia
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
Azzi,
I saw the photographs.
You and him at that charity gala, the ones where he’s whispering something into your ear and you’re laughing like you’ve forgotten the rest of us exist.
Maybe he told you something funny, maybe he didn’t. I don’t want to know which.
The newspapers here ran the picture beside my tournament scores, as if that were symmetry. “America’s sweethearts, both winning abroad.”
They’re better poets than they realize.
I keep trying to be rational, you warned me about this world, how it devours women like us and spits out headlines instead of hearts.
But when I see your face next to his, the reason disappears. I start remembering the way your laugh felt against my throat, and suddenly I hate every tuxedo on earth.
Tell me it’s nothing.
Tell me you were bored.
Tell me anything that sounds like the truth we used to live by.
You once said I was the only person who ever made you feel real. Lately I’ve begun to wonder if I imagined that, too.
I won my match today. I didn’t celebrate. The applause sounded wrong without you in it.
Write soon, even if it’s to scold me. I’d rather be angry with you than quiet without you.
Paige
P.S. Burn this or keep this. It won’t change what’s already written in me.
February 5, 1976
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
To Miss Paige Bueckers, Sydney, Australia
Paige,
I should start by saying what you want to hear: no, there is nothing between me and him.
There never was, unless you count the space the tabloids needed to fill a slow week. He’s kind, he’s clever, and he’s forgettable in exactly the way famous men are supposed to be.
The photograph you saw, he was telling me a story about his child’s hamster, of all things. The next morning the papers called it “an intimate exchange.”
I laughed until I nearly choked, then I stopped laughing, because I realized you’d see it too.
My publicist wanted me to formally deny it. I refused.
The more we protest, the more they print.
And besides, what would I say?
You’re right, though, the distance is killing us.
I can feel it every time, I keep telling myself this is temporary, that our schedules will breathe again. Then another film appears, another tournament, another reason to wait.
Please don’t doubt what’s real. You live in everything I do.
I love you. There’s no polite, clever way to disguise it.
I always have. I always will. The rest is noise.
Yours, even when the world insists otherwise,
Azzi
P.S. Burn this or keep this. If you keep it, fold it into your passport, it deserves to travel.
Archivist’s Note — April 1976
On April 2, 1976, newspapers across the United States announced that tennis champion Paige Bueckers had married Edward “Ned” Callahan, an investment executive twelve years her senior. The ceremony, held quietly in Connecticut, was attended by family and a few colleagues.
Miss Fudd was not present.
The following letter is dated April 6th, four days after the wedding. It is believed to be the first time Paige wrote to Azzi after the announcement.
— Dr. Eleanor Hayes, Department of History, Columbia University October 23, 2025
April 6, 1976
From Mrs. Paige Bueckers Callahan, Connecticut
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
Azzi,
I don’t know how to begin, so I’ll start with the only honest thing left: I am sorry.
You will have seen the photographs by now, the white dress, the man who looks like he belongs in a board meeting instead of beside me, the headlines declaring “America’s Golden Girl Finally Settles Down.”
Lord, it feels like reading about someone else.
His name is Ned. He’s decent, and careful, and asks very little of me. That’s why I said yes.
He gives me the sort of peace that comes from not having to explain myself.
You give me the other kind, the kind that burns.
Please believe me when I tell you that this isn’t betrayal. It’s survival.
I said to you once that fame is a house made entirely of windows. I needed a door, this was the only one available.
I thought I could do it quietly.
I can already feel your anger through the ink, and I deserve it.
But I need you to understand: this doesn’t unmake us.
No paper, no ring, no camera can touch it.
You were the truest thing in my life, and I will carry that truth even as I play my part.
If I could, I’d run to you now and explain everything face to face.
But that would undo the point of this illusion, they’d see it all, and you’d pay the price I’ve been trying to protect you from.
Please write when you can. Even if it’s just one line, even if it’s to say you hate me.
Anything is better than this silence I’ve chosen.
Always, in every life I might have had,
Paige
P.S. Burn this or keep this. I don’t deserve either, but it’s yours to decide.
April 20, 1976
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
To Mrs. Paige Bueckers Callahan, Connecticut
My Paige,
I have read your letter so many times the paper has softened.
I won’t pretend this doesn't hurt.
But I understand why you did it. Truly, I do. The world was never built to be kind to women who love like we do.
You chose the only kind of safety it offered.
When I saw the photographs, I didn’t cry. I wanted to reach into the newspaper and smooth your hair, tell you that I’m still here, that you don’t have to smile so carefully.
You don’t owe me an apology, Paige.
You gave me years of sunlight, laughter, the kind of love people spend their lives imagining and never find.
You were the most impossible, beautiful thing that ever happened to me.
My heart was always yours. It still is. It will always be yours to break.
If this is the shape our lives have to take, letters instead of hands, then I’ll take it.
I’d rather have the ache of what we were than the emptiness of never having known you at all.
When you said you’d carry our truth, I believed you.
I’ll carry it too.
Always,
Azzi
P.S. Burn this or keep this. I couldn’t burn this, if it were me.
Archivist’s Note — January 1977
The next surviving correspondence begins with a short note from Miss Fudd, written on plain stationery.
No envelope was found with it, on the reverse side, in a different hand, was Paige Bueckers’ reply.
— Dr. Eleanor Hayes, Department of History, Columbia University October 23, 2025
Note — from Miss Azzi Fudd
Paige,
I don’t know how to write this properly.
I’m pregnant.
It wasn’t planned. You know as well as I do that I never meant for this to be my story.
I wanted you to hear it from me before you saw it in the papers.
Please don’t hate me.
— A.
January 10, 1977
From Mrs. Paige Bueckers Callahan, New York City
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
Azzi,
I’ve read your note a hundred times and still don’t know what to feel.
But more than anything, something that almost feels like joy.
My dear, I can’t be angry with you.
I’ve tried, believe me.
I’ve walked around all day searching for rage, and all I find is this strange tenderness. Because you’re bringing something into the world, and how could I ever hate that? How could I hate anything that carries even a shadow of you?
You said you never meant for this to be your story, maybe that’s true.
But stories don’t ask for permission, they just happen, and then they ask us to live through them as honestly as we can. You’ve always been brave enough to do that.
I don’t know where I belong now, maybe I never did.
But wherever you are, I hope you feel safe. I hope the world is kind to you, to both of you.
You once told me your heart was mine to break. Dear, I never wanted that power, I only ever wanted to hold it.
Take care of yourself, Azzi. And if this little soul inherits your laughter, tell her I loved the sound before she was ever born.
Always,
Paige
P.S. Burn this or keep this. I already know you’ll keep it.
Archivist’s Note — October 1978
The letter below it is dated August 9, 1978. Less than three weeks before Paige Bueckers’ fatal accident in Connecticut.
According to Miss Fudd’s journals, this letter arrived a few days late; it was found opened after the funeral.
— Dr. Eleanor Hayes, Department of History, Columbia University October 23, 2025
August 9, 1978
From Mrs. Paige Bueckers Callahan, Connecticut
To Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
My dearest Azzi,
I’ve been thinking about the night you came to me, the sound of the baby sleeping in the next room, the way you looked standing in the doorway with her in your arms.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that. You said, “Her father’s gone, just like mine was,” and the words broke something open in me.
I watched you hold her, and all I could think was that the world had finally given you something it couldn’t take away.
She has your mouth, your small stubborn chin, that same watchful calm that makes people stop mid-sentence when they look at you. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
When you left, I sat in the dark for a long time.
I wanted to memorize the weight of the moment: your perfume on the pillow, the hum of the fridge, the sense that for once, in that tiny house that never felt like mine, everything was exactly where it should be.
I know we were never meant to fit the world we were born into.
If we had arrived twenty, thirty years later, maybe no one would have cared that two women found a home in each other. Maybe we could’ve walked down a street holding hands instead of letters.
But then again, maybe that impossibility is what made us who we are.
I wouldn’t trade a single heartbeat of it.
I’ve won trophies, broken records, stood under lights bright enough to erase every shadow, but the only thing that ever felt like mine was you.
You told me once that you feared being forgotten.
Let me promise you this: I will never forget you.
I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but I believe we will.
I believe in that as much as I believe in the sunrise, and if I don’t get the chance to say it again, know this: you were the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
All my love, multiplied by ten thousand tomorrows,
Paige
P.S. Burn this or keep this. Like me, it belongs to you.
Archivist’s Note — November 1978
This letter was found sealed, addressed to Mrs. Paige Bueckers Callahan (post-mortem), postmarked August 31, 1978, after.
It remained among Miss Fudd’s personal papers for the rest of her life.
— Dr. Eleanor Hayes, Department of History, Columbia University October 23, 2025
August 31, 1978
From Miss Azzi Fudd, Los Angeles, California
To Mrs. Paige Bueckers Callahan, Connecticut
My Paige,
Your letter arrived yesterday.
I’ve read it over and over, each time slower, as if by pacing myself I could keep you a little longer. It’s still on my bedside table, folded open to your last line.
Every time I pass it, I touch the paper like it’s your hand.
I don’t know what to say, except thank you.
For loving me in a world that never wanted to understand it, for giving me a story that will outlive both of us.
You wrote that maybe, in another time, we could have walked down a street holding hands. I think about that constantly.
Sometimes, when I’m pushing the pram, I imagine you beside me. You would have made her laugh, I know it.
She would have adored you.
Her name is Madison Paige. Madison for my mother, Paige for you.
I wanted her to carry something of you into every room she’ll ever enter.
She has your tiny nose crinkle, that stubborn little gesture that appears whenever she’s about to cry. Every time I see it, my chest fills with the same impossible ache.
It feels like you’re still here, tucked inside her laugh.
I keep remembering the night we said goodbye. The way you looked at me when you promised you’d come back.
How I believed you.
I still do, in some unreasonable way, not to this life, maybe, but to the next.
There must be a version of the world where time was kinder to us.
Where our love wasn’t an apology, but a beginning. Where we shared a name instead of hiding behind them.
This is the worst heartbreak I’ve ever known. But, as I once told you, my heart has always belonged to you. It was yours to break (and you did) but you also made it whole.
I don’t know what to do with this letter now.
You would have teased me about my handwriting, told me to post it before I lost my nerve.
So I’ll seal it anyway, even if it never leaves this desk.
If you were here, I’d ask you whether to burn it or keep it, but since you aren’t, I’ll do what you always did: I’ll keep it.
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