(this is a very incomplete masterlist made by me for whoever is interested. there are a lot of links that lead to more masterlists, so- prepare to browse!)
tumblr lore and very cool posts i guess:
goncharov (1973), apparently (unreality)
the tumblr folk stories
tumblr obsessions alignment chart
humans looking for Someone else
internet is haunted
the legacies people leave behind in you
humans are space orcs
how do you make memes
lighthouses
making toast
the body is round
cool stuff:
life hacks (good websites)
in case you’re having a bad night
33 good things to know
learn things for free
for trans afab friends (takes you out of tumblr)
if you love cool socks, artists being paid and to get packidge from the post (takes you out of tumblr)
sew some frogs!
muslim-made modest fashion
pirating is cool i promise (be careful though):
the best beginner’s guide (takes you out of tumblr)
pirating 101 (reddit)
use firefox smile
other search systems (fuck google)
free books
photoshop but online
photoshop never gets hacked. ever. (i can’t guarantee this one, be careful <3)
adobe x pantone bullshit 1
adobe x pantone bullshit 2
for dsmp/mcyt peeps:
every technoblade video (reddit post)
where to read mangoball
for fan artists and writers: put it on your résumé
references for when you wanna draw and need help why is it so hard:
free morpho fats and skin folds this is literal gold
i literally found even better than one morpho: more morphos. and other stuff??!
smithsonian open access! a gigantic bank for free images
same energy (pinterest but cooler)
outfits of older eras holly molly
heads in every angle possible
how to draw hands the way old disney artists did
how to draw wings
how to comics
some brushes (free)
more brushes (still free)
even more (guess what)
these brushes are for making cities fast (wowwie it’s free)
some fonts
png or jpeg?
references for when you wanna write and need help why is it so hard:
writing deaf/mute/blind characters
writing children!! when you don’t remember how it was
common medical mistakes
some fucking resources
Resources For Describing Emotions
how do i do x on ao3???
how to read like a writer
if any link is missing or deactivated, please tell me! i’ll try to find the missing post again,,,
Genre: romance (eventually), slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, smut (eventually), cat n mouse
Description: When an overworked engineering student's late-night CAD project gets interrupted by a very drunk, very lost basketball star stumbling into the wrong dorm room, she learns that some defensive plays work better in love than on the court.
What starts as a case of mistaken identity turns into an unexpected game of cat and mouse when UConn's golden girl, Paige Bueckers, can't seem to take a hint– or maybe just doesn't want to. Armed with nothing but sarcasm, an overprotective stuffed bear named Mr. Gummy, and a borrowed team jacket that definitely isn't helping the situation, our engineering hero finds herself drawing up plays to defend her heart against college basketball's most persistent point guard.
They say offense wins games, but defense wins championships. When you're trying not to fall for a girl who treats the court like her kingdom and your personal space like a suggestion, maybe it's time to admit some battles aren't meant to be won.
WC: 11.2k
Authors Notes: i had first written this for jkxreader on my other blog (whoretan) however plot deviates heavily after the first encounter, um, kinda fuck girly paige, but kind of just a love drunk idiot too
Chapter 1: The Unexpected Guest
Your eyes burned as you stared at the CAD model rotating on your screen, the internal combustion engine you'd been working on for the past—what was it now, eight hours?—still refusing to cooperate.
The familiar workspace of SOLIDWORKS had become both your best friend and worst enemy over the past three years at UConn, but tonight it felt particularly vindictive. You'd been trying to get the timing belt assembly to properly mate with the crankshaft for what felt like an eternity, and your deadline was creeping closer by the minute.
"Did you hear?" Riven's voice cut through your concentration as she burst through the door, her designer backpack hitting her bed with enough force to make your desk lamp wobble.
"Hear what?" You didn't bother turning around, instead zooming in on the problematic area of your model. The project was due in six hours, and you were nowhere near having it stress-tested. Sleep was starting to feel like a distant memory from another life.
Riven paused in her tracks—you could practically hear her jaw dropping in that dramatic way she'd perfected since freshman year. "Paige Bueckers was talking about how Q’s jump shot is worse than a middle schooler's."
The absurdity of the statement finally forced you to tear your eyes away from the screen. Your neck cracked in protest as you turned to face your roommate, who stood there with her perfectly manicured hands on her hips, waiting for your reaction. Three years of living together had taught you that Riven wouldn't let you focus until you properly acknowledged whatever piece of gossip she'd brought home.
“That’s literally ridiculous.”
Riven tilted her head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling in that characteristic way of hers. Six seconds of contemplation later (you’d learned to count), she shrugged and pulled out her iPhone, probably to text the women's basketball group chat about the latest drama.
Your roommate, much like all the other Huskies superfans, didn't care whose reputation a particular player tarnished. She'd much rather get on their good side, damaged reputations or not. It was a dance you'd watched play out countless times since freshman year, when you'd first been assigned as roommates.
Back then, you'd thought the random housing assignment would be a disaster—the sports-obsessed sorority girl and the robotics team president seemed like a recipe for mutual hatred. But somehow, your differences had created a strange balance. She dragged you out of your engineering cave occasionally, and you reminded her that there was more to college than chasing after basketball stars.
"Caitlin bought Kate those new custom Nikes." Riven thrust her phone in your face, revealing a photo of Clark's teammate happily posing with pristine white sneakers. The caption read, 'Thanks for the gift bb, @CaitlinClark22'.
You squinted at the screen, trying not to think about how those shoes probably cost more than your entire semester's textbooks. The basketball elite weren't just known for their court skills—their NIL deals were equally legendary. Every starter came from successful programs, the kind that built training facilities and had courts named after their alumni.
"What a lucky bitch," Riven sighed, flopping onto her bed.
Apparently, your roommate wasn't the only one who didn't care for her reputation. Last week, she'd blown up your phone with about thirty—maybe sixty—texts about how her sorority sister had seen Caitlin making out with someone else at The Tavern. Looks like those custom Nikes must've been an apology.
You looked up at your starstruck roommate with pursed lips. Riven caught your expression and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, she's being messy. So what? Those shoes are like two thousand dollars with the custom work, that's my fucking meal plan right there."
"Remind me again how you're a neurology student?"
Riven clutched her chest with an open hand, gasping dramatically. "Wow. I see how it is." She threw herself backward onto her bed with the theatrical flair of a soap opera star.
You couldn't help but grin, even as your eyes darted back to your computer screen. The smile quickly died on your lips.
Oh fuck.
The CAD model still sat there, mocking you with its incomplete state. You'd managed to complete maybe forty percent of the assembly, and the entire thing needed to be fully rigged and stress-analyzed by nine AM.
This was the cost of your procrastination, another dinner sacrificed to the gods of engineering deadlines. At least you had a good excuse this time: you'd spent the weekend helping the robotics team prepare for their upcoming competition. Being vice president meant putting in the extra hours, even if it meant cramming your actual coursework into impossible timeframes.
"I have to finish this tonight. Do not bother me with any more basketball drama." You spun your chair back to face your screen, not bothering to check if Riven was sticking her tongue out at you. You could picture it anyway, she had the maturity of a twelve-year-old sometimes.
Five and a half hours later, you finally pressed the glorious 'Submit' button on Blackboard. You turned off your PC with such violence that the desktop nearly toppled over.
"Never doing that again," you groaned, slumping into your chair and letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your neck felt like it had been replaced with concrete somewhere around hour six.
"You literally say that every time," Riven quipped from her side of the room.
If you had any energy left, you would've gotten up and punched her in the ass. Luckily for her, your eyes had started doing that thing where they drooped shut every few seconds without your permission. You'd decided about thirty minutes ago that your chair was an acceptable substitute for a bed. The walk to your actual mattress seemed about as feasible as climbing Mount Everest right now.
"How do I look? Good enough for the party?"
Fucking hell.
You summoned what little remained of your core strength and groaned as you forced your chair to swivel around. The sight that greeted you was, admittedly, impressive, even through your exhaustion-blurred vision.
Riven wore a black dress that hit just above her knees, with strategic cutouts along her ribs. The laced-up black heels she'd spent twenty minutes struggling with (while whining very fucking loudly) completed the look perfectly. She'd devoted the last hour of your project completion marathon to preparing for KK’s birthday celebration.
“Which party?” you croaked. “The one where everyone’s fighting or the one where they’re pretending nothing happened?”
Her nose wrinkled in that way it did when she was trying not to laugh. "You're so annoying."
Yeeeaaah, definitely the messy one.
You watched as Riven stumbled toward her drawer, rummaging through three compartments before pulling out a neon orange tiny bag. And when you say tiny, you mean tiny, it couldn't have been more than two inches across.
"Can you even fit anything in there?"
A wicked smile spread across her face as she opened the toy purse, pulling out her student ID and a tube of lipstick. Of-fucking-course. “Minimalist chic, baby. Besides, I don’t need much. Just the essentials. I'm serious. Tonight's gonna be fucking legendary."
“Legendary,” you deadpanned, swiveling your chair back to your desk. “Try not to end up on Barstool again.”
You swore she lunged forward, ready to attack you with her miniature weapon. But her phone rang, which happened to be a far more pressing matter. The assault could wait. Riven pressed the phone to her ear with a smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat proud.
"Are you here? Yeah, I'm ready. You have the Pink Whitney? Okay. Bye."
She turned back to you with that same manic grin. "I'll get you back for that later. Bye!"
And just like that, Riven leaped out of the room, her neon orange bag and its singular tube of lipstick disappearing with her into whatever chaos awaited at the UConn house.
The sudden silence in her wake felt almost oppressive. You sat there for a moment, contemplating your life choices. The clean lines and precise measurements of your engineering models never gave you this much drama. Maybe that's why you preferred spending your nights with SOLIDWORKS instead of at parties—machines were predictable, logical, and they never started drama about anyone's jump shot.
After nearly crawling your way across the room for what felt like thirty minutes (but was probably closer to five), you finally made it to your bed. Or rather, to the base of your bed. The problem now was getting on top of it. UConn, in its infinite wisdom, had given everyone the tallest fucking beds in existence.
Tall enough that all of your belongings fit underneath it so they could make the rooms ten times smaller by doing so. You sat on your ass, glaring at what felt like a sixteen-foot space between you and the mattress. You could, theoretically, just fucking get up and with one last surge of energy jump onto it. But the soft cotton of your fuzzy rug was suddenly hugging your back, tucking you in, cradling you like a loving parent.
Fuck it, the floor isn't even that bad. You've slept on much worse—like that one time freshman year when you passed out in the robotics lab after a forty-eight-hour building session. At least your rug didn't smell like motor oil and desperation.
Your head lay flat on the floor, the hardwood never felt softer. Riven had left hours ago, and you'd managed to successfully knock out on your chair for a bit. That was until you jolted awake, sweating out of every crevice of your body, and made eye contact with your actual bed. You'd said goodbye to the chair and began the voyage to your proper sleeping place. Clearly, that wasn't going as planned.
It was too late now to dwell on what could've been. Tomorrow, you'd start anew. Just like every time she partied, Riven wouldn't be back for two or three days. You'd have a full day to sleep on your actual bed without the mention of UConn and internal combustion engines.
You turned to your side, the fuzz tickling your chin as you nuzzled into it. Sleep was just starting to creep in when—
"Taylor! Tay baby, please open the door!"
The hairs on your arms rose and a fart you hadn't realized you'd been holding in released into the air. Some drunk player had the wrong door.
“Wrong room,” you called, hoping they’d get the hint. With a shaky breath, you nuzzled deeper into the carpet.
Not a second later, a bang erupted through your room. "Tay, please. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."
Your heart thrashed in your chest. Could you not have one night of peace? One night of tranquility to enjoy your own company? One night to enjoy sleeping on the hard floor?
"Taylor, for fuckssake." The asshole nearly knocked the fucking door off the hinges.
First, you're going to knock her the hell out. Then, you'll find out where Taylor lives and knock her out, too. Maybe you could work it into your next robotics project—a robot specifically designed to punch drunk athletes who can't read room numbers.
"Tay, please—"
You jolted upward and ran to the door so fast you probably broke several laws of physics. Swinging the wooden panel open like a madwoman, you yelled, "Listen asshole, I don't know who Taylor is and I don't give a damn. It's late as hell and some of us actually enjoy sleeping!"
Said asshole leaned against the door frame of your room, a Nike-covered foot tapping against the floor as she pressed a finger to your lips. "Shhhhh, baby, I said I'm sorry."
Your throat locked and you nearly laughed at the audacity. Did this fucker really not notice you weren't Taylor? Through your sleep-deprived haze, you managed to register a few details about the intruder: tall, athletic build that made your mouth go dry, honey-blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and wearing what looked like exclusive UConn team gear. Great. A drunk basketball star.
Said basketball star happened to also push herself off the door frame and trudge past you, right into your room as if she'd been there a million times.
Much like you wanted to before your carpet trapped you, the stranger leaped onto your bed, stomach flopping onto the cushion of your mattress. She muttered something you couldn't hear as she grabbed your favorite pillow and brought it close to her chest. She was snuggling your Mr. Gummy.
You were going to go to jail for assaulting a Division I athlete. Yeah. This was the end of your girl boss engineering career. Goodbye feminist STEM icon. Hello convict. All those years of suffering to get into UConn just for you to catch a case over the Greek Goddess, Nike, herself. At least you'd submitted your project first, might as well get credit for that before you went to prison.
"Babe, I don't remember your bed smelling this good." She'd gone into a fetal position, kicking off her—yep, definitely team-exclusive Nikes. Maybe, just maybe, you'd knock her out and then sell her shoes on StockX. The proceeds could cover your legal defense.
You rubbed your forehead with the back of your palm, wiping away the stress sweat that had accumulated. You swung your head out of your door, looking left and right, then repeat. Empty. Fuck. Fuck, and fuck.
You paced back and forth a few times, biting on the edge of your hand. You can't pick this goddess off your bed. One, she's drunk as hell. Two, she's... You gazed back at the stranger, somewhere on her journey to your bed she'd tossed her UConn warmup jacket to your floor. Leaving her in a fitted tank top that left nothing to the imagination.
Who needs that many shoulder muscles? The definition in the arm that hugged Mr. Gummy was sculpted by years of perfect jump shots. Each shift of her body revealed new curves, like a living Nike ad designed specifically to torment sleep-deprived engineering students.
Holy hell. Get a fucking grip.
Okay, so you can't drag the basketball star off your bed.
Plan B it is.
You trudged into your room, taking one last look at the hallway. Should you close the door?
If someone did hypothetically walk past would they think you drugged her? She was slurring her words and hugging your favorite bear while you paced back and forth like you happened to "accidentally" slip something into her Gatorade.
You closed the door.
You needed to call Riven. You could care less that she was at the beginning of her three-day rager, you weren't going to wait till the next morning when Nike would wake up and start accusing you of kidnapping UConn's star point guard.
You slowly walked toward your desk, making sure to avoid the panels on the floor that creaked every time someone stepped on them. Empty. You pushed your chair back to see if it happened to fall earlier. Empty.
The air stilled, and you shook your head. No. No. She was laying on it.
You'd chucked your phone onto your bed after deciding to finally start your project. You had to call Riven. There was no other choice but to tell someone. And given the fact that your contact list included your parents and Riven, she was looking like the most optimal candidate.
As silently as you could, you tip-toed toward your bed and did a quick examination. Near her head? Nope. Mr. Gummy? Nope. Legs? Nope. Hip?
Yeah.
Maybe you would go to jail after all, for assault.
You better get an A on that fucking project.
You took a step forward, awkwardly climbing the edge of your bed to get closer to your phone. Which was nicely tucked right under the curve of her ass, your camera barely peeking out as if it was taunting you.
Shit. How are you going to pull it out?
Your face contorted as you inched closer to the basketball player, thumb and middle finger clutching the edges of your phone and lightly tugging backward. She huffed out a soft groan. Dear god.
It's not budging.
In and out. Breathe.
You tugged again.
Something thudded against the floor.
Your eyes left the phone and gazed to the floor where your Mr. Gummy lay sacrificed to the floor demons. Uh oh.
You turned back to retrieve your bear when your eyes locked with hers. Her very open eyes.
She was smiling.
"Baby I didn't know you were so handsy."
You stared. That's all you could manage to do—stare at the face of the beautiful drunk idiot in front of you. And holy shit was she beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you question if UConn's recruitment standards included a mandatory photogenic quota for certain players.
The idiot had a playful smile playing across her stupidly perfect face. Taylor must be a lucky girl. Not lucky enough, though, considering her girlfriend was currently in a stranger's bed. How drunk did someone have to be to not recognize they had the wrong person?
"C'mere," she grabbed your arm, pulling you to your side as if you weighed nothing. A strong arm locked around your waist and began rubbing circles on your stomach. The motion sent shivers down your spine that you desperately tried to ignore.
"Missed you, n' I'm sorry baby," she slurred into your ear. Her voice was much softer now, a warm whisper that made your whole body tingle.
Taylor, I'm so sorry.
The words shot straight between your legs. You hadn't been touched in almost two years. Sue me. A gorgeous basketball star was rubbing your lower stomach while she told you—her girlfriend—she missed her. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. You spend three years avoiding athlete drama, and now the universe deposits one directly into your bed?
You needed your phone. Pronto.
"Listen— I—" You raised a clammy hand to lift her, attempting to wrap your fingers around her wrist to lift it. Your engineering brain was trying to calculate the exact force required to remove her arm without waking her up further, but all mathematical ability seemed to have short-circuited.
"You're so squirmy tonight," she intertwined your fingers.
What the fuck are you supposed to do? You inched your body further away in an attempt to shrug her off. A move that, in retrospect, was about as well-thought-out as trying to integrate calculus while drunk.
Nike thought otherwise. She pulled you closer until her front was pressed firmly against your back, her breath warm against your neck. You could feel the defined muscles of her stomach through her tank top, her body radiating heat that made your head spin.
FUCK.
You'll wake up with a gay panic and a warrant.
"I'm really tired," you squirmed against the death grip around your waist. For someone supposedly blackout drunk, she had the grip strength of someone who'd spent their life fighting through double teams.
Just pretend it's not there. You do not feel anything. Just toned arms and her—
"G'to bed baby. I'll make it up— make it up to you n' the morning." Nike lifted herself to place one last sleepy kiss against your cheek.
Two minutes later, Nike’s light snores vibrated against the back of your neck, warm breath caressing your skin. You wouldn't be able to move her off you. You had no clue where your phone was. Her hip could very well have fully consumed it at this point, creating some kind of phone-eating black hole that physics hadn't yet discovered.
With a sigh, you closed your eyes, pretended there wasn't a Division I basketball star sleeping in your bed, and prayed that you wouldn't end up in some viral TikTok before noon. At least if you did become internet famous, you'd already submitted that goddamn CAD project.
Your last thought before drifting off was that Mr. Gummy better not tell anyone about this.
"OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL!"
Are you being robbed? Is someone being murdered? You jolted upwards to see Riven staring at you with an open mouth, her perfectly applied makeup from last night now resembling a raccoon's Halloween costume.
You shook your head, trying to clear the fog of sleep. What's her problem?
She pointed to your bed and you turned your body to the side. Oh.
Oh.
Nike was rapidly blinking, those unfairly long eyelashes fluttering as she was most likely realizing you were not Taylor. The morning light streaming through your window illuminated her features in a way that should be illegal before coffee.
You laughed nervously, hands flailing in front of you like a malfunctioning windmill. "It's not what it looks like."
"Why is Paige Bueckers in your bed?"
Paige Bueckers? The same UConn Basketball Star Paige Bueckers? No fucking way.
This Paige had cuddled Mr. Gummy half of the night before opting to trap you in the bed with her. There was no chance that this was the same Paige Bueckers that had NIL deals with Nike and Gatorade and had laid waste to half the NCAA.
Paige—definitely Paige—groaned beside you, hands rubbing her face. "Taylor's going to kill me," she mumbled underneath her breath.
"No, we— we didn't. We." You pointed between yourself and Paige, your brain short-circuiting like a poorly wired circuit board.
"Listen, sweetie, I'm sure it was the time of your life, but this was a one-time thing." Her voice had that practiced smoothness of someone who'd given this speech before, probably more times than the number of equations in your thermodynamics textbook.
Your eyes bulged out of their sockets. Was she serious? Did she think you two—? And she was okay with it? Now, this fits the description perfectly of the cocky superstar Paige Bueckers was known to be.
Your face burned hotter than an overclocked processor. "We did not have sex. You came in here drunk off your ass screaming about your girlfriend."
By the time the word girlfriend left your mouth, Paige Bueckers had already jumped off your bed with the agility of someone who definitely wasn't as hungover as she should be. She snatched up her UConn warmup jacket from your floor and was halfway down the hallway before you could blink.
What an arrogant little asshole. Your muscles quivered with the urge to strangle her. That is if you ever saw her again. Which, given your luck and UConn’s campus, was probably inevitable.
"How long have you and Paige been seeing each other?" The empty spot beside you filled with Riven's weight. "Is that why you never wanted to come to the games with me?"
"Riven, you have five seconds to get off of my bed before I strangle you."
"You can't avoid this conversation forever!" she called out as you stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door with perhaps more force than necessary.
Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you tried to process the reality that you'd just spent the night cuddled up with Paige fucking Bueckers. The same player whose name had been carved into the unofficial NCAA hierarchy since before orientation.
You splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the memory of how her arms had felt around you, how her breath had tickled your neck, how her—
No. Absolutely not. You were not going to join the ranks of college students who'd lost their minds over a basketball star. You had bigger things to worry about. Like whether your CAD project had uploaded properly. Or if you could ever look at Mr. Gummy the same way again.
The next few days passed in a blur of classes, labs, and actively avoiding any location where you might run into Paige. You'd even skipped Tuesday's Engineering Club meeting, sending your vice president a detailed email about needing to catch up on work. It wasn't entirely a lie—you did have work to catch up on, considering you'd spent half your study time calculating alternate routes to class that avoided the usual athlete hangouts.
But by Thursday afternoon, your luck ran out. The library was supposed to be safe—the one place on campus where the basketball players rarely ventured. They had their own private study rooms in the athletic center, after all. Which is why you'd let your guard down, settling into your favorite spot near the engineering section to catch up on your reading.
The peaceful atmosphere was shattered by two girls settling at the table across from you, their whispered conversation carrying clearly in the quiet space.
"So yeah, I like totally made out with Paige in the team room. We almost knocked over Coach's whiteboard, isn't that hilarious?" The prettier of the two said as she placed her MacBook on the wooden table, her voice carrying that forced casualness of someone trying very hard to seem unbothered.
Her friend laughed and took a sip of her Starbucks, a lemonade, probably sugar-free, because of course it was. "So how was it?"
Paige's latest conquest giggled and opened her laptop, trying to seem as uninterested in the conversation as possible. You'd seen this play before, the carefully crafted nonchalance that masked the inevitable disappointment when Paige moved on to her next target. You'd bet your entire scholarship that she'd gone home crying after being ghosted, only to watch Paige pretend she didn't exist the next day.
By this point, you'd given up all pretense of studying chemical processes and electron movement. You'd reread the same paragraph in your textbook sixteen times, your brain more interested in this glimpse into the life of your unexpected bedmate. So what if you're being nosy? Everyone is nosy, and besides, you'd mentally checked out the moment these two sat down.
"She's such a good kisser.” Her friend's mouth dropped open as she placed her half-empty cup onto the table, grabbing her friend's shoulder with one hand. The former nodded, still giggling, "Sarah, I know. She like totally picked me up against the whiteboard."
Are they not aware that people can hear them? That they're in a public space? You glanced around the library, which was half-empty as usual. So maybe you were the only one eavesdropping. Still, you wouldn't go around a library of all places announcing your hookups to the world.
"Hey buttercup," an eerily familiar voice purred in your ear.
You jolted, arms flailing like a malfunctioning robot, inevitably colliding with your pencil case and sending its contents scattering across the floor. Various writing implements rolled under nearby tables like they were making a break for freedom.
You turned to lock eyes with a very, very familiar pair of hazel eyes. Shit.
"Do I know you?" You asked through gritted teeth, trying to ignore how good she looked in her fitted Nike training gear. The amount of exclusive team merchandise on her body probably equaled your entire semester's expenses.
Why would Paige, of all people, be looking for you? If you remembered correctly, she was the one to so diligently inform you that whatever happened was a one-time thing—even though nothing had actually happened.
Paige's eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips tugged upward into that infamous smirk. She leaned forward, resting one hand on the edge of the table, the other on the back of your chair, effectively caging you in. "Don't play dumb."
She was in your bubble. Way too close for comfort, especially since you'd been planning on never having to interact with her again. You groaned and leaned backward, roughly pushing your chair back to give yourself space to lean over and pick up your scattered pens. The move was partly practical and partly designed to annoy her.
"Listen, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be here either." Paige grabbed the chair to your left and pushed it closer to you, dropping into it with that natural athlete's grace. "I've been to your room every day since Sunday and you haven't been there once."
Welp. Why the hell would she be looking for you?
"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was supposed to be waiting in my room for you." You shoved the pens back into your pencil case, gripping the zipper and tugging it closed with perhaps more force than necessary. Looks like the library was no longer a safe haven.
"I lost my phone and you're the only person I remember being with that night," Paige groaned, turning her head.
Does she truly remember that night? Remember that you two didn't actually hook up but instead cuddled? You wanted to convulse at the memory of how safe and warm you'd felt in her arms. How right it had—no. Absolutely not.
"Oh fuck," she mumbled, her expression shifting from annoyed to something closer to panic.
Your eyes followed her gaze to see what had caused this reaction.
Ha. Ha. Ha. In your face, superstar. You couldn't help but grin as you realized the two girls were still very much present. Not only present but staring at you and Paige with expressions that suggested their jaws might actually detach and hit the table.
Paige leaned back in her chair, sending them a small wave and a—was that a wink? Your eyes nearly rolled directly out of their sockets. How much more predictable could she get?
You didn't bother to look back at the two girls to see their reaction. You could guess it anyway—probably swooning in their chairs, maybe even planning their own strategic "accidental" encounters with her. You wouldn't be surprised if they were already planning to show up at her next practice session.
"Anyways," Paige turned back to you, her voice dropping to that low register that definitely didn't do things to your insides, "Have you seen it?"
You shook your head, closing your textbook. Time to get the hell out of here. "No, I haven't. Sorry."
"Are you mad about what I said? Is that why you're holding my precious phone hostage?" Paige's hand shot out to land on top of your textbook, preventing you from shoving it in your bag—or directly at her stupid, perfect face.
"Mad about what exactly?" You grabbed her hand and tried to shove it off the textbook. She didn't budge. Of course she didn't, you'd seen her arms during all those ESPN highlights Riven forced you to watch. "I do not have your phone."
Within seconds, Paige's hand slid off the textbook only to trap your hand against it instead. She moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward until her lips were at the shell of your ear. Her warm breath hit your skin and you had to resist the urge to squirm. "About what I said in front of your roommate, sweetie."
Your blood ran cold. Does she think you give two shits about what she said in front of Riven? That she made your roommate think you two were secretly hooking up and that she would undoubtedly eventually let it slip to her sorority sisters? Who will tell the rest of campus? No. Not. At. All.
Asshole. She's a no-good little asshole with too many NIL deals and too little accountability.
You turned your head to face her, ignoring the fact that you were now inches apart. If you weren't so pissed you might've paused to appreciate how her eyes looked up close, how they seemed to hold more mischief than all the troublemakers in Cambridge combined. But now wasn't the time for character studies.
You held her gaze, noting the slight knit in her brow that suggested she wasn't as confident as she was pretending to be. "Listen here Bueckers, whether or not you want to keep pretending like we hooked up or not is none of my business. I do not have your fucking phone, and if I did I would've thrown that shit into the Charles River by now."
You yanked your hand away from her grasp and turned back to your desk. You managed to successfully toss your textbook into your bag and rise from your chair without another word from her.
Before making your very dramatic exit, you turned to face her one last time. Might as well make it grand.
Paige hadn't moved an inch since you'd stood up. She stared at you with a raised brow and that infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. She found this amusing? Found humiliating you in the library a good pastime?
You bent over your chair, placing one hand on her shoulder and leaning in until you were at the shell of her ear. She stiffened under your touch, and you felt a small thrill of satisfaction. What the fuck are you doing?
You leaned in further, so close that your chest pressed flat against your arm and her body. So close that your lips actually grazed her ear as you whispered, with all the venom you could muster, “This might work on your little groupies, but, I’m not interested.”
The last thing you saw as you straightened up and walked away was the shocked expression on her face, like she couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Good. Let her be confused for once.
You managed to make it all the way to the library exit before your hands started shaking. What the hell had gotten into you? You'd just essentially declared war on one of the most prominent athletes at UConn. The star player who could probably get you banned from every sports event without blinking.
But as you pushed through the heavy doors into the crisp fall air, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. Maybe it was time someone stood up to the mighty Paige Bueckers. Someone who didn't want anything from her except for her to leave them alone.
Your muscles were still tense from your library encounter as you trudged up the stairs to your dorm room. The familiar hallway felt longer than usual, probably because every step reminded you of how spectacularly you'd just antagonized UConn's star player. At least you'd managed to get through your thermodynamics lab without dwelling too much on the way Paige's face had dropped when you'd—
No. Stop fucking thinking about it.
You fumbled with your key card, missing the reader twice before finally getting the door open. The first thing you noticed was an envelope on the floor, likely slipped under your door while you were in class. You bent down to pick it up, ready to toss it in the recycling with all the other campus spam, when Riven's voice cut through the room.
"What's that?"
You jumped, nearly dropping the envelope. Your roommate was sprawled across her bed, still in her scrubs from her hospital rotation. She must have gotten back early.
"Nothing," you muttered, but it was too late. Riven had already launched herself off her bed with surprising agility for someone who'd just finished a twelve-hour shift.
"Oh my god," she squealed, snatching the envelope from your hands before you could protest. "These are courtside tickets to Saturday's game!"
Your stomach dropped. Sure enough, two tickets peeked out of the torn envelope in Riven's hands. But what caught your eye was the note attached.
Found my phone in the team room. Who would’ve thought, right? Peace? - PB
"We're going," Riven declared, already pulling out her phone. "I'm texting the group chat right now. Do you know how impossible these tickets are to get?"
You reached for the tickets, but Riven danced away, holding them above her head like a prized trophy. "We are not going."
"Oh yes we are," she grinned, typing furiously with one hand while keeping the tickets out of your reach with the other. "Everyone's going to be so jealous. How did you even get these?"
"I didn't—" you started, then stopped. How exactly do you explain to your basketball-obsessed roommate that these tickets were some kind of weird peace offering from Paige Bueckers? A peace offering that felt more like a challenge, especially given that note.
"Earth to engineering nerd," Riven waved her hand in front of your face. "You're coming to this game. No excuses. I've already told everyone you're finally embracing the Husky spirit."
You groaned, falling face-first onto your bed. Mr. Gummy stared at you judgmentally from his spot against your pillow. Even he seemed to be saying you should have thrown those tickets away the moment you saw them.
"I have to study," you mumbled into your comforter.
"You always have to study," Riven countered. "But how often do you get courtside tickets from Paige Bueckers?"
Your head shot up. "How did you—"
"PB?" Riven held up the note, smirking. "Please. I may be pre-med, but I'm not stupid. Also, her signature is literally on every piece of UConn merch in the campus store."
Great. Just great. Now you had no choice but to go to the game. If you didn't, Riven would never let you hear the end of it. She'd probably drag you there anyway, study plans be damned.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some escape route from this situation. Instead, all you could think about was how you'd have to sit courtside—courtside—and watch Paige play. Watch her make those impossible passes, sink those perfect three-pointers, command the court like she was born to do it.
And she'd know you were there. That was the worst part. This wasn't just a peace offering—it was a power play. She was making sure you couldn't ignore her anymore.
"Fine," you sighed, already regretting the word as it left your mouth. "But I'm bringing my thermodynamics textbook."
Riven's squeal of delight was probably heard all the way in the engineering building.
You grabbed Mr. Gummy and hugged him to your chest, wondering how exactly you'd gone from successfully telling Paige Bueckers to fuck off to having courtside seats to watch her play. The bear offered no answers, but you could have sworn he looked a little smug about the whole situation.
The next two days were a special kind of torture. Riven had taken it upon herself to become your personal "game day preparation coordinator," which apparently meant forcing you to sit through endless highlight reels of UConn's recent victories. By Friday afternoon, you could probably recite Paige's stat line from memory—not that you'd ever admit that to anyone.
"You can't wear that," Riven declared as you pulled out your standard comfort outfit: UConn Engineering hoodie and black leggings.
You glanced down at your clothes, then back at your roommate. "Why not?"
"Because we're sitting courtside," she emphasized the word like you were a particularly slow child. "People are going to see us. The cameras might even pan to us during timeouts!"
The mere thought made your stomach churn. "That's exactly why I should wear this. I don't want to draw any attention."
Riven was already shaking her head, diving into her closet with the determination of someone on a mission. "No way. If Paige Bueckers gives you courtside tickets, you dress for the occasion."
"She didn't give them to me," you protested, even though technically she had. "They were just left under our door."
"Right," Riven emerged with an armful of clothes. "Just like she just happened to end up in your bed that night?"
You threw Mr. Gummy at her head. She dodged, laughing as the bear bounced harmlessly off your desk lamp. "We are not talking about that again."
An hour and approximately seventeen outfit changes later, you finally escaped. Your excuse about needing to pick up materials from the engineering lab wasn't entirely a lie—you did have a project due next week. The fact that the engineering building was on the opposite side of campus from the athletic facilities was just a bonus.
Lost in thought, you didn't notice the person exiting the coffee shop until it was too late. Hot liquid splashed across your chest as you collided with what felt like a brick wall of muscle.
"Shit, I'm so sorry!" A voice that definitely wasn't Paige's (thank god) exclaimed.
You looked up—and up—into the concerned face of one of UConn's basketball players. The Croatian accent and defensive intensity were legendary enough that even you, perpetually sports-oblivious, recognized her from Riven's endless team discussions.
"It's fine," you managed, trying to ignore how the hot coffee was currently seeping through your shirt. At least it wasn't your engineering hoodie—Riven would've killed you if you'd ruined her carefully planned outfit for tomorrow.
She was already pulling napkins from her pocket, dabbing at your shirt with a look of genuine distress. "Let me buy you a new coffee. And shirt," she added, eyeing the growing stain.
"Really, it's fine." You stepped back, ready to bolt. The last thing you needed was another interaction with a basketball player.
But she wasn't letting you off that easy. She grabbed your wrist with surprising gentleness for someone known for her aggressive defense. “Nah, I insist. I'm Nika, by the way. And I really do feel terrible about this."
Before you could protest further, she was steering you back into the coffee shop. The barista's eyes widened slightly at the sight of Nika—clearly a regular customer—but otherwise maintained their professional composure.
"The usual for me," Nika called out, "and whatever she wants." She turned to you expectantly.
You mumbled your name and order—"Just a black coffee"—trying to shrink into yourself. Several students were openly staring now, probably wondering why Nika Mühl was buying coffee for some random engineering student.
"And a chocolate croissant," Nika added, ignoring your attempt to protest. "Trust me, they're amazing here."
You shifted uncomfortably as she paid, very aware of the wet fabric clinging to your skin. Nika seemed to notice your discomfort because she shrugged off her UConn warmup jacket and held it out to you.
"Here, you can't stay in that wet shirt."
You stared at the jacket like it might bite you. The same style jacket Paige had left on your floor that night. The one that probably cost more than your textbooks.
"I can't—"
"You can and you will," Nika insisted, pushing the jacket into your hands. "There's a bathroom right there. Go change before you catch a cold."
Something in her tone brooked no argument. You found yourself in the bathroom before you could really process what was happening, staring at your reflection as you zipped up the warmup jacket. It was slightly too big, making you look like a kid playing dress-up in their older sibling's clothes.
When you emerged, Nika had already claimed a table in the corner, your drinks and the promised chocolate croissant waiting. She waved you over with a smile that somehow managed to be both friendly and slightly intimidating.
"So," she said as you slid into the seat across from her, "what's your major?"
"Engineering. Mechanical." You picked at the croissant, wondering how quickly you could eat it and escape.
Nika's eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Engineering— wait." Her eyes widened with recognition. "Holy shit, are you that girl?"
You froze mid-bite. "What girl?"
"The one from the library! The one who told Paige—what was it? ‘That you’re not one of her groupies’?” Nika's grin spread across her face like wildfire. "No wonder she's been such a mess lately."
You choked on your croissant. "What?"
"Oh my god, this is perfect. You're also the one she—" Nika cut herself off, studying your increasingly red face with growing delight. "The one whose room she crashed in after KK’s party?"
Your face burned hotter than the coffee you'd been wearing moments ago. "How did you—"
"Paige tells me everything," Nika leaned back in her chair, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Well, eventually. Had to drag this one out of her after she spent three days moping around practice like someone had stolen her favorite pair of Jordan’s.”
"I didn't steal anything," you protested automatically. "Not her phone, not her—"
"Oh, she knows that now," Nika waved dismissively. "Found it in the team room yesterday morning. Right where those girls said it would be." She paused, then added with a smirk, "Though I have to say, watching her spiral about it was pretty entertaining. She's not used to people calling her out like that."
The implication hung heavy in the air. You remembered the library girls' story about making out with Paige against the whiteboard. Something must have shown on your face because Nika's expression softened slightly.
"Look, Paige is complicated. She's not used to people seeing through her bullshit." She took a sip of her drink, considering her next words carefully. "Those tickets? That's her way of saying she fucked up."
"By accusing me of stealing her phone?"
"By letting you think she didn't remember that night."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. "What?"
Nika's phone buzzed before she could answer. She glanced at it and grimaced. "Speaking of her royal highness, I'm late for film." She stood, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "Keep the jacket. Consider it compensation for the coffee attack."
You watched her head toward the door, your mind spinning with questions. Just before she left, she turned back with a knowing smirk.
"See you tomorrow at the game. Front row, right?"
The door chimed as she left, leaving you alone with a half-eaten croissant and more questions than answers. You looked down at the jacket, at the way the UConn logo seemed to mock you with its pristine embroidery.
Somehow, in trying to avoid Paige Bueckers, you'd managed to get tangled up in her world anyway. And tomorrow, you'd have to sit courtside and watch her in her element, all while wearing her best friend's jacket.
Mr. Gummy was definitely going to judge you for this.
"No." You glared at the suspicious red cup Riven was waving in front of your face. "Absolutely not."
"Come on! It's tradition!" She pushed the cup closer, its contents sloshing dangerously near the rim. The sharp smell of cheap vodka mixed with what you assumed was cranberry juice wafted toward you. "You can't go to your first real game sober."
You turned back to your mirror, adjusting Nika's warmup jacket for the hundredth time. The number 10 stared back at you, a constant reminder of yesterday's coffee shop encounter. You'd tried to talk yourself out of wearing it, but everything else felt too casual for courtside seats (according to Riven) or too formal (also according to Riven).
"I'm not pregaming a basketball game at three in the afternoon."
"It's four," Riven corrected, checking her phone. "And yes, you are. The team's already been at Gampel for hours, and we need to leave in thirty minutes if we want good spots for warm-ups. I refuse to let you sit there reading thermodynamics while history happens right in front of us."
You spun around, hands on your hips. "History?"
"Yes! We're playing Notre Dame. It's huge." She thrust the cup into your hands with such force that some of it splashed onto your fingers. "And you're wearing Nika Mühl's personal jacket. Do you know how many people would kill for that?"
"I got it because she spilled coffee on me," you muttered, but took a small sip anyway. Just to shut her up. The drink was surprisingly not terrible— mostly juice with just enough vodka to warm your chest.
"Right. Just like Paige 'accidentally' ended up in your bed." Riven made air quotes with her fingers, nearly spilling her own drink in the process. "And then 'accidentally' gave us courtside tickets."
"Can we not talk about that?" You took another sip, larger this time. The warmth spread through your limbs, making everything feel slightly softer around the edges. Maybe Riven had a point about the drinking thing.
"Oh, we're definitely talking about it." She flopped onto your bed, somehow not spilling a drop. "You're wearing her best friend's jacket to watch her play. This is like, next level psychological warfare."
You choked on your drink. "It's not warfare! I just didn't have anything else to wear."
"Mhmm." Riven's knowing smirk made you want to throw Mr. Gummy at her again. "That's why you spent twenty minutes adjusting it in the mirror."
"I did not—"
"You did! You were all,” She stood up, mimicking your earlier movements with exaggerated precision. "'Oh, should I zip it up all the way? Maybe halfway? What if I push up the sleeves?'"
You drained your cup in one go, grimacing at the burn. "I hate you."
"You love me." She was already mixing another drink, this one slightly stronger than the last. "And you're going to thank me when Paige sees you in that jacket and loses her mind."
"She's not going to lose her mind," you protested, but accepted the fresh drink anyway. "She probably won't even notice."
Riven's laugh echoed off the walls. "Oh honey. Paige notices everything. Why do you think she's the best point guard in the country?"
The walk to Gampel Pavilion was a blur of Riven's excited chatter and your growing anxiety. The drinks had taken the edge off, but your heart still raced as you approached the arena. Students were already lining up outside, many wearing jerseys and carrying signs. Your hand instinctively went to the zipper of Nika's jacket, suddenly very aware of what you were wearing.
"Stop fidgeting," Riven hissed, pulling you toward a separate entrance. "You look hot. Own it."
The security guard barely glanced at your tickets before waving you through. The arena was already humming with energy— staff rushing around with equipment, the band setting up in their section, early arrivals claiming their seats.
Your courtside seats were exactly where you'd dreaded they'd be: directly behind the UConn bench. Close enough to hear every word, see every expression, feel every moment of tension.
"This is insane," you muttered, sinking into your seat. The court stretched out before you like a stage, the overhead lights making everything feel surreal.
"Look." Riven nudged you, pointing toward the tunnel. "They're coming out for warm-ups."
Your heart jumped into your throat as the team emerged, led by the coaching staff. Players filed onto the court in perfect formation, their practice jerseys a sea of navy and white. You spotted Nika first— impossible to miss with her distinctive playing style, already intense even in warm-ups.
And then there she was.
Paige moved with that effortless grace that made everything look easy, her ponytail swinging as she dribbled two balls simultaneously. She hadn't looked toward the crowd yet, locked in that pre-game focus that elite athletes got.
"Here we go," Riven whispered, her phone already out and recording.
You watched as Paige went through her warm-up routine, each movement precise and practiced. She worked her way around the three-point line, barely seeming to notice as shot after shot swished through the net.
Then she turned to grab a rebound, and her eyes swept across the courtside seats.
You saw the exact moment she registered you. Her hands froze mid-dribble, the ball bouncing away forgotten. Her gaze locked onto the number 10 across your chest, then slowly traveled up to meet your eyes.
The intensity in her stare made your whole body flush hot. You watched as her jaw clenched, that familiar muscle ticking in a way that sent heat straight to your core. Her eyes darkened with something that looked dangerously close to possession.
Nika appeared beside her, saying something that made Paige snap back to attention. But not before you caught the way her gaze lingered on how her best friend's jacket fit your frame.
"Holy shit," Riven breathed, still recording. "I think you broke her."
You slumped lower in your seat, already regretting letting the vodka convince you this was a good idea. "Shut up."
"No way. This is better than any reality show." She zoomed in as Paige missed her next three shots in a row. "Look what you did to her."
"I didn't do anything," you protested weakly, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from Paige's form. The way her practice jersey clung to her shoulders, how her muscles flexed with each movement, the intense focus that had returned to her features – though you swore you caught her glancing in your direction between plays.
This was going to be a very long game.
The game started exactly as you'd expected— with Paige absolutely demolishing Notre Dame's defense while you tried very hard to look anywhere else. It wasn't working.
"Did you see that pass?" Riven screamed in your ear for approximately the eighteenth time. "She didn't even look!"
No, you hadn't seen the pass, because you were very deliberately studying the fascinating architecture of Gampel's ceiling. The vodka buzz had worn off about twenty minutes ago, leaving you hyperaware of every move, every sound, every time Paige jogged past your seats during transitions.
The worst part? Nika kept sending you these knowing looks from the bench, like she was watching her favorite rom-com play out in real time. You were starting to regret not bringing your thermodynamics textbook after all. At least differential equations made sense. They didn't smirk at you or have perfectly defined arm muscles or—
"Time out, Huskies!"
The players jogged toward the bench, and suddenly your personal space was invaded by very tall, very sweaty athletes. You tried to shrink further into your seat, but there was nowhere to go. Especially not when Paige dropped into a crouch right in front of you, ostensibly to grab her water bottle.
"Nice jacket," she said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear over the timeout huddle. Her eyes traveled down your body in a way that made you feel like you were wearing significantly less than a full warmup jacket and jeans.
You opened your mouth to respond with something witty, something that would put her in her place like you had in the library. Instead, what came out was: "Your friend has good taste."
Paige's eyes darkened, that same possessive look from warm-ups returning with intensity. "Does she?"
Before you could dig yourself into an even deeper hole, Coach Auriemma's voice cut through the tension. "Bueckers! Get your ass over here!"
You watched as she jogged back to the huddle, trying to ignore how your skin felt electric where her gaze had lingered. Beside you, Riven was practically vibrating with excitement.
"I got all of that on video," she whispered, waving her phone in your face. "This is going in the group chat."
"If you send that anywhere, I will reprogram your phone to only play the Barney theme song."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The timeout ended, and the players returned to the court. You noticed Paige was playing with even more intensity now, if that was possible. Her crossovers were sharper, her passes more precise, like she had something to prove.
"Twenty bucks says she's showing off for you," Riven muttered.
"Thirty says you're delusional."
But as you watched Paige sink another impossible three-pointer and turn slightly— just slightly - in your direction before jogging back on defense, you had to admit that maybe, just maybe, Riven had a point.
The game continued in a blur of strategic timeouts (during which Paige found increasingly creative ways to end up near your seat), incredible plays (that you definitely weren't watching just to see the way her muscles moved), and Riven's running commentary (which was getting progressively less about basketball and more about the "tension that could be cut with a knife").
By the fourth quarter, UConn had built a comfortable lead, and you'd developed a concerning familiarity with exactly how Paige's practice jersey clung to her shoulders when she was sweating. This was not information you needed in your life. You had CAD models to build, robots to program, a future in engineering to secure. You did not have time to notice how her hair had started falling out of its ponytail in these impossibly attractive wisps, or how—
"Game! Huskies win!"
The final buzzer snapped you out of your completely professional analysis of athletic biomechanics. The crowd erupted as players from both teams exchanged handshakes and hugs. You stood, ready to make your escape before—
"Leaving so soon?"
You turned to find Paige standing right there, still slightly breathless from the game, her presence filling your entire field of vision. Up close, you could see the flush of exertion on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the slight curl of her lips that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to you.
"I have studying to do," you managed, proud that your voice came out steady.
"On a Saturday night?" She stepped closer, and you caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with sweat. It should not have been as attractive as it was. "After watching me put up thirty points?"
"Thirty-two," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Beside you, Riven made a sound that might have been a squeal or a laugh.
Paige's smirk grew wider. "So you were watching."
"It was kind of hard to miss, considering where we're sitting." You gestured to the courtside seats that had started this whole mess.
"About that," she ran a hand through her hair, and those loose strands fell perfectly around her face in a way that had to be practiced. "I was thinking maybe we could—"
"Paige!" Nika's voice cut through whatever she'd been about to say. "Media's waiting!"
You'd never been so grateful for press obligations in your life.
Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "This isn't over," she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear. Then she was gone, jogging toward the media section with that natural athletic grace that made everything look effortless.
You stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Your skin still tingled where she'd been standing close enough to touch.
"So," Riven's voice broke through your daze. "Still think she hasn't noticed you?"
"We're going out," Riven declared, already rummaging through your closet without permission. "No arguments."
You looked up from your laptop, where you'd been desperately trying to focus on anything other than replaying the game in your head for the past two hours. "I have to—"
"If you say 'study' I will literally scream." She emerged with your one decent going-out top, the black one with the low back that you'd bought on impulse and worn exactly once. "You just watched UConn destroy Notre Dame from courtside seats while Paige Bueckers eye-fucked you in front of the entire student section. We're celebrating."
"She wasn't—" You cut yourself off, heat creeping up your neck. "And anyway, shouldn't she be celebrating with her girlfriend?"
The words tasted bitter in your mouth. You'd been trying very hard not to think about Taylor, about how Paige had crashed into your room calling out her name, about how clearly serious it must be if she was that desperate to apologize. The fact that she'd spent the entire game looking at you like... that... well, it just proved what everyone said about her, didn't it?
"Oh my god," Riven threw the shirt at your head. "Put this on. We're getting drunk and you're going to tell me everything you're overthinking about right now."
An hour later, you found yourself at The Tavern, nursing your second Moscow Mule while Riven recounted the game to anyone who would listen. The bar was packed with students celebrating the win, most still wearing their UConn gear and riding the high of victory.
"I just don't get it," you said, mostly to your drink. "Why is she suddenly so interested? I'm literally nobody. I spend my Friday nights debugging Python scripts and building robots that occasionally catch fire."
"Maybe that's exactly why," Riven waggled her eyebrows. "You're different. You don't worship the ground she walks on."
You snorted. "Right. Because what Paige Bueckers really wants is someone who told her to fuck off in the library."
The doors to The Tavern burst open, and suddenly the energy in the room shifted. A new wave of celebration swept through as the team arrived, fresh from their post-game duties. Your stomach did a complicated flip as you spotted Paige among them, now changed into fitted black jeans and a white button-down that should be illegal. Her hair was down, falling in waves that your fingers definitely didn't itch to touch.
"Speak of the devil," Riven smirked. "Want to test that theory?"
"Don't you dare—" But Riven was already waving enthusiastically, catching Nika's attention. The Croatian player's face lit up with unholy glee when she spotted you.
"Engineering girl!" Nika bounded over, dragging a very amused-looking Paige with her. "Still wearing my jacket, I see."
You started to unzip it, but she waved you off. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway." She shot Paige a meaningful look that made your cheeks burn.
"I need another drink," Riven announced suddenly, grabbing Nika's arm. "Come show me where the team keeps their secret stash."
"We don't have a—" Nika caught on quickly, grinning. "Oh, right. That secret stash. This way."
And just like that, you were alone with Paige at the crowded bar, your body humming with awareness of how close she was standing.
"Subtle, aren't they?" Paige smiled, and for once it wasn't that practiced smirk. It was something softer, more genuine. She signaled the bartender, who materialized instantly. Must be nice being a campus celebrity.
"The usual?" The bartender asked Paige, already reaching for a bottle.
"I can buy my own drinks," you said quickly, reaching for your wallet.
Paige's lips twitched. "I know you can. But consider it part of my ongoing apology for the whole bed situation."
You raised an eyebrow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "You always apologize to your drunken mistakes with expensive drinks?"
The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to snatch them back. But instead of looking offended, Paige just studied you with those impossibly intense eyes.
"Only the ones who let me cuddle their stuffed bears."
"Mr. Gummy," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Again.
The bartender returned with your drinks, and you grabbed yours perhaps a bit too quickly, needing something to do with your hands. The Moscow Mule was perfect – strong enough to blame your burning cheeks on the alcohol.
"So," Paige said after a moment, looking far too comfortable for someone who'd just been called out on their drunken mistakes. "Engineering, huh?"
You nearly choked on your drink. "Are we really doing small talk right now?"
"Would you prefer I go back to staring at you from across the court?"
"I prefer knowing where I stand," you shot back, the alcohol making you braver than usual. "Because last I checked, you had a girlfriend you were pretty desperate to apologize to."
Something flashed across her face – regret? Embarrassment? "Taylor and I it's complicated."
"Isn't it always?" You couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of your voice. You'd heard enough stories about Paige's "complicated" situations to fill a textbook.
She turned to face you fully, and your breath caught at the unexpected vulnerability in her expression. "Look, I know what people say about me. Some of it's probably true. But Taylor and I have been over for months. That night... I was drunk and stupid because she'd started seeing someone new, and I handled it badly."
"By trying to crawl into her bed?"
"By accidentally crawling into yours." Her voice dropped lower, sending involuntary shivers down your spine. "Which, in retrospect, might have been the universe doing me a favor."
You forced yourself to meet her gaze, ignoring how your heart raced at the way she was looking at you. "Does that line usually work?"
"I don't know," she smiled, and it wasn't her usual cocky smirk. It was something smaller, almost shy. "I've never used it before."
Before you could process that, a commotion erupted near the pool tables. You both turned to see Riven attempting to teach one of the team's shooting guards proper form, which seemed to involve a lot of unnecessary physical contact.
"Ten bucks says they end up making out in the bathroom," Paige said, amusement coloring her tone.
"Twenty says Riven chickens out and spends the next week telling me about all the signals she thinks she missed."
Paige laughed, and the sound did something dangerous to your insides. "You know your roommate well."
"Well enough to know she's going to interrogate me about this conversation later."
"This conversation?" Paige shifted slightly closer, and you caught that intoxicating mix of her perfume and something uniquely her. "What's there to interrogate about?"
You gestured vaguely between you. "This whole... whatever this is. Where you're suddenly interested in small talk about my major and making jokes about the universe doing you favors."
"Maybe I just want to know more about the girl who told me to fuck off in the library." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "While wearing my best friend's jacket, no less."
"That was an accident—"
"Was it?" She was definitely closer now, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like a challenge."
Your grip tightened on your drink. "Not everything is about you, Bueckers."
"No," she agreed, her voice soft but intense. "But the way you've been looking at me all night? That might be."
The air between you crackled with tension. You should step back. You should remember all the stories, all the warnings, all the reasons this was a terrible idea. You should—
"There you are!" Nika's voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water. "Coach just texted. Team meeting tomorrow morning got moved up."
Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "What time?"
"Eight AM." Nika's eyes darted between you and Paige, her expression far too knowing. "Sorry to interrupt."
"You weren't," you said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly judging by Nika's raised eyebrow.
Paige turned back to you, and the intensity in her gaze made your breath catch. "We'll finish this conversation later."
It wasn't a question.
You watched her walk away, trying to ignore how your body still hummed from her proximity. Nika lingered behind, grinning like she'd just won a bet with herself.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I've never seen her work this hard for someone's attention before."
"I'm not—" you started, but Nika was already following Paige, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a half-empty Moscow Mule.
Riven materialized beside you moments later, her eyes wide. "Okay, what the hell was that?"
"Nothing," you mumbled into your drink. "Just Paige Bueckers being Paige Bueckers."
But as you watched her gather her team to leave, she turned back just for a moment, catching your eye across the bar. The look she gave you was pure heat, a promise of more conversations to come.
Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.
But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.
WC: 11.9k
Authors Notes: Slow Burn, Competitors to Lovers, SLOW, I'm heavy into world building so expect a lot of story, SMUT in next chapter. I've like proof read 70% there's already 40k words written and I've changed shit up like 40 times by now lol
They say there are two kinds of impossibilities in basketball: the ones you laugh at, and the ones that make you hold your breath. Your entire career has been about the second kind.
The numbers shouldn't exist: 847 shots attempted in college. Two misses. A percentage that makes statisticians check their math and then check it again. The first miss was a seventy-footer your freshman year that hit the rim so perfectly the sound echoed through the arena like a bell. The second? Sophomore year, caught an elbow to the face that had blood streaming down your jersey—the shot still almost went in.
Two misses in three years. They call you The Prophecy because watching you miss is like seeing a meteor strike, so rare that people mark their calendars by it.
Every sports network has tried to explain you. ESPN did a special called "The Prophecy: Breaking Down Basketball's Perfect Player." Sports Illustrated put you on the cover: "The Future Came Early." The New York Times ran a feature: "Harvard's Double Threat: Engineering the Perfect Game." They all tried to capture what makes you different. None quite managed it.
Because how do you explain someone who turned down every basketball powerhouse in the country—UConn, Stanford, South Carolina—to study Aerospace Engineering at Harvard? How do you rationalize someone who spends mornings in advanced fluid dynamics classes and afternoons making impossible shots look like a simple routine?
Your teammates get it, though. They've nicknamed you "Rocket”— partly for your major, partly for how you launch yourself through defenses. You're the heart of a Harvard team that's won three straight championships, turning the Ivy League school into a basketball dynasty that no one saw coming.
But that legacy isn't built on game days alone. It’s forged in moments like these: the hum of anticipation, the camaraderie, the banter that cuts through the tension as the team gets ready to take the court.
They say the silence before a storm is the loudest. But whoever said that never sat in Harvard's women's basketball locker room before a big game.
"I swear to god, if you try to explain zone defense using thermodynamics one more time—" Sierra launches a rolled-up sock across the room that you catch without looking up from your pre-game ritual: left shoe, right shoe, double-knot both, check laces twice.
"That was ONE time," you protest, but Maria's already cackling.
"One time? Girl, last week you tried to break down UNC's press using some dynamic—“
"And it WORKED, didn't it?"
The locker room erupts in laughter, the kind of easy joy that only comes from three years of championships, late-night practices, and inside jokes that no one else would understand. Taylor's already started your pregame handshake sequence; each title has added new moves until it's practically a full choreographed dance.
"Speaking of Carolina," Jasmine pipes up while adjusting her headband, "did y'all see their point guard tried to claim she's almost as accurate as you?”
"How'd that work out for her?" Sierra grins.
"Shot 3-for-15 against Duke." Taylor shakes her head. "Meanwhile, our girl over here—"
"845 for 847," the team chants in unison, then breaks into laughter again.
You roll your eyes but can't hide your smile.
"Yo, check this out though," Sierra's scrolling through her phone. "LSU's talking mad shit on Twitter. Their center says she's gonna 'expose the myth’ tonight."
Tonight's game against LSU has been circled on calendars since the schedule dropped. Defending national champions versus the team that's rewriting what's possible in college basketball.
The banter continues as everyone goes through their pregame routines. Maria's got her headphones in, mouthing the same Drake lyrics she's been using since freshman year. Taylor's meticulously re-taping her ankles for the third time. Jasmine's practicing her crossover in front of her locker, adding a little extra flair each time.
That's when Coach Matthews steps in, game face already set. The room doesn't exactly go quiet- this team's never been good at that, but the energy shifts— focuses.
"Ladies," she begins, but Sierra can't help herself.
"We know, we know, sold out crowd, national TV, time to show them why they call us the best team in the country."
The locker room buzzes with the easy confidence of a team that knows what they're capable of. You've all been together three years, grown from underdogs to unstoppable.
Coach tries to look stern but fails. "I see three rings have made you cocky."
"Nah, Coach," Jasmine grins. "We were cocky before the rings. Now we’ve just proven that we were right all along.”
The team cracks up again, but you catch something in Coach's expression, a mix of pride and concern. Her eyes find yours across the room. You know what she's thinking: LSU's not here just to play basketball. They're here to make a statement. To prove that Harvard's dynasty, your perfect record, all of it, is just smoke and mirrors.
You peek out at the arena as you head to warm-ups. Every seat filled, signs everywhere:
"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"
"845/847 ≈ Perfection"
"Future WNBA GOAT"
"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"
The student section erupts with enough thunder that you’d think there was an earthquake outside as you step onto the court. Three years, and the roar still hits different every time. Your teammates spread out for warm-ups, but you can feel every eye in the arena tracking your movement.
"Remember freshman year?" Sierra bumps your shoulder as you start stretching. "When you were still trying to convince everyone you were just 'pretty good' at basketball?"
You laugh, remembering that first practice. You'd shown up in glasses and a Harvard Engineering t-shirt, trying to downplay the high school highlights that had ESPN calling you the next Sue Bird. Then you went 50-for-50 in shooting drills.
"Pretty good," Taylor mimics, feeding you the ball. "Meanwhile Sports Center had a ticker counting your made shots."
The ball feels alive in your hands as you start your warm-up routine. Crossover, behind the back, step-back three. Swish. The Harvard crowd counts each made shot, a tradition that started your freshman year. They're at "thirty-seven" when a murmur ripples through the stands like a shift in the air pressure.
That's when you see them.
The entire UConn women's team, filing into their seats behind your bench. Their presence is magnetic, commanding, like the world has suddenly shifted to center on them. Your breath catches for just a moment, but you keep moving. Eyes forward, muscles loose. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Your gaze flickers up, and that’s when it happens. Paige Bueckers—UConn’s golden child, the face of their dynasty—locks eyes with you. The briefest of seconds, but it feels like a spotlight on your skin. She's not just watching; she's studying. Calculating.
Without breaking stride, you add a little extra spin to your next move. A crossover that’s sharp enough to slice, a step-back three so effortless it’s almost insulting. Swish.
"Showing off for UConn?" Maria teases, but her voice feels distant, barely cutting through the thrum in your chest. You don’t answer. The crowd is at "forty-two" now, and so is Paige. You can feel her counting.
"Please," you roll your eyes, draining another three. "They're the ones who showed up to our house."
The arena's practically vibrating now. LSU's warming up on the other end, trying to look unbothered. Their coach keeps glancing your way, everyone knows their game plan will revolve around stopping you. Good luck with that.
"Rocket!" Jasmine calls out. "Give them the space shot!"
It's another team tradition. End of warm-ups, you launch one from near half-court, high enough to clear the International Space Station. The crowd holds its breath as the ball arcs through the air—
Bucket.
The place goes absolutely nuclear. Even some LSU players stop to watch the replay on the jumbotron. You don't celebrate, just turn and jog back to the bench, but you catch Paige Bueckers leaning forward in her seat. Yeah, she felt that one, too.
In the huddle, Coach Matthews keeps it simple. "They're going to try to get physical. They're going to try to get in your heads. But what do we do?"
"Let the scoreboard talk!" the team responds in unison.
You look around the circle—these girls who've become family. Sierra, who's never met a defensive assignment she couldn't lock down. Maria, whose no-look passes seem telepathic. Taylor, who crashes boards like gravity's just a suggestion. Jasmine, whose trash talk is almost as legendary as her three-point shooting.
The starting lineups are announced. LSU's players get scattered applause, but when they call your name, the sound is deafening. "At guard, a junior from Boston, Massachusetts, averaging 32.5 points per game, shooting 99.8% from the field—The Prophecy!"
You high-five down the bench, each teammate adding their own flourish to the routine. The crowd's chanting now:
"M-V-P! M-V-P!"
But you're already in game mode, that familiar calm settling over you. You can feel Uconn’s members watching from the stands, feel the weight of every expectation, every camera, every scout with an NBA team's future in their hands.
The referee holds the ball at center court. LSU's center—all six-foot-five of her—tries to stare you down.
You just smile. They have no idea what's coming.
The game opens exactly how LSU planned: double-team before you even touch the ball. Their guard and forward shadow your every move, leaving gaps all over the court. Rookie mistake.
You catch Maria's eye, give her the smallest nod. She drives right, drawing attention, while you slip backdoor. The defender realizes too late—you're already airborne, catching the lob one-handed. The rim's still shaking as you get back on defense.
"That's my point guard!" you shout, giving Maria her props. The crowd's already going wild, and you're only thirty seconds in.
LSU tries to establish their post game, but Sierra's having none of it. She strips their center clean, and suddenly you're off to the races. The ball finds you at the three-point line. One defender recovers, rushing at you with a hand up.
Time slows. You see every option: the drive, the pass, the shot. But there's something poetic about making the hardest choice look easy. You rise up, release. The defender's hand grazes your wrist—doesn't matter. Swish.
"And The Prophecy strikes first! Two possessions, two baskets!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "She's making this look like a shoot-around!"
Your teammates are feeding off the energy. Taylor's owning the glass, Jasmine's picking pockets, and Maria's threading passes through impossible angles. By the six-minute mark, you're up 18-7, and LSU calls their first timeout.
"They can't guard you for shit!" Sierra laughs as you huddle up. She's right—they've tried three different defensive schemes already.
Coach Matthews keeps it tactical. "They're getting frustrated. Gonna start trying to bump you off your spots. Stay composed."
You nod, taking a quick swig of water. Your eyes drift to the UConn section. KK Arnold shoots you a smile which you return. Sierra’s shown you enough of her Tik Tok’s for you to recognize the Freshman.
Back on court, LSU switches to a box-and-one. Four players in a zone, one dedicated to face-guarding you. Cupcake stuff compared to what you see in practice.
You set up on the wing, let them think they've got you contained. The defender's playing so tight you can smell her shampoo. Maria starts her drive, draws the zone's attention. You wait... wait...
Then it happens. Quick as thought, you plant your back foot, cut hard to the corner. The defender's still turning when you catch and release in one motion. The ball hasn't even hit the net before you're heading back on defense.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" The announcer's losing it. "The Prophecy with another! She's 5-for-5 to start the game!"
The Harvard student section's going ballistic. Even your teammates are shaking their heads—three years, and you still find ways to surprise them.
LSU's getting chippy now. Their forwards are throwing elbows on screens, talking under their breath. You've seen it before: when skill isn't enough, they try to get physical.
"Yo Rocket," Taylor mutters after a particularly hard screen. "They're hunting."
You just nod. Let them hunt. You didn't get here by backing down.
With two minutes left in the first quarter, they try to trap you at half-court. Two defenders, both bigger, trying to muscle you into a mistake. You hit them with a crossover so nasty the crowd gasps. Split the double-team, euro-step around the help defense, and finish with a finger roll that looks like it defies gravity.
The LSU coach is screaming now, face turning purple. Nothing's working. Every scheme, every adjustment, every physical play, you've got an answer for all of it.
Ten seconds left. You let the clock drain, waving off the screen from Taylor. Your defender's in perfect position, textbook stance. Doesn't matter.
You rise up from NBA range, the defender's hand right in your face. The ball arcs high, the crowd holding its breath—
Swish. At the buzzer.
Harvard's bench explodes. Your teammates mob you as you head to the sideline, perfect quarter in the books. 15 points, 6-for-6 shooting, 3 assists. Just another day at the office.
"Show off," Sierra teases as you sit down.
"Actually," you grin, slipping into your best professor voice, "according to my calculations, that was just the warm-up."
The team cracks up. This is what the cameras miss, what the stats can't show. The joy of playing the game you love, with people you love, at a level few have ever reached.
But LSU's huddle looks different now. There's an edge to their expressions, a darkness in their eyes. They're not just losing—they're being embarrassed on national TV.
You've seen that look before. It usually means someone's about to do something stupid.
Second quarter opens with LSU trying something new: they're running a full-court press, getting extra physical on every possession. Their coach has clearly given them the green light to push boundaries.
"They big mad now," Jasmine laughs as she inbounds the ball to you.
You weave through the press like it's a morning jog, finding Maria with a no-look pass that has the crowd buzzing. She drains the three, and you make sure to flex for the LSU bench on the way back. Their coach calls for a substitution, sending in Williams—their enforcer, known for walking the line between aggressive and dirty.
"Heads up," Taylor mutters as she runs past you. "Number 32's got that look."
You've seen players like Williams before. They show up in every big game, thinking they'll be the one to throw you off your rhythm. They usually learn.
The next possession, Williams tries to bump you off your cut. You absorb the contact, spin away like water, and catch the ball in perfect position. She's still recovering when you rise up for three. Nothing but net.
"That's 20 for The Prophecy!" The announcer's voice carries over the roar. "Still perfect from the field!"
The Harvard student section starts a new chant: "YOU CAN'T GUARD HER!"
You spot some NBA scouts courtside, furiously taking notes. There's already talk about you leaving early, being a top pick. But that's future stuff. Right now, there's just this game, this moment, this next possession.
Williams is getting frustrated. Each bump gets a little harder, each screen a little later. The refs are letting them play physical, and LSU's taking full advantage.
"Yo Rocket," Sierra says during a free throw. "Want me to accidentally trip her?"
You shake your head, smiling. "Nah. I got something better planned."
Next play down, you call for a clear-out. Everyone knows what's coming, your teammates, the crowd, even the UConn section leans forward. Williams squares up, trying to look tough.
The move is pure poetry: crossover so quick it looks like the ball's on a string, between the legs, behind the back. Williams lunges, trying to stay in front. That's when you hit her with the step-back, creating just enough space to rise up.
The shot is perfect before it leaves your hands. Williams can only watch as it drops through, pure silk. The crowd absolutely loses it.
"SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Jasmine screams, running past Williams, tongue out in mockery. "But not for her!"
Even some of the LSU players are trying not to smile. What else can you do when you're watching someone operate on a different level?
That's when you notice Paige Bueckers isn't just watching anymore—she's studying. Taking in every move, every counter, like she's downloading your game for future reference. You catch her eye for a split second and there's something there: not just respect, but recognition. Game recognizing game.
The half continues like a highlight reel. You're seeing everything in slow motion: every cut, every screen, every defensive rotation. It's like playing basketball in IMAX, everything crystal clear, every possibility visible.
With three minutes left in the half, Harvard's up 45-28. The game's starting to feel less like competition and more like an exhibition. That's usually when things get dangerous.
You see it coming in slow motion: Sierra bringing the ball up court, Williams setting up for what looks like a normal defensive position. But there's something in her stance, something in her eyes.
Williams launches herself at Sierra, sending her crashing into the scorer's table with a sickening crack. The crowd gasps as Sierra crumples, blood already streaming from her nose.
The arena goes dead silent.
Then everything happens at once. Your teammates rush to Sierra. Jasmine gets in Williams' face. The refs are blowing whistles. But you, you're standing perfectly still, a different kind of calculation running through your mind.
Three years of friendship. Three championships. Countless late-night study sessions where Sierra helped you with orbital mechanics homework while you ice your knees. All those moments flash through your mind in an instant.
You start walking toward Williams, and something in your expression makes everyone—teammates, refs, even the crowd—go quiet.
The silence in Lavietes Pavilion is deafening. Blood drips from Sierra's nose onto the hardwood—each drop echoing like thunder in your ears. Your teammates are surrounding her, but your focus is laser-locked on Williams, who's still trying to act tough, shoving Jasmine.
"Get the fuck out my face," Williams snarls, pushing your teammate back.
You cross the court in long, measured strides. Your teammates part like the Red Sea, something in your expression making them step aside. Williams turns just as you reach her, and for the first time tonight, you see fear flicker across her face.
The crowd holds its breath. Every phone is up, every camera pointed at this moment. Even the refs seem frozen, waiting to see what happens next.
You step right into her space, close enough that only she can hear you. Your voice comes out low, deadly calm. "Touch my teammate again," you say, each word precise as a scalpel, "and I promise you'll regret ever stepping foot in this fucking gym."
Williams tries to maintain her tough act, stepping forward. "Oh yeah? What you gonna—"
"Try me one more time," you cut her off, voice even quieter now, "and when I catch you outside this gym I’ll make sure you don’t get back up.”
The refs finally restore order, whistles blaring. Technical fouls all around. As you check on Sierra—her nose definitely broken but she's insisting she can play—you hear the murmur rippling through the crowd. Nobody's ever seen you like this. The Prophecy's always been about grace under pressure, about making the impossible look easy.
This is something else entirely.
Coach sends you to the bench to cool off. You end up near the Harvard section, your teammates who aren't on the court surrounding you like a protective wall. Behind them, the UConn section hasn't made a sound, but you can feel their attention like a physical weight.
"I've never seen you like that," Taylor whispers, a mix of awe and concern in her voice.
"Nobody touches our people," you say simply, eyes locked on the court where LSU is shooting their free throws.
Sierra's getting patched up beside you, tissues stuffed up her nose. "You know I've taken worse hits in practice," she tries to joke.
“That’s beside the point." Your voice is still deadly quiet. "They came into our house thinking they could punk us. Thinking what—because we're Harvard we're soft? They can suck my dick.”
The energy in the arena has shifted. Your teammates are fired up, talking amongst themselves. The crowd's still buzzing, cameras alternating between you and Williams. But you're not playing for them anymore. This isn't about highlights or SportsCenter or draft stock.
When the buzzer sounds for you to return, your teammates stand as one. "Light them the fuck up," Sierra says through her swollen nose, and the team erupts in agreement.
You step back onto the court, and the ball finds its way to your hands like it's meant to be there. Williams tries to meet your eyes, but she flinches when she does. She knows what's coming.
They all do.
The ball leaves your hands before their defense can set. Swish. 34 points.
Maria screens Williams hard—legally, but with extra emphasis. You curl around it, catch, release. Swish. 37.
"The Prophecy is taking no prisoners now," the announcer's voice carries over the chaos. "This isn't just basketball anymore, folks. This is personal."
Each possession is a message. No more fancy moves, no more style. Just pure, devastating efficiency. Catch and shoot. Drive and score. Again and again until the numbers blur together and the only sound in the arena is the whisper of the net.
Williams tries to guard you on a switch. You look her dead in the eye as you rise up. She knows it's good before you even release. 45 points.
The fourth quarter becomes a massacre. Not just because of your scoring, but the way your whole team moves now—like sharks that have tasted blood. Every screen is a statement. Every cut is a challenge. Harvard basketball isn't just winning anymore; they're sending a message.
With thirty seconds left, Harvard up by 35, Coach tries to sub you out. You wave her off. There's one more thing to do.
You catch the ball at the opposite baseline—ninety-four feet from your basket. The crowd realizes what you're about to attempt and rises as one. Williams is still trying to guard you, bless her heart.
You don't even look at the basket as you launch it, eyes locked on hers the whole way. The ball soars through the air, high enough to scrape the rafters. Time seems to stop as 4,000 people hold their breath.
Swish. As pure as a layup.
The arena explodes. Your teammates storm the court as you take off on a victory lap, tongue out, arms spread wide. The Harvard band is playing, the student section is losing their minds, and somewhere in the chaos, you catch Paige Bueckers standing up, shaking her head in amazement.
December hits Boston like a cold slap to the face. Three months since the LSU game, and Harvard's still undefeated, 12-0, ranked #2 in the country. Tonight's the game everyone's been circling: #1 UConn at Harvard. The Game of the Year, ESPN's calling it. Every headline is the same story in different words: you versus Paige, like the rest of the teams are just here to watch.
You haven't spoken to any of the UConn players since that night in your locker room. Sure, you see the occasional Instagram story when Jasmine reshares KK's posts (they're dating now, apparently, something that started with DMs and turned into weekend visits), but, that's about it. You don't even follow Paige Bueckers on social media. Why would you?
"Earth to ____,” Sierra waves a hand in front of your face during warmups. "You good?"
"Yeah," you snap back to reality, draining another three. "Just locked in."
The arena's packed to the rafters, twice as loud as the LSU game. During layup lines, you catch glimpses of the UConn players, especially Paige, who moves with that same fluid confidence you remember. She's got that look in her eyes, the one you recognize in your own reflection: the quiet certainty of someone who's never doubted their greatness.
Your pregame outfit, fitted black turtleneck under your warmups, gold chain catching the light, has already made its rounds on social media. “She looks SO good!!” is trending on Twitter, complete with fire emojis. Not that you care about that stuff. (But okay, maybe you spent an extra minute on your appearance today. Professional reasons only.)
The game starts like a prize fight, both teams trading blows, neither willing to blink first. Paige opens with a three; you answer with a step-back jumper. She hits a floater; you counter with a drive that leaves her defender spinning. It's not personal, you tell yourself. Just basketball.
By the first TV timeout, you've both got 8 points and the crowd's already losing it. The energy's different from the LSU game, no cheap shots or trash talk, just pure, elite basketball. Almost like you're speaking the same language, even if you're on different teams.
"Yo," Maria whispers during a free throw, "is it just me or is Bueckers playing extra hard when she's guarding you?"
"Everyone plays hard against me," you shrug, but you've noticed it too. The way she locks in, the extra intensity in her defense. Like she's got something to prove.
The second quarter is where you start to take over. UConn tries everything, double teams, box-and-one, even a triangle-and-two. Nothing works. You're seeing the game in slow motion again, every passing lane, every defensive rotation crystal clear. By halftime, you've got 24 points on perfect shooting, and Harvard's up 48-39.
In the tunnel heading back out, you pass Paige. There's a moment— brief but loaded— where your eyes meet. She gives you this little nod, competitor to competitor. Nothing more. (But why does it feel like something more?)
The second half is a masterclass. You're not just scoring anymore; you're conducting an orchestra. No-look passes to Sierra for corner threes. Behind-the-back feeds to Taylor for breakaway layups. And when UConn makes their inevitable run in the fourth, you shut the door with a sequence of moves so filthy they'll probably end up on SportsCenter's top 10.
Final score: Harvard 89, UConn 78. Your stat line: 38 points, 9 assists, still haven't missed a shot this season. The handshake line is respectful, none of that LSU energy, and when you reach Paige, her grip is firm, professional.
"Good game," she says simply.
"You too," you respond, and mean it.
After the media obligations, your phone buzzes. It's Jasmine: 'Bar. Tonight. Both teams. No excuses.'
You consider begging off, you do have that Thermodynamics problem set due Monday, but something makes you change your mind. Professional courtesy, you tell yourself. Networking.
The bar is one of those trendy spots where the grad students pretend they're not drowning in student debt. You show up fashionably late in black jeans, a cream-colored silk shirt, and boots that add an extra inch you definitely don't need. The teams are separate at first, Harvard at one end, UConn at the other. Only Jasmine and KK bridge the gap, wrapped up in their own world.
You stick with your teammates initially, nursing a Moscow Mule and trying not to notice how Paige looks in a baggy jeans and a button up when she arrives with some of her teammates. The groups slowly start to mix as the night goes on, pulled together by Jasmine and KK's gravitational field.
"So," UConn's shooting guard, Emma, ends up next to you at the bar. "You always play like that, or were you just showing off?”
You arch an eyebrow, a light smile tugs at the corner of your lip. "Just playing my game."
"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink.
You change the subject, asking about their upcoming schedule. Basketball is safe. Basketball makes sense.
The night continues, groups shifting and reforming. You end up in a conversation with some UConn players about the WNBA draft, carefully maintaining your distance when Paige joins the discussion. But you can't help noticing things: how she commands attention without trying, the way her laugh carries over the bar noise, how she seems to know exactly where you are in the room at all times.
Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe, you’re just down bad.
"Paige is single, you know," KK says later, appearing at your elbow with the subtlety of a brick through a window.
"Good for her," you say neutrally, even as something flutters in your chest.
"Good for you, you mean," KK mutters, dodging the half-hearted shove you send her way before melting back into the crowd.
The night winds down, groups splitting off for Ubers, some players already making plans for late-night food. You're standing near the door, tugging your coat tighter around you against the Boston chill seeping in, when you hear your name.
You turn, and there she is, bathed in the hazy glow of the bar's neon sign, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. For the first time all night, it's just the two of you, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum.
"Good game tonight," she says, and it’s almost funny how understated it sounds after the week of media buildup and ESPN countdowns.
"Thanks." You pause, letting the silence stretch. "You too."
Her smile tilts, like she knows exactly what you’re doing. "You don’t have to play it cool all the time, you know."
"Who says I’m playing?" you counter, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, quirking up just enough to give her the edge.
Paige steps closer, the space between you shrinking but still electric. "You’re good, Rocket. Even better than the headlines give you credit for."
"Don’t tell me you came out here just to boost my already inflated ego," you say, leaning back just enough to keep the balance of power from tipping entirely her way.
"Maybe," she says lightly, though the way she holds your gaze feels heavier than that. "Or maybe I just wanted to see for myself what all the hype’s about."
"And?"
Her smile deepens, slow and deliberate. "I wasn’t disappointed."
The air between you crackles, her words lingering in a way that feels deliberate, intentional. But before you can decide what to say—or if you should say anything at all—one of her teammates calls her name from the curb.
She glances back, then at you again.
"Don’t overthink your game plan," you say.
"And you don’t underestimate mine," she calls over her shoulder, her voice light but the glance she throws you anything but.
You stay there a moment longer, the cold biting at your skin but your chest feeling oddly warm. As you finally step outside, something about the night feels unfinished—like a play halfway through its best scene.
As you slide into the car, you realize your heart's racing—and it has nothing to do with the cold.
Maybe KK was right. Maybe this is good for you.
Later that night, lying in bed, you find yourself replaying moments from the game. Just the game, you tell yourself. The way she moves on court, like water finding its path. Her defensive intensity. Her competitiveness that mirrors your own.
Your phone buzzes: a follow request on Instagram from Paige Bueckers on your private Instagram.
You stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Finally, you press accept. No big deal. Just professional courtesy.
But you can't help smiling as you set your phone down.
March suddenly feels very far away.
That night, sleep feels impossible. The win keeps looping in your mind—every play, every shot, every moment after the final buzzer. You’re still riding the high, but it's the interactions off the court that keep replaying, too. The way Paige’s eyes locked on yours during the game, that quiet intensity between you two. It was almost like there was something unspoken, an invisible thread pulling you together.
You try to shake it off as you lay in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Eventually, you post a late-night story: just you in your Harvard champion sweatshirt, hair a little messy, looking tired but satisfied. Caption: “some nights hit different 🏀✨"
You're not thinking about anyone in particular when you post it. Really. No, seriously.
But a couple of minutes later, your phone lights up with a notification: "paigebueckers viewed your story."
You freeze. Your heart does that annoying skip, the one you wish you could ignore. You try to play it cool, but the small smile on your face gives it away.
Before you can stop overthinking it, another story pops up from Paige. It’s her on the team bus, the weariness on her face somehow just makes her look even more perfect. Caption: “good games make you better. great games change you. 📈"
You stare at the story longer than you should. Three times, maybe four. Then you catch yourself. No, you're not doing this. You’re being professional. Totally. You swipe past it, but not before watching it once more—just for, you know, "research purposes."
Wednesday practice, you’re on the floor with Sierra, trying to explain orbital mechanics while stretching out your legs. The routine’s familiar, your voice calm and focused, like you’re explaining a simple layup. "So basically, if you account for gravitational force and initial velocity—"
"Rocket," Sierra interrupts, "you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds."
You look at her, feigning confusion. "Have not," you protest, but your fingers are already reaching for your phone, like they’re on autopilot. You can’t help it. Paige posted a drill video this morning, just pure basketball content—nothing that special, just her hitting a perfect jumper, maybe some footwork drills, nothing groundbreaking. You dropped an eyes emoji in response. Professional admiration only. That's it. Nothing to see here.
"Right," Sierra raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "And I'm sure you've watched every other point guard's practice clips fifteen times too."
You give her a deadpan look. "I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, reaching for your foam roller and throwing it at her.
Thursday afternoon finds you in Advanced Fluid Dynamics, usually your favorite class. The equations and concepts feel like second nature to you, but today, your thoughts keep drifting elsewhere. You keep finding yourself thinking about basketball — about how certain players move like water, finding the path of least resistance, flowing through defenses with a grace you can’t help but admire.
You’re not sure if it’s the subject of the class or the strange pull you’re feeling, but your mind is elsewhere.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glance down discreetly. It's a notification from Instagram: Paige has liked your last three posts.
Including one from six months ago.
You blink. The screen feels like it’s glowing too brightly in your hand. You immediately glance around, making sure no one saw you checking, before quickly hiding your smile behind your textbook.
Because yeah, you definitely didn’t mean to feel this giddy. But here you are.
Friday night, you're in bed scrolling through film when you get the notification. Paige posted a new story: her at the gym, late night shooting session. Caption: “late-night grind. gotta stay sharp for what’s ahead. 😤"
Before you can overthink it, you reply: "living rent free in that head huh? 😌"
Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.
just practicing for march 😘
You stare at that emoji for a solid minute. Professional rivals don't use kiss emojis. Right?
Saturday morning practice rolls around before you can even process what happened last night. Your mind’s still buzzing, trying to dissect the interaction with Paige, but you push it aside. Focus. You can think about that later.
As you’re stretching before drills, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. When Coach catches you grinning at it, she narrows her eyes.
"Whatever’s got you distracted better help us win games."
You quickly stuff your phone back in your bag, fighting to keep a neutral expression. "It’s just a text. No big deal."
"Sure, sure." Coach raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.
You try to shake off the grin still tugging at your lips. Definitely not in the middle of a debate with Paige about whether Kobe or Jordan had the better footwork. No. Definitely not.
Sunday night in the library, you're supposedly working on your Thermodynamics problem set. But your eyes keep flicking back to UConn's schedule page, calculating when they’ll be back in the northeast. You try to focus, but you find your thoughts drifting back to Paige.
A message pops up: "Shouldn't you be solving rocket equations or something?"
You bite back a smile, tapping out your reply: “shouldn't you be working on your left hand? Saw that weak drive yesterday 😴"
A few seconds pass. The dots appear, then disappear. You try not to let your heart race.
Finally, the response comes: “wow. and here i was about to say your last IG fit was 🔥"
You stare at your screen, biting your lip. The banter is easy, but there's something else there—something electric. Your pulse thuds louder than usual as you hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys. It feels like there's more hanging between you than just jokes. Did she feel it too? You quickly swipe back to your notes, trying to shake the feeling
Something that makes your skin buzz.
Tuesday, 2AM. You can’t sleep. Again. But this time, it’s different. The nervous energy swirling in your stomach isn’t from the game. It’s... something else.
Your phone lights up with a message:
you up?
Your breath catches in your throat. Two words. That’s all it takes.
You hesitate for just a second, fingers poised over the screen, and finally reply: “depends who’s asking 👀”
A beat. Three dots.
just your future march matchup.
You feel a grin tug at your lips, even as you try to keep your response cool.
bold of you to assume you’ll make it that far.
guess you’ll have to wait and see.
You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out. There’s something about these late-night exchanges that feels different.
You roll over, pulling your blanket tighter, trying to convince yourself it’s just another game, just another rival. But when your phone buzzes again, you’re already looking forward to her next message.
A month after the game, your phone buzzes again as you’re reviewing game film late at night. You glance at the time—1:47 AM. Too late to be analyzing, but you can't help it. The game keeps replaying in your head. Then another message appears:
you always study film this late?
You glance at the reflection of your laptop in the dark screen of your phone. It’s like she knows. You smirk, replying.
how'd you know i was watching film?
saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story
Something warm settles in your chest. You didn't think anyone had noticed those details.
stalker much? 🤨
just scouting the competition 😌
You're about to reply when three dots appear again.
want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape
Your heart skips a beat. You weren't expecting this. You pause before responding, a nervous twinge running through you. "facetime?"
Seconds later, the call comes through. You almost hesitate, but there’s something about it that pulls you in. You accept, suddenly hyper-aware that you're in your oversized Harvard hoodie, glasses perched on your nose, hair tossed into a messy bun.
When her face appears on the screen, you’re momentarily struck. She’s wearing a UConn sweatshirt, hair tied back, no makeup. She’s raw, real—like you’ve caught her in an unguarded moment, and for some reason, that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"So," she starts, then seems to lose her train of thought. "Um. Basketball?"
You laugh, some of the tension breaking. “Uh-huh.”
"Listen," she grins, "I'm better at talking with a ball in my hands."
The conversation shifts easily into basketball, the two of you sharing screens and breaking down film together. She catches things you miss, and you point out nuances she hasn’t noticed. The back-and-forth flows—something about it feels natural. Like you’ve been doing this for years.
Hours pass without you even realizing it, and suddenly you’re talking about other things: favorite movies, worst recruiting stories, childhood dreams.
"Wait," she's saying through laughter, "you really wanted to be an astronaut AND a basketball player?"
"Still do," You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as something inside you aches with the lightness of the moment. "Who says I can't be the first WNBA player in space?"
Her expression goes soft for a moment. "You know what? If anyone could do it..."
There's something in her voice that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat. "Anyway, uh, it's late."
"Yeah," she says quietly. "This was... this was nice."
"Yeah," you agree, not quite meeting her eyes through the screen. "Maybe we could do it again sometime y’know?”
"I'd like that."
Neither of you moves to hang up. The silence stretches, full of things unsaid.
Finally, she breaks it: “Well, goodnight, Rocket."
The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.
"Night, Paige."
You end the call, staring at your screen for a moment before you finally fall back onto your bed. The silence is deafening, but your mind is racing. You force yourself to calm down, to let your heart slow to a normal pace.
Then your phone buzzes again:
sweet dreams 🌙
You definitely don’t replay the entire call in your head. Definitely not.
And you certainly don’t dream about the way she looked when she laughed at your space joke.
Definitely not.
You’re sprawled on the couch in the apartment you share with Jasmine and Sierra, supposedly reading your Aerospace Engineering textbook. Actually, you're doing everything you can to avoid looking like you're grinning at your phone. The cursor keeps blinking in the reply box, like it’s daring you to type something stupid.
"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"
"why are you even awake?"
"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"
"homework doesn't count"
"nerd 🤓"
"bet you won't say that to my face"
"bet i will. next time i see you"
"when's that gonna be? 👀"
A part of you knows you should be focused on the problem set in front of you. But instead, your thoughts keep drifting back to the screen, to her messages. You bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. There's something different about this—about her—that you can't quite put into words. Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast for it to just be casual.
"Oh my GOD," Jasmine’s voice startles you, making you jolt and nearly drop your phone. She's leaning over the back of the couch, eyes twinkling with that grin that’s a little too knowing for comfort. "You're texting Paige!"
"What? No, I'm—" you fumble your phone, nearly dropping it. "I'm doing homework."
"Mmhmm." Jasmine vaults over the couch to land beside you. "That's why you're making the same face I make when KK texts."
"I do not make a face."
"You literally look like this—" Jasmine demonstrates an exaggerated dreamy expression that makes you throw a pillow at her.
"I'm going to KK's this weekend," she says after dodging the pillow. Her voice is deliberately casual. "UConn has a home game Friday. You should come."
Your heart does a little flip. "I have that Physics midterm Monday..."
"Right, because you definitely weren't just texting about wanting to see her."
"I wasn't—" you start, but your phone buzzes again, Paige’s name lighting up the screen in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.
"Girl," Jasmine says, softer now. "It's okay, you know? To want something besides basketball."
You stare at your phone, fingers hovering again over the keys as those three dots show up. Paige is typing, and your chest tightens. Your heart’s racing now, too fast for this to just be some rivalry. You’ve never felt this way about an opponent before.
"It's complicated," you finally manage, your voice coming out quieter than you intended.
"When is it not?" Jasmine squeezes your shoulder as she gets up. "Think about it, okay? KK says the whole team's been asking about you anyway."
Later that night, Sierra finds you on the roof of your building. It’s your thinking spot—the place where you go to clear your head when the world feels too loud or when the equations refuse to make sense. Tonight, though, the equations have nothing to do with physics.
"Spill," Sierra says, sliding down to sit beside you.
"What?"
"You've been different lately. Good different, but different." She bumps your shoulder. "And I saw you smile at your phone six times during practice today."
You let out a long breath. The city lights blur below you, and somehow it feels easier to talk without making eye contact.
"I think... I think I like her," you say finally. The words feel huge in the quiet night air. "Paige, I mean."
"No shit," Sierra laughs softly. "I figured that out when you watched her coffee story four times."
You blink, feeling caught. "You saw that?"
"Girl, everyone saw that." She pauses. "The question is, what are you gonna do about it?"
You lean back against the roof, your gaze on the stars that are barely visible through the light pollution of the city. "I don’t know. It’s complicated," you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "We’re rivals, and we’ll probably face each other in March. If the media got wind of us, it’d be a circus. Not to mention—" You cut yourself off, because it sounds even worse when you say it out loud.
"Okay, forget all that for a second." Sierra interrupts, her voice quieter now. She turns to face you, her eyes soft. "How does she make you feel?"
Your breath catches in your chest. How does Paige make you feel? You think about those late-night video calls that always start with film study but end with laughing over something stupid. About how she remembers little details about your life—like your favorite late-night snack, your favorite places on campus, or how you sometimes still get nervous before big games.
"Like I can be both," you say finally, the words tumbling out before you even realize their weight. "Like I can be The Prophecy, but also just... me."
Sierra's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you've spent three years being perfect. Maybe it's time to be happy instead."
You stare at the stars, trying to find your footing in this new reality that feels both foreign and exciting. "I don’t know if I’m ready for that."
Sierra nudges you, her tone playful again. "Then at least try. You deserve it."
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and for a moment, you forget about everything else. You pull it out, heart skipping when you see the name on the screen: Paige. The message.
miss watching film with you
Sierra leans over to peek at the text, a grin spreading across her face. "Smooth," she says, barely suppressing a laugh.
"Shut up," you laugh.
"Is that why Jasmine invited you to Connecticut this weekend?" Sierra asks, an eyebrow raised.
You groan, burying your face in your hands. "She told you?"
"Girl, I’m not blind," Sierra says, standing up. "Please. She’s been planning this whole setup for days. And you know what? You should go."
You look up, your gaze meeting hers. "I don’t know. The physics exam is coming up, and—"
"Physics will still be there when you get back," she interrupts, her voice light but serious. "But this? This might not be here forever."
You chew on that for a moment, the weight of it settling in.
"She’s waiting for you to say something," Sierra says quietly, her gaze flicking between you and the screen.
You hesitate, then smile softly to yourself. This is your chance.
You type back: "guess you'll have to come study in person sometime."
Sierra gives you a teasing look. "Oh, it’s on now."
Your phone buzzes again, and this time, Paige’s response comes quickly: "is that an invitation?"
Your fingers hover over the keys for a moment, and then, with a deep breath, you reply: "maybe. you gonna show me around campus?"
The message comes back almost immediately: "only the important spots. like where i practice my weak left hand drives 😏"
You can’t help it. You burst into laughter, your heart light and carefree for the first time in what feels like forever. Sierra shakes her head, smiling fondly at you.
"You’re totally down bad, huh?"
"Shut up," you laugh, feeling the warmth of it rush through you. But even as you tease her, you feel it too—this rush of excitement, the anticipation of something new, something that could change everything.
Sierra heads for the roof door, pausing just before she goes inside. "Hey Rocket?"
"Yeah?"
"Just... be careful, okay? Not because of basketball or rankings or any of that stuff. Just... because your heart's on the line too."
You nod, your chest tight as the weight of her words settles in. "I will."
She gives you one last look before disappearing inside, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your phone, and the lighthearted texts you’ve been sending all night.
Another buzz from Paige lights up your phone: "but seriously. come this weekend? i want to see you."
Her response makes your whole body warm: "can't wait 💫"
You stay on the roof a while longer, letting the night air cool your flushed cheeks. March feels both too far away and too close, but right now, in this moment, you let yourself focus on a different kind of countdown:
Three days until Connecticut.
The minute you step onto UConn's campus, you remember why being The Prophecy is complicated.
"Oh my god," you hear someone whisper. "Is that—"
"Holy shit, that's really her—"
"The Prophecy is here—"
You pull your hoodie up, hoping for some anonymity, but it’s futile. Jasmine’s already ditched you to find KK, leaving you standing in the middle of the chaos, awkwardly clutching your duffel bag. You check your phone, hoping for a distraction, when you see a text from Paige.
how’s campus so far? are you surviving the hype? 😂
You type back quickly, trying to act casual.
surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄
Before you can put the phone down, a text buzzes again.
i’m in the quad, come meet me? i’ve got your escape route ready 🏃♀️
You smile at her message, your nerves a little lighter now, but that doesn't make the reality of the situation any less surreal.
"Should I just text her when I get there?" you mutter to yourself, typing out a quick reply:
on my way. see you soon.
The crowd's whispers grow louder, and as you move through the sea of students, your phone buzzes again, this time with a message that makes your heart skip a beat.
turn around
You turn, and there's Paige, looking unfairly good in joggers and a UConn hoodie. For a second, you both just stare at each other, all those late-night texts and video calls suddenly feeling very different in person.
"Hi," you manage, hyper-aware of the growing crowd pretending not to watch. "Um. Nice campus."
"Thanks, I—" she starts, just as you say, "Should we—"
You both stop. Laugh nervously. God, where did all your game go?
"Yo, Paige!" some guy calls out. "Is that The Prophecy? Can we get a picture?"
Before either of you can respond, the crowd swarms in like a tidal wave. Students materialize from every direction, phones out, voices overlapping, and it’s all happening too fast. You’re caught in the whirlwind of questions and flashes.
"Can you sign my jersey?"
"Is it true you haven't missed a shot since high school?"
"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"
"Can you do the space shot right now?"
It’s nothing new. You've done this a thousand times, but today, it feels different. You're hyper-aware of Paige standing there, watching, her gaze unreadable. Her eyes flick from the crowd to you, amusement playing at the corners of her lips, but there’s something else there too.
You keep your composure—signing autographs, taking selfies, answering questions—but it’s harder when she’s so close. You try not to look over at her too much, but you catch her looking at you once. And her smile? It makes the whole world feel lighter, even in the chaos.
Then someone from the crowd asks, “Yo, did you come to see Paige?”
You freeze. All eyes are suddenly on you, the crowd waiting for your response.
“Just checking out the competition,” you say smoothly, though your heart skips a beat. But then you catch the subtle curve of Paige’s lips as she tries to hide her smile.
“She's already kicked our ass once,” Paige adds, her voice playful. “Maybe I’m trying to learn her secrets.”
The crowd laughs, and the tension in the air eases. You finally manage to break free from the swarm, and Paige leads you out of the madness, pulling you toward a quieter part of campus. She glances over at you as if to gauge how you’re holding up, and then says, “Sorry about that. I probably should’ve warned you… You’re kind of a big deal here.”
“Here?” You raise an eyebrow. “Not just at Harvard?”
She rolls her eyes with that charming little smirk of hers. “Please, you know what I mean.”
She bumps your shoulder lightly, and for a second, you’re both frozen in that little moment, and then—quickly—she steps away, as though surprised by the contact. She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly before continuing, “The perfect record? The space shot? Your major? You’re like basketball mythology at this point.”
The words settle over you, like a weight that makes you stand a little straighter. It's odd, but you can't deny the truth in what she’s saying. You pass a group of girls, and they absolutely squeal when they spot you. One of them is wearing a t-shirt with your number and "The Prophecy" written on the back, and it's like you’ve stepped into some weird alternate reality.
"That's..." you start.
"Weird?" Paige offers.
"I was gonna say flattering, but yeah, weird works too."
She chuckles, a little breathless, as you continue walking. You can’t help but notice how she looks at you—like she’s caught between admiration and something else.
By the time you reach the athletics center, the crowd starts to thin, but there's still a palpable buzz in the air. Students part for you like you're some kind of celebrity, whispering as they pass.
"—never misses, like ever—"
"—turned down every WNBA scout—"
"—heard she's already got a NASA job lined up—"
"—next GOAT for sure—"
You can’t hear it all, but enough of it sticks to your skin. You make eye contact with a few of the UConn players as you pass, and they do double-takes. The whispers don’t stop. The world still hasn't figured out how to react to you, and you’re still trying to wrap your head around it yourself.
When you get inside the locker room, you spot KK, draped over Jasmine on a bench. She sits up as soon as she sees you, and a wide grin spreads across her face.
“The Prophecy graces us with her presence!” KK announces, her voice carrying through the room.
You and Paige both turn to each other, saying “Shut up” at the same time. You exchange a glance, and immediately, you both look away, your cheeks heating up.
“Oh my god,” KK stage-whispers to Jasmine, her voice dripping with mischief. “They’re actually awkward. This is adorable.”
“I will literally murder you,” Paige threatens, but her face is flushed, the playful tone in her voice not matching her serious words.
You drop your bag, trying to act casual despite your racing heart. "So, this is where the magic happens?"
"Something like that," Paige responds, her voice quieter now. Then, her tone shifts, just a little, as she adds, “Want to see where I practice those trash left-hand drives?”
Her smile is nervous but hopeful, and something in your chest flutters in response. You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes meeting hers.
"Lead the way, Bueckers."
The gym is quiet, empty this late—just the two of you and the space stretching out around you like a vast, hollow echo. The squeak of your sneakers against the court floor seems louder than usual, and the rhythm of the ball bouncing between you is a steady heartbeat in the silence.
You grab a ball, the motion automatic, instinctual. Some habits don’t break just because your heart’s doing backflips.
"So..." you start, dribbling slow, almost hesitant. Your palms feel too hot on the ball, like everything about this moment is too much, too close, but you can’t pull away.
"So..." she echoes, her voice low, mirroring your movements with a fluid ease that makes your pulse pick up a little faster.
"This is..." you trail off, looking for the right word. Something that fits the electric tension hanging in the air.
"Weird?"
She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. "I was gonna say nice," you add, voice a little softer, but still trying to brush it off, to keep control. "But yeah, weird too."
She laughs—just a soft sound, but it breaks something between you. You feel your shoulders loosen, and the tightness in your chest starts to ease. "Want to play? Or are you scared I'll ruin your perfect record?" Her words are light, playful, but there’s an edge of something else there. Something beneath the surface.
"Please," you scoff, but the words come out softer than you expected, a little breathless. "You couldn’t guard me with a restraining order."
Her smile widens, but her eyes stay locked on yours, sharp, like she can see right through you. "Big talk from someone who's been stalking my coffee stories."
You nearly drop the ball at that. "I— that’s not—" You choke on your words, heat rushing to your cheeks, the sudden shift in conversation throwing you off-balance.
"Four views," she grins. "I counted."
"Professional research," you manage, trying to ignore how your face is burning.
"Right." She steps closer, her body moving fluidly, effortlessly, still dribbling the ball with that same steady rhythm. "And all those late-night texts?"
"Scouting reports," you shoot back, but your voice cracks, betraying the lie.
"The two-hour video calls?"
"Film study," you mutter, voice barely a whisper.
"And coming to Connecticut?" Her tone shifts—lighter, but with a question in it now. A challenge in her eyes, daring you to say something.
You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your chest. "Would you believe advanced aerospace research?"
She's too close now. You can smell the faint scent of her perfume, feel the heat radiating off her as she steps forward just enough to close the space between you. The ball’s still bouncing, the rhythm matching your heartbeats, and you can hear the beat of her pulse too—steady.
"Try again." Her voice is soft, but the challenge in it is unmistakable.
You take a breath, the air thick with something unspoken. "Maybe... I just wanted to see you."
The ball stops bouncing. It’s almost like everything around you freezes for a second. The echo of the gym fades out, and all you can hear is the steady thrum of your heartbeat, racing now, too fast, too loud.
Her eyes search yours, the gold flecks in them catching the light, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. She doesn’t move. You don’t either. There’s a moment between you, raw and exposed, like you’re both just standing there, waiting for something to happen.
Then, her phone buzzes, breaking the stillness—KK, asking where you both disappeared to. The moment shatters, and you both step back, like you’ve both just been jolted awake.
"We should..." she starts.
"Yeah," you agree quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Team dinner, right?"
"Right." The word comes out like a sigh, a soft release, but neither of you move for a beat.
You both head back toward the locker room, but it feels like the distance between you has doubled, despite being only a few feet apart. You’re careful to maintain some space, but the air around you still crackles with the memory of the moment.
Just before you reach the door, you feel the lightest touch on your wrist. It’s a shock to the system, warm and soft, and you freeze.
"Hey."
You turn to face her, heart still thundering in your chest, your breath caught in your throat.
"I'm glad you came," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air between you, heavier than anything she’s said so far.
You open your mouth, but no words come out, your mind a blur, trying to make sense of the shift in the air between you. Before you can speak, though, she’s through the door, vanishing into the locker room, leaving you standing there, breathless.
You stand there for a moment, your heart still racing, trying to collect yourself. The touch of her fingers on your wrist is still warm on your skin, like an electric spark that lingers long after the contact ends. You can still feel the weight of her gaze on you, the way she looked at you just before she left—open, vulnerable, and for a second, everything in you just... paused.
You’re so fucking screwed.
Inside, KK takes one look at your face and starts laughing immediately. "Oh yeah," she says to Jasmine, her voice full of knowing. "March is gonna be interesting."
You throw a towel at her, but you can't help smiling. Because yeah, March is going to be complicated. But right now, watching Paige try not to look at you while she gets ready for dinner, you can't bring yourself to care.
Some things are worth the complication.
The team’s already piled into the upscale Italian place, the kind of restaurant where the hostess gives your group a double-take, eyes wide as she tries to figure out if you’re all really who she thinks you are. Emma starts giggling beside you, and you can’t help but let a laugh slip too. The entire UConn starting five, plus you, Jasmine, and a couple of bench players, fill up the space like a small parade. The table’s enormous, but somehow, fate—or possibly KK—decides that you should sit next to Paige. You know it's not her doing, but the thought of it makes your stomach do flips. Definitely not subtle.
Your knees brush under the table, and you both jerk away so fast it feels like a live wire just zapped both of you. It’s... a weird moment, but it’s over quickly.
"So," Caroline leans in, practically smirking with that devious look of hers. "We finally get to hear how The Prophecy got her name."
"Oh god," you groan, sinking back in your seat, hoping to disappear into the padded booth. But Paige perks up next to you, eyes lighting with interest.
"Wait," she says, "I don’t know this story."
You shoot Emma a glare, but she’s already opening her mouth, ready to spill the beans.
"Nobody tells it," you warn, but Emma's already launching in.
"Freshman year," Emma begins, her voice a little too loud in the suddenly quiet room, "first practice. Coach put her through this insane shooting drill—"
"It wasn't insane," you protest.
"Hundred shots from five spots," Emma continues, undeterred. "Most freshmen hit, like, sixty percent if they’re lucky. She goes perfect. Coach thinks it’s a fluke, makes her do it again. Perfect again."
You can feel Paige’s eyes on you, her attention sharp and focused. You don’t know how to feel about it, but you try not to squirm under her gaze.
"Third time," Emma's building to it now, "Coach says 'What are you, some kind of prophecy?' And right as she says it, this girl—" she points at you, "—sinks a half-court shot backward without looking."
"I was stretching!" you defend, but the table's already losing it.
"The name stuck," Caroline finishes. "Even before the no-miss streak."
"Speaking of," Tessa jumps in, her voice suddenly a lot more serious, "how do you actually do that? The never-missing thing?"
The entire table quiets down, all eyes suddenly fixed on you. Even the waitress, hovering nearby, pretends not to listen, but you catch her glancing over every few seconds.
You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention on you, but the pressure isn’t all bad. You glance over at Paige—she’s still watching you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes that makes it hard to focus. She shifts slightly closer, and it makes your heart race.
"I just..." You pause, unsure of how to explain the weird, inexplicable thing that happens when you’re on the court. "I guess I see it differently. Like, you know how some people have perfect pitch in music? They hear things that other people can’t even pick up on?"
Nods around the table.
"I see angles that way," you continue, trying to sound more confident, but you’re still not used to talking about it. "Trajectories, force vectors... like physics and the feel of it—they just... merge in my head, I guess?"
Jasmine, who’s been watching you this whole time, cuts in with a smirk. "She’s being modest. Yesterday, I watched her solve a quantum mechanics problem while sinking thirty straight threes."
You roll your eyes. "Multitasking," you mumble, but Paige’s knee brushes against yours again. This time, neither of you pulls away, and your concentration goes from laser focus to absolute mush. You feel heat rising in your chest, but you try to keep your voice steady.
The conversation shifts, but you’re barely listening anymore. Every little movement from Paige, every time her hand brushes your arm as she reaches for her water, every time she leans in a little closer to hear you speak—your mind is barely keeping up. Her perfume is subtle but intoxicating, making it impossible to think straight.
"Y'all should see her in class," Jasmine's saying. "Professors literally use her as an example in physics."
"One time!"
"Three times," Jasmine corrects. "Remember when Dr. Peterson used your jump shot to explain projectile motion?"
KK, who’s been silently watching you both like this is her personal reality TV show, grins. "No wonder half the team has a crush on you."
You nearly choke on your water. Paige freezes next to you, and you can feel the shift in the air.
"I mean," Caroline chimes in, clearly trying to smooth over the tension, but only making it worse, "who wouldn’t? Best player in the country, genius-level IQ, and look at her—"
"Okay!" Paige cuts her off, a bit too loudly. "Who wants dessert?"
The change in pace is enough to shake everyone out of the sudden tension. But as dessert menus are passed around and people start laughing again, your mind is still racing.
Later, as the group walks back toward campus, you notice how easily the team starts to scatter. KK and Jasmine vanish into the distance almost immediately, making some excuse about practice. The rest of the team drifts off to their own plans—study groups, dorms, whatever—but you and Paige end up walking together, side by side in the cool night air, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.
"So," Paige says, her voice soft but a little uncertain, "the hotel’s that way."
You glance at her. "Yeah."
Neither of you turns toward it.
"I have, um," she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "I have a single. In my dorm. If you wanted to watch a movie or something."
Your heart goes into overdrive, doing flips and twists like it might just leap out of your chest. The words feel stuck in your throat, but your mind is running wild.
"Or something?"
Even in the dim streetlight, you can see her blush. "I didn't mean— I just thought—"
"I'd like that," you cut off her rambling, and the smile she gives you makes your knees weak.
Her room is exactly what you'd expect - basketball posters, team photos, neat desk with game notes spread out. What you don't expect is how intimate it feels, being in this space that's so completely hers.
"Make yourself comfortable," she gestures to her bed, then immediately looks panicked. "I mean, you can sit— I'll take the chair—"
"Paige?"
"Yeah?"
"Breathe."
She laughs, some tension breaking. You sit on her bed, back against the wall, and after a moment she joins you, careful to leave space between you.
"So," you say.
"So," she echoes.
"Half the team has a crush on me, huh?"
She groans, covering her face. "KK has the biggest mouth—"
"Just half though?" You're pushing it, you know you are, but something about the way she's blushing makes you brave.
She lowers her hands, looks at you directly for the first time since dinner. "You know exactly how many people have a crush on you."
"Do I?"
Her eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. "You must."
The air feels thick, charged. Your hand is on the comforter between you, and slowly, so slowly, her pinky finger hooks over yours.
Just that small point of contact sets your whole body on fire.
"Paige?"
"Hmm?"
"I didn't come to Connecticut for film study."
She turns her hand, letting her fingers intertwine with yours properly. Your breath hitches.
"I know," she says softly.
You sit there for what feels like hours, neither moving except for her thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles. The touch is so light, so careful, but it feels like the most intense thing you've ever experienced.
"I should..." you start reluctantly.
"Stay," she says quickly, then blushes harder. "I mean, it's late, and the hotel's far, and—"
"Okay."
She blinks. "Okay?"
You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."
Later, lying in her bed (she insisted, taking the floor despite your protests), you stare at the ceiling in the dark. Your hand still tingles where she touched it.
"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.
"Yeah?"
A pause. Then: "I'm really glad you're here."
You close your eyes, smiling into the darkness. "Me too."
Neither of you mentions March. Neither of you talks about rankings or rivalries or what any of this means. For now, there's just this: her steady breathing in the quiet room, the lingering warmth of her touch, and the feeling that something huge is beginning.
Just before you drift off, you hear her whisper something that might be "perfect." But you're already falling asleep, wrapped in her blankets that smell like her, dreaming of basketball and physics and the way her hand felt in yours.
Some equations, you think hazily, don't need solving.
Genre: romance (eventually), slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, smut (eventually), cat n mouse
Description: When an overworked engineering student's late-night CAD project gets interrupted by a very drunk, very lost basketball star stumbling into the wrong dorm room, she learns that some defensive plays work better in love than on the court.
What starts as a case of mistaken identity turns into an unexpected game of cat and mouse when UConn's golden girl, Paige Bueckers, can't seem to take a hint– or maybe just doesn't want to. Armed with nothing but sarcasm, an overprotective stuffed bear named Mr. Gummy, and a borrowed team jacket that definitely isn't helping the situation, our engineering hero finds herself drawing up plays to defend her heart against college basketball's most persistent point guard.
They say offense wins games, but defense wins championships. When you're trying not to fall for a girl who treats the court like her kingdom and your personal space like a suggestion, maybe it's time to admit some battles aren't meant to be won.
WC: 11.2k
Authors Notes: i had first written this for jkxreader on my other blog (whoretan) however plot deviates heavily after the first encounter, um, kinda fuck girly paige, but kind of just a love drunk idiot too
Chapter 1: The Unexpected Guest
Your eyes burned as you stared at the CAD model rotating on your screen, the internal combustion engine you'd been working on for the past—what was it now, eight hours?—still refusing to cooperate.
The familiar workspace of SOLIDWORKS had become both your best friend and worst enemy over the past three years at UConn, but tonight it felt particularly vindictive. You'd been trying to get the timing belt assembly to properly mate with the crankshaft for what felt like an eternity, and your deadline was creeping closer by the minute.
"Did you hear?" Riven's voice cut through your concentration as she burst through the door, her designer backpack hitting her bed with enough force to make your desk lamp wobble.
"Hear what?" You didn't bother turning around, instead zooming in on the problematic area of your model. The project was due in six hours, and you were nowhere near having it stress-tested. Sleep was starting to feel like a distant memory from another life.
Riven paused in her tracks—you could practically hear her jaw dropping in that dramatic way she'd perfected since freshman year. "Paige Bueckers was talking about how Q’s jump shot is worse than a middle schooler's."
The absurdity of the statement finally forced you to tear your eyes away from the screen. Your neck cracked in protest as you turned to face your roommate, who stood there with her perfectly manicured hands on her hips, waiting for your reaction. Three years of living together had taught you that Riven wouldn't let you focus until you properly acknowledged whatever piece of gossip she'd brought home.
“That’s literally ridiculous.”
Riven tilted her head, eyes rolling toward the ceiling in that characteristic way of hers. Six seconds of contemplation later (you’d learned to count), she shrugged and pulled out her iPhone, probably to text the women's basketball group chat about the latest drama.
Your roommate, much like all the other Huskies superfans, didn't care whose reputation a particular player tarnished. She'd much rather get on their good side, damaged reputations or not. It was a dance you'd watched play out countless times since freshman year, when you'd first been assigned as roommates.
Back then, you'd thought the random housing assignment would be a disaster—the sports-obsessed sorority girl and the robotics team president seemed like a recipe for mutual hatred. But somehow, your differences had created a strange balance. She dragged you out of your engineering cave occasionally, and you reminded her that there was more to college than chasing after basketball stars.
"Caitlin bought Kate those new custom Nikes." Riven thrust her phone in your face, revealing a photo of Clark's teammate happily posing with pristine white sneakers. The caption read, 'Thanks for the gift bb, @CaitlinClark22'.
You squinted at the screen, trying not to think about how those shoes probably cost more than your entire semester's textbooks. The basketball elite weren't just known for their court skills—their NIL deals were equally legendary. Every starter came from successful programs, the kind that built training facilities and had courts named after their alumni.
"What a lucky bitch," Riven sighed, flopping onto her bed.
Apparently, your roommate wasn't the only one who didn't care for her reputation. Last week, she'd blown up your phone with about thirty—maybe sixty—texts about how her sorority sister had seen Caitlin making out with someone else at The Tavern. Looks like those custom Nikes must've been an apology.
You looked up at your starstruck roommate with pursed lips. Riven caught your expression and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, she's being messy. So what? Those shoes are like two thousand dollars with the custom work, that's my fucking meal plan right there."
"Remind me again how you're a neurology student?"
Riven clutched her chest with an open hand, gasping dramatically. "Wow. I see how it is." She threw herself backward onto her bed with the theatrical flair of a soap opera star.
You couldn't help but grin, even as your eyes darted back to your computer screen. The smile quickly died on your lips.
Oh fuck.
The CAD model still sat there, mocking you with its incomplete state. You'd managed to complete maybe forty percent of the assembly, and the entire thing needed to be fully rigged and stress-analyzed by nine AM.
This was the cost of your procrastination, another dinner sacrificed to the gods of engineering deadlines. At least you had a good excuse this time: you'd spent the weekend helping the robotics team prepare for their upcoming competition. Being vice president meant putting in the extra hours, even if it meant cramming your actual coursework into impossible timeframes.
"I have to finish this tonight. Do not bother me with any more basketball drama." You spun your chair back to face your screen, not bothering to check if Riven was sticking her tongue out at you. You could picture it anyway, she had the maturity of a twelve-year-old sometimes.
Five and a half hours later, you finally pressed the glorious 'Submit' button on Blackboard. You turned off your PC with such violence that the desktop nearly toppled over.
"Never doing that again," you groaned, slumping into your chair and letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your neck felt like it had been replaced with concrete somewhere around hour six.
"You literally say that every time," Riven quipped from her side of the room.
If you had any energy left, you would've gotten up and punched her in the ass. Luckily for her, your eyes had started doing that thing where they drooped shut every few seconds without your permission. You'd decided about thirty minutes ago that your chair was an acceptable substitute for a bed. The walk to your actual mattress seemed about as feasible as climbing Mount Everest right now.
"How do I look? Good enough for the party?"
Fucking hell.
You summoned what little remained of your core strength and groaned as you forced your chair to swivel around. The sight that greeted you was, admittedly, impressive, even through your exhaustion-blurred vision.
Riven wore a black dress that hit just above her knees, with strategic cutouts along her ribs. The laced-up black heels she'd spent twenty minutes struggling with (while whining very fucking loudly) completed the look perfectly. She'd devoted the last hour of your project completion marathon to preparing for KK’s birthday celebration.
“Which party?” you croaked. “The one where everyone’s fighting or the one where they’re pretending nothing happened?”
Her nose wrinkled in that way it did when she was trying not to laugh. "You're so annoying."
Yeeeaaah, definitely the messy one.
You watched as Riven stumbled toward her drawer, rummaging through three compartments before pulling out a neon orange tiny bag. And when you say tiny, you mean tiny, it couldn't have been more than two inches across.
"Can you even fit anything in there?"
A wicked smile spread across her face as she opened the toy purse, pulling out her student ID and a tube of lipstick. Of-fucking-course. “Minimalist chic, baby. Besides, I don’t need much. Just the essentials. I'm serious. Tonight's gonna be fucking legendary."
“Legendary,” you deadpanned, swiveling your chair back to your desk. “Try not to end up on Barstool again.”
You swore she lunged forward, ready to attack you with her miniature weapon. But her phone rang, which happened to be a far more pressing matter. The assault could wait. Riven pressed the phone to her ear with a smile that would have made the Cheshire Cat proud.
"Are you here? Yeah, I'm ready. You have the Pink Whitney? Okay. Bye."
She turned back to you with that same manic grin. "I'll get you back for that later. Bye!"
And just like that, Riven leaped out of the room, her neon orange bag and its singular tube of lipstick disappearing with her into whatever chaos awaited at the UConn house.
The sudden silence in her wake felt almost oppressive. You sat there for a moment, contemplating your life choices. The clean lines and precise measurements of your engineering models never gave you this much drama. Maybe that's why you preferred spending your nights with SOLIDWORKS instead of at parties—machines were predictable, logical, and they never started drama about anyone's jump shot.
After nearly crawling your way across the room for what felt like thirty minutes (but was probably closer to five), you finally made it to your bed. Or rather, to the base of your bed. The problem now was getting on top of it. UConn, in its infinite wisdom, had given everyone the tallest fucking beds in existence.
Tall enough that all of your belongings fit underneath it so they could make the rooms ten times smaller by doing so. You sat on your ass, glaring at what felt like a sixteen-foot space between you and the mattress. You could, theoretically, just fucking get up and with one last surge of energy jump onto it. But the soft cotton of your fuzzy rug was suddenly hugging your back, tucking you in, cradling you like a loving parent.
Fuck it, the floor isn't even that bad. You've slept on much worse—like that one time freshman year when you passed out in the robotics lab after a forty-eight-hour building session. At least your rug didn't smell like motor oil and desperation.
Your head lay flat on the floor, the hardwood never felt softer. Riven had left hours ago, and you'd managed to successfully knock out on your chair for a bit. That was until you jolted awake, sweating out of every crevice of your body, and made eye contact with your actual bed. You'd said goodbye to the chair and began the voyage to your proper sleeping place. Clearly, that wasn't going as planned.
It was too late now to dwell on what could've been. Tomorrow, you'd start anew. Just like every time she partied, Riven wouldn't be back for two or three days. You'd have a full day to sleep on your actual bed without the mention of UConn and internal combustion engines.
You turned to your side, the fuzz tickling your chin as you nuzzled into it. Sleep was just starting to creep in when—
"Taylor! Tay baby, please open the door!"
The hairs on your arms rose and a fart you hadn't realized you'd been holding in released into the air. Some drunk player had the wrong door.
“Wrong room,” you called, hoping they’d get the hint. With a shaky breath, you nuzzled deeper into the carpet.
Not a second later, a bang erupted through your room. "Tay, please. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."
Your heart thrashed in your chest. Could you not have one night of peace? One night of tranquility to enjoy your own company? One night to enjoy sleeping on the hard floor?
"Taylor, for fuckssake." The asshole nearly knocked the fucking door off the hinges.
First, you're going to knock her the hell out. Then, you'll find out where Taylor lives and knock her out, too. Maybe you could work it into your next robotics project—a robot specifically designed to punch drunk athletes who can't read room numbers.
"Tay, please—"
You jolted upward and ran to the door so fast you probably broke several laws of physics. Swinging the wooden panel open like a madwoman, you yelled, "Listen asshole, I don't know who Taylor is and I don't give a damn. It's late as hell and some of us actually enjoy sleeping!"
Said asshole leaned against the door frame of your room, a Nike-covered foot tapping against the floor as she pressed a finger to your lips. "Shhhhh, baby, I said I'm sorry."
Your throat locked and you nearly laughed at the audacity. Did this fucker really not notice you weren't Taylor? Through your sleep-deprived haze, you managed to register a few details about the intruder: tall, athletic build that made your mouth go dry, honey-blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and wearing what looked like exclusive UConn team gear. Great. A drunk basketball star.
Said basketball star happened to also push herself off the door frame and trudge past you, right into your room as if she'd been there a million times.
Much like you wanted to before your carpet trapped you, the stranger leaped onto your bed, stomach flopping onto the cushion of your mattress. She muttered something you couldn't hear as she grabbed your favorite pillow and brought it close to her chest. She was snuggling your Mr. Gummy.
You were going to go to jail for assaulting a Division I athlete. Yeah. This was the end of your girl boss engineering career. Goodbye feminist STEM icon. Hello convict. All those years of suffering to get into UConn just for you to catch a case over the Greek Goddess, Nike, herself. At least you'd submitted your project first, might as well get credit for that before you went to prison.
"Babe, I don't remember your bed smelling this good." She'd gone into a fetal position, kicking off her—yep, definitely team-exclusive Nikes. Maybe, just maybe, you'd knock her out and then sell her shoes on StockX. The proceeds could cover your legal defense.
You rubbed your forehead with the back of your palm, wiping away the stress sweat that had accumulated. You swung your head out of your door, looking left and right, then repeat. Empty. Fuck. Fuck, and fuck.
You paced back and forth a few times, biting on the edge of your hand. You can't pick this goddess off your bed. One, she's drunk as hell. Two, she's... You gazed back at the stranger, somewhere on her journey to your bed she'd tossed her UConn warmup jacket to your floor. Leaving her in a fitted tank top that left nothing to the imagination.
Who needs that many shoulder muscles? The definition in the arm that hugged Mr. Gummy was sculpted by years of perfect jump shots. Each shift of her body revealed new curves, like a living Nike ad designed specifically to torment sleep-deprived engineering students.
Holy hell. Get a fucking grip.
Okay, so you can't drag the basketball star off your bed.
Plan B it is.
You trudged into your room, taking one last look at the hallway. Should you close the door?
If someone did hypothetically walk past would they think you drugged her? She was slurring her words and hugging your favorite bear while you paced back and forth like you happened to "accidentally" slip something into her Gatorade.
You closed the door.
You needed to call Riven. You could care less that she was at the beginning of her three-day rager, you weren't going to wait till the next morning when Nike would wake up and start accusing you of kidnapping UConn's star point guard.
You slowly walked toward your desk, making sure to avoid the panels on the floor that creaked every time someone stepped on them. Empty. You pushed your chair back to see if it happened to fall earlier. Empty.
The air stilled, and you shook your head. No. No. She was laying on it.
You'd chucked your phone onto your bed after deciding to finally start your project. You had to call Riven. There was no other choice but to tell someone. And given the fact that your contact list included your parents and Riven, she was looking like the most optimal candidate.
As silently as you could, you tip-toed toward your bed and did a quick examination. Near her head? Nope. Mr. Gummy? Nope. Legs? Nope. Hip?
Yeah.
Maybe you would go to jail after all, for assault.
You better get an A on that fucking project.
You took a step forward, awkwardly climbing the edge of your bed to get closer to your phone. Which was nicely tucked right under the curve of her ass, your camera barely peeking out as if it was taunting you.
Shit. How are you going to pull it out?
Your face contorted as you inched closer to the basketball player, thumb and middle finger clutching the edges of your phone and lightly tugging backward. She huffed out a soft groan. Dear god.
It's not budging.
In and out. Breathe.
You tugged again.
Something thudded against the floor.
Your eyes left the phone and gazed to the floor where your Mr. Gummy lay sacrificed to the floor demons. Uh oh.
You turned back to retrieve your bear when your eyes locked with hers. Her very open eyes.
She was smiling.
"Baby I didn't know you were so handsy."
You stared. That's all you could manage to do—stare at the face of the beautiful drunk idiot in front of you. And holy shit was she beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you question if UConn's recruitment standards included a mandatory photogenic quota for certain players.
The idiot had a playful smile playing across her stupidly perfect face. Taylor must be a lucky girl. Not lucky enough, though, considering her girlfriend was currently in a stranger's bed. How drunk did someone have to be to not recognize they had the wrong person?
"C'mere," she grabbed your arm, pulling you to your side as if you weighed nothing. A strong arm locked around your waist and began rubbing circles on your stomach. The motion sent shivers down your spine that you desperately tried to ignore.
"Missed you, n' I'm sorry baby," she slurred into your ear. Her voice was much softer now, a warm whisper that made your whole body tingle.
Taylor, I'm so sorry.
The words shot straight between your legs. You hadn't been touched in almost two years. Sue me. A gorgeous basketball star was rubbing your lower stomach while she told you—her girlfriend—she missed her. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. You spend three years avoiding athlete drama, and now the universe deposits one directly into your bed?
You needed your phone. Pronto.
"Listen— I—" You raised a clammy hand to lift her, attempting to wrap your fingers around her wrist to lift it. Your engineering brain was trying to calculate the exact force required to remove her arm without waking her up further, but all mathematical ability seemed to have short-circuited.
"You're so squirmy tonight," she intertwined your fingers.
What the fuck are you supposed to do? You inched your body further away in an attempt to shrug her off. A move that, in retrospect, was about as well-thought-out as trying to integrate calculus while drunk.
Nike thought otherwise. She pulled you closer until her front was pressed firmly against your back, her breath warm against your neck. You could feel the defined muscles of her stomach through her tank top, her body radiating heat that made your head spin.
FUCK.
You'll wake up with a gay panic and a warrant.
"I'm really tired," you squirmed against the death grip around your waist. For someone supposedly blackout drunk, she had the grip strength of someone who'd spent their life fighting through double teams.
Just pretend it's not there. You do not feel anything. Just toned arms and her—
"G'to bed baby. I'll make it up— make it up to you n' the morning." Nike lifted herself to place one last sleepy kiss against your cheek.
Two minutes later, Nike’s light snores vibrated against the back of your neck, warm breath caressing your skin. You wouldn't be able to move her off you. You had no clue where your phone was. Her hip could very well have fully consumed it at this point, creating some kind of phone-eating black hole that physics hadn't yet discovered.
With a sigh, you closed your eyes, pretended there wasn't a Division I basketball star sleeping in your bed, and prayed that you wouldn't end up in some viral TikTok before noon. At least if you did become internet famous, you'd already submitted that goddamn CAD project.
Your last thought before drifting off was that Mr. Gummy better not tell anyone about this.
"OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL!"
Are you being robbed? Is someone being murdered? You jolted upwards to see Riven staring at you with an open mouth, her perfectly applied makeup from last night now resembling a raccoon's Halloween costume.
You shook your head, trying to clear the fog of sleep. What's her problem?
She pointed to your bed and you turned your body to the side. Oh.
Oh.
Nike was rapidly blinking, those unfairly long eyelashes fluttering as she was most likely realizing you were not Taylor. The morning light streaming through your window illuminated her features in a way that should be illegal before coffee.
You laughed nervously, hands flailing in front of you like a malfunctioning windmill. "It's not what it looks like."
"Why is Paige Bueckers in your bed?"
Paige Bueckers? The same UConn Basketball Star Paige Bueckers? No fucking way.
This Paige had cuddled Mr. Gummy half of the night before opting to trap you in the bed with her. There was no chance that this was the same Paige Bueckers that had NIL deals with Nike and Gatorade and had laid waste to half the NCAA.
Paige—definitely Paige—groaned beside you, hands rubbing her face. "Taylor's going to kill me," she mumbled underneath her breath.
"No, we— we didn't. We." You pointed between yourself and Paige, your brain short-circuiting like a poorly wired circuit board.
"Listen, sweetie, I'm sure it was the time of your life, but this was a one-time thing." Her voice had that practiced smoothness of someone who'd given this speech before, probably more times than the number of equations in your thermodynamics textbook.
Your eyes bulged out of their sockets. Was she serious? Did she think you two—? And she was okay with it? Now, this fits the description perfectly of the cocky superstar Paige Bueckers was known to be.
Your face burned hotter than an overclocked processor. "We did not have sex. You came in here drunk off your ass screaming about your girlfriend."
By the time the word girlfriend left your mouth, Paige Bueckers had already jumped off your bed with the agility of someone who definitely wasn't as hungover as she should be. She snatched up her UConn warmup jacket from your floor and was halfway down the hallway before you could blink.
What an arrogant little asshole. Your muscles quivered with the urge to strangle her. That is if you ever saw her again. Which, given your luck and UConn’s campus, was probably inevitable.
"How long have you and Paige been seeing each other?" The empty spot beside you filled with Riven's weight. "Is that why you never wanted to come to the games with me?"
"Riven, you have five seconds to get off of my bed before I strangle you."
"You can't avoid this conversation forever!" she called out as you stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door with perhaps more force than necessary.
Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you tried to process the reality that you'd just spent the night cuddled up with Paige fucking Bueckers. The same player whose name had been carved into the unofficial NCAA hierarchy since before orientation.
You splashed cold water on your face, trying to wash away the memory of how her arms had felt around you, how her breath had tickled your neck, how her—
No. Absolutely not. You were not going to join the ranks of college students who'd lost their minds over a basketball star. You had bigger things to worry about. Like whether your CAD project had uploaded properly. Or if you could ever look at Mr. Gummy the same way again.
The next few days passed in a blur of classes, labs, and actively avoiding any location where you might run into Paige. You'd even skipped Tuesday's Engineering Club meeting, sending your vice president a detailed email about needing to catch up on work. It wasn't entirely a lie—you did have work to catch up on, considering you'd spent half your study time calculating alternate routes to class that avoided the usual athlete hangouts.
But by Thursday afternoon, your luck ran out. The library was supposed to be safe—the one place on campus where the basketball players rarely ventured. They had their own private study rooms in the athletic center, after all. Which is why you'd let your guard down, settling into your favorite spot near the engineering section to catch up on your reading.
The peaceful atmosphere was shattered by two girls settling at the table across from you, their whispered conversation carrying clearly in the quiet space.
"So yeah, I like totally made out with Paige in the team room. We almost knocked over Coach's whiteboard, isn't that hilarious?" The prettier of the two said as she placed her MacBook on the wooden table, her voice carrying that forced casualness of someone trying very hard to seem unbothered.
Her friend laughed and took a sip of her Starbucks, a lemonade, probably sugar-free, because of course it was. "So how was it?"
Paige's latest conquest giggled and opened her laptop, trying to seem as uninterested in the conversation as possible. You'd seen this play before, the carefully crafted nonchalance that masked the inevitable disappointment when Paige moved on to her next target. You'd bet your entire scholarship that she'd gone home crying after being ghosted, only to watch Paige pretend she didn't exist the next day.
By this point, you'd given up all pretense of studying chemical processes and electron movement. You'd reread the same paragraph in your textbook sixteen times, your brain more interested in this glimpse into the life of your unexpected bedmate. So what if you're being nosy? Everyone is nosy, and besides, you'd mentally checked out the moment these two sat down.
"She's such a good kisser.” Her friend's mouth dropped open as she placed her half-empty cup onto the table, grabbing her friend's shoulder with one hand. The former nodded, still giggling, "Sarah, I know. She like totally picked me up against the whiteboard."
Are they not aware that people can hear them? That they're in a public space? You glanced around the library, which was half-empty as usual. So maybe you were the only one eavesdropping. Still, you wouldn't go around a library of all places announcing your hookups to the world.
"Hey buttercup," an eerily familiar voice purred in your ear.
You jolted, arms flailing like a malfunctioning robot, inevitably colliding with your pencil case and sending its contents scattering across the floor. Various writing implements rolled under nearby tables like they were making a break for freedom.
You turned to lock eyes with a very, very familiar pair of hazel eyes. Shit.
"Do I know you?" You asked through gritted teeth, trying to ignore how good she looked in her fitted Nike training gear. The amount of exclusive team merchandise on her body probably equaled your entire semester's expenses.
Why would Paige, of all people, be looking for you? If you remembered correctly, she was the one to so diligently inform you that whatever happened was a one-time thing—even though nothing had actually happened.
Paige's eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips tugged upward into that infamous smirk. She leaned forward, resting one hand on the edge of the table, the other on the back of your chair, effectively caging you in. "Don't play dumb."
She was in your bubble. Way too close for comfort, especially since you'd been planning on never having to interact with her again. You groaned and leaned backward, roughly pushing your chair back to give yourself space to lean over and pick up your scattered pens. The move was partly practical and partly designed to annoy her.
"Listen, if it was up to me, I wouldn't be here either." Paige grabbed the chair to your left and pushed it closer to you, dropping into it with that natural athlete's grace. "I've been to your room every day since Sunday and you haven't been there once."
Welp. Why the hell would she be looking for you?
"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was supposed to be waiting in my room for you." You shoved the pens back into your pencil case, gripping the zipper and tugging it closed with perhaps more force than necessary. Looks like the library was no longer a safe haven.
"I lost my phone and you're the only person I remember being with that night," Paige groaned, turning her head.
Does she truly remember that night? Remember that you two didn't actually hook up but instead cuddled? You wanted to convulse at the memory of how safe and warm you'd felt in her arms. How right it had—no. Absolutely not.
"Oh fuck," she mumbled, her expression shifting from annoyed to something closer to panic.
Your eyes followed her gaze to see what had caused this reaction.
Ha. Ha. Ha. In your face, superstar. You couldn't help but grin as you realized the two girls were still very much present. Not only present but staring at you and Paige with expressions that suggested their jaws might actually detach and hit the table.
Paige leaned back in her chair, sending them a small wave and a—was that a wink? Your eyes nearly rolled directly out of their sockets. How much more predictable could she get?
You didn't bother to look back at the two girls to see their reaction. You could guess it anyway—probably swooning in their chairs, maybe even planning their own strategic "accidental" encounters with her. You wouldn't be surprised if they were already planning to show up at her next practice session.
"Anyways," Paige turned back to you, her voice dropping to that low register that definitely didn't do things to your insides, "Have you seen it?"
You shook your head, closing your textbook. Time to get the hell out of here. "No, I haven't. Sorry."
"Are you mad about what I said? Is that why you're holding my precious phone hostage?" Paige's hand shot out to land on top of your textbook, preventing you from shoving it in your bag—or directly at her stupid, perfect face.
"Mad about what exactly?" You grabbed her hand and tried to shove it off the textbook. She didn't budge. Of course she didn't, you'd seen her arms during all those ESPN highlights Riven forced you to watch. "I do not have your phone."
Within seconds, Paige's hand slid off the textbook only to trap your hand against it instead. She moved to the edge of her chair and leaned forward until her lips were at the shell of your ear. Her warm breath hit your skin and you had to resist the urge to squirm. "About what I said in front of your roommate, sweetie."
Your blood ran cold. Does she think you give two shits about what she said in front of Riven? That she made your roommate think you two were secretly hooking up and that she would undoubtedly eventually let it slip to her sorority sisters? Who will tell the rest of campus? No. Not. At. All.
Asshole. She's a no-good little asshole with too many NIL deals and too little accountability.
You turned your head to face her, ignoring the fact that you were now inches apart. If you weren't so pissed you might've paused to appreciate how her eyes looked up close, how they seemed to hold more mischief than all the troublemakers in Cambridge combined. But now wasn't the time for character studies.
You held her gaze, noting the slight knit in her brow that suggested she wasn't as confident as she was pretending to be. "Listen here Bueckers, whether or not you want to keep pretending like we hooked up or not is none of my business. I do not have your fucking phone, and if I did I would've thrown that shit into the Charles River by now."
You yanked your hand away from her grasp and turned back to your desk. You managed to successfully toss your textbook into your bag and rise from your chair without another word from her.
Before making your very dramatic exit, you turned to face her one last time. Might as well make it grand.
Paige hadn't moved an inch since you'd stood up. She stared at you with a raised brow and that infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. She found this amusing? Found humiliating you in the library a good pastime?
You bent over your chair, placing one hand on her shoulder and leaning in until you were at the shell of her ear. She stiffened under your touch, and you felt a small thrill of satisfaction. What the fuck are you doing?
You leaned in further, so close that your chest pressed flat against your arm and her body. So close that your lips actually grazed her ear as you whispered, with all the venom you could muster, “This might work on your little groupies, but, I’m not interested.”
The last thing you saw as you straightened up and walked away was the shocked expression on her face, like she couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Good. Let her be confused for once.
You managed to make it all the way to the library exit before your hands started shaking. What the hell had gotten into you? You'd just essentially declared war on one of the most prominent athletes at UConn. The star player who could probably get you banned from every sports event without blinking.
But as you pushed through the heavy doors into the crisp fall air, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. Maybe it was time someone stood up to the mighty Paige Bueckers. Someone who didn't want anything from her except for her to leave them alone.
Your muscles were still tense from your library encounter as you trudged up the stairs to your dorm room. The familiar hallway felt longer than usual, probably because every step reminded you of how spectacularly you'd just antagonized UConn's star player. At least you'd managed to get through your thermodynamics lab without dwelling too much on the way Paige's face had dropped when you'd—
No. Stop fucking thinking about it.
You fumbled with your key card, missing the reader twice before finally getting the door open. The first thing you noticed was an envelope on the floor, likely slipped under your door while you were in class. You bent down to pick it up, ready to toss it in the recycling with all the other campus spam, when Riven's voice cut through the room.
"What's that?"
You jumped, nearly dropping the envelope. Your roommate was sprawled across her bed, still in her scrubs from her hospital rotation. She must have gotten back early.
"Nothing," you muttered, but it was too late. Riven had already launched herself off her bed with surprising agility for someone who'd just finished a twelve-hour shift.
"Oh my god," she squealed, snatching the envelope from your hands before you could protest. "These are courtside tickets to Saturday's game!"
Your stomach dropped. Sure enough, two tickets peeked out of the torn envelope in Riven's hands. But what caught your eye was the note attached.
Found my phone in the team room. Who would’ve thought, right? Peace? - PB
"We're going," Riven declared, already pulling out her phone. "I'm texting the group chat right now. Do you know how impossible these tickets are to get?"
You reached for the tickets, but Riven danced away, holding them above her head like a prized trophy. "We are not going."
"Oh yes we are," she grinned, typing furiously with one hand while keeping the tickets out of your reach with the other. "Everyone's going to be so jealous. How did you even get these?"
"I didn't—" you started, then stopped. How exactly do you explain to your basketball-obsessed roommate that these tickets were some kind of weird peace offering from Paige Bueckers? A peace offering that felt more like a challenge, especially given that note.
"Earth to engineering nerd," Riven waved her hand in front of your face. "You're coming to this game. No excuses. I've already told everyone you're finally embracing the Husky spirit."
You groaned, falling face-first onto your bed. Mr. Gummy stared at you judgmentally from his spot against your pillow. Even he seemed to be saying you should have thrown those tickets away the moment you saw them.
"I have to study," you mumbled into your comforter.
"You always have to study," Riven countered. "But how often do you get courtside tickets from Paige Bueckers?"
Your head shot up. "How did you—"
"PB?" Riven held up the note, smirking. "Please. I may be pre-med, but I'm not stupid. Also, her signature is literally on every piece of UConn merch in the campus store."
Great. Just great. Now you had no choice but to go to the game. If you didn't, Riven would never let you hear the end of it. She'd probably drag you there anyway, study plans be damned.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer some escape route from this situation. Instead, all you could think about was how you'd have to sit courtside—courtside—and watch Paige play. Watch her make those impossible passes, sink those perfect three-pointers, command the court like she was born to do it.
And she'd know you were there. That was the worst part. This wasn't just a peace offering—it was a power play. She was making sure you couldn't ignore her anymore.
"Fine," you sighed, already regretting the word as it left your mouth. "But I'm bringing my thermodynamics textbook."
Riven's squeal of delight was probably heard all the way in the engineering building.
You grabbed Mr. Gummy and hugged him to your chest, wondering how exactly you'd gone from successfully telling Paige Bueckers to fuck off to having courtside seats to watch her play. The bear offered no answers, but you could have sworn he looked a little smug about the whole situation.
The next two days were a special kind of torture. Riven had taken it upon herself to become your personal "game day preparation coordinator," which apparently meant forcing you to sit through endless highlight reels of UConn's recent victories. By Friday afternoon, you could probably recite Paige's stat line from memory—not that you'd ever admit that to anyone.
"You can't wear that," Riven declared as you pulled out your standard comfort outfit: UConn Engineering hoodie and black leggings.
You glanced down at your clothes, then back at your roommate. "Why not?"
"Because we're sitting courtside," she emphasized the word like you were a particularly slow child. "People are going to see us. The cameras might even pan to us during timeouts!"
The mere thought made your stomach churn. "That's exactly why I should wear this. I don't want to draw any attention."
Riven was already shaking her head, diving into her closet with the determination of someone on a mission. "No way. If Paige Bueckers gives you courtside tickets, you dress for the occasion."
"She didn't give them to me," you protested, even though technically she had. "They were just left under our door."
"Right," Riven emerged with an armful of clothes. "Just like she just happened to end up in your bed that night?"
You threw Mr. Gummy at her head. She dodged, laughing as the bear bounced harmlessly off your desk lamp. "We are not talking about that again."
An hour and approximately seventeen outfit changes later, you finally escaped. Your excuse about needing to pick up materials from the engineering lab wasn't entirely a lie—you did have a project due next week. The fact that the engineering building was on the opposite side of campus from the athletic facilities was just a bonus.
Lost in thought, you didn't notice the person exiting the coffee shop until it was too late. Hot liquid splashed across your chest as you collided with what felt like a brick wall of muscle.
"Shit, I'm so sorry!" A voice that definitely wasn't Paige's (thank god) exclaimed.
You looked up—and up—into the concerned face of one of UConn's basketball players. The Croatian accent and defensive intensity were legendary enough that even you, perpetually sports-oblivious, recognized her from Riven's endless team discussions.
"It's fine," you managed, trying to ignore how the hot coffee was currently seeping through your shirt. At least it wasn't your engineering hoodie—Riven would've killed you if you'd ruined her carefully planned outfit for tomorrow.
She was already pulling napkins from her pocket, dabbing at your shirt with a look of genuine distress. "Let me buy you a new coffee. And shirt," she added, eyeing the growing stain.
"Really, it's fine." You stepped back, ready to bolt. The last thing you needed was another interaction with a basketball player.
But she wasn't letting you off that easy. She grabbed your wrist with surprising gentleness for someone known for her aggressive defense. “Nah, I insist. I'm Nika, by the way. And I really do feel terrible about this."
Before you could protest further, she was steering you back into the coffee shop. The barista's eyes widened slightly at the sight of Nika—clearly a regular customer—but otherwise maintained their professional composure.
"The usual for me," Nika called out, "and whatever she wants." She turned to you expectantly.
You mumbled your name and order—"Just a black coffee"—trying to shrink into yourself. Several students were openly staring now, probably wondering why Nika Mühl was buying coffee for some random engineering student.
"And a chocolate croissant," Nika added, ignoring your attempt to protest. "Trust me, they're amazing here."
You shifted uncomfortably as she paid, very aware of the wet fabric clinging to your skin. Nika seemed to notice your discomfort because she shrugged off her UConn warmup jacket and held it out to you.
"Here, you can't stay in that wet shirt."
You stared at the jacket like it might bite you. The same style jacket Paige had left on your floor that night. The one that probably cost more than your textbooks.
"I can't—"
"You can and you will," Nika insisted, pushing the jacket into your hands. "There's a bathroom right there. Go change before you catch a cold."
Something in her tone brooked no argument. You found yourself in the bathroom before you could really process what was happening, staring at your reflection as you zipped up the warmup jacket. It was slightly too big, making you look like a kid playing dress-up in their older sibling's clothes.
When you emerged, Nika had already claimed a table in the corner, your drinks and the promised chocolate croissant waiting. She waved you over with a smile that somehow managed to be both friendly and slightly intimidating.
"So," she said as you slid into the seat across from her, "what's your major?"
"Engineering. Mechanical." You picked at the croissant, wondering how quickly you could eat it and escape.
Nika's eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Engineering— wait." Her eyes widened with recognition. "Holy shit, are you that girl?"
You froze mid-bite. "What girl?"
"The one from the library! The one who told Paige—what was it? ‘That you’re not one of her groupies’?” Nika's grin spread across her face like wildfire. "No wonder she's been such a mess lately."
You choked on your croissant. "What?"
"Oh my god, this is perfect. You're also the one she—" Nika cut herself off, studying your increasingly red face with growing delight. "The one whose room she crashed in after KK’s party?"
Your face burned hotter than the coffee you'd been wearing moments ago. "How did you—"
"Paige tells me everything," Nika leaned back in her chair, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Well, eventually. Had to drag this one out of her after she spent three days moping around practice like someone had stolen her favorite pair of Jordan’s.”
"I didn't steal anything," you protested automatically. "Not her phone, not her—"
"Oh, she knows that now," Nika waved dismissively. "Found it in the team room yesterday morning. Right where those girls said it would be." She paused, then added with a smirk, "Though I have to say, watching her spiral about it was pretty entertaining. She's not used to people calling her out like that."
The implication hung heavy in the air. You remembered the library girls' story about making out with Paige against the whiteboard. Something must have shown on your face because Nika's expression softened slightly.
"Look, Paige is complicated. She's not used to people seeing through her bullshit." She took a sip of her drink, considering her next words carefully. "Those tickets? That's her way of saying she fucked up."
"By accusing me of stealing her phone?"
"By letting you think she didn't remember that night."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. "What?"
Nika's phone buzzed before she could answer. She glanced at it and grimaced. "Speaking of her royal highness, I'm late for film." She stood, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "Keep the jacket. Consider it compensation for the coffee attack."
You watched her head toward the door, your mind spinning with questions. Just before she left, she turned back with a knowing smirk.
"See you tomorrow at the game. Front row, right?"
The door chimed as she left, leaving you alone with a half-eaten croissant and more questions than answers. You looked down at the jacket, at the way the UConn logo seemed to mock you with its pristine embroidery.
Somehow, in trying to avoid Paige Bueckers, you'd managed to get tangled up in her world anyway. And tomorrow, you'd have to sit courtside and watch her in her element, all while wearing her best friend's jacket.
Mr. Gummy was definitely going to judge you for this.
"No." You glared at the suspicious red cup Riven was waving in front of your face. "Absolutely not."
"Come on! It's tradition!" She pushed the cup closer, its contents sloshing dangerously near the rim. The sharp smell of cheap vodka mixed with what you assumed was cranberry juice wafted toward you. "You can't go to your first real game sober."
You turned back to your mirror, adjusting Nika's warmup jacket for the hundredth time. The number 10 stared back at you, a constant reminder of yesterday's coffee shop encounter. You'd tried to talk yourself out of wearing it, but everything else felt too casual for courtside seats (according to Riven) or too formal (also according to Riven).
"I'm not pregaming a basketball game at three in the afternoon."
"It's four," Riven corrected, checking her phone. "And yes, you are. The team's already been at Gampel for hours, and we need to leave in thirty minutes if we want good spots for warm-ups. I refuse to let you sit there reading thermodynamics while history happens right in front of us."
You spun around, hands on your hips. "History?"
"Yes! We're playing Notre Dame. It's huge." She thrust the cup into your hands with such force that some of it splashed onto your fingers. "And you're wearing Nika Mühl's personal jacket. Do you know how many people would kill for that?"
"I got it because she spilled coffee on me," you muttered, but took a small sip anyway. Just to shut her up. The drink was surprisingly not terrible— mostly juice with just enough vodka to warm your chest.
"Right. Just like Paige 'accidentally' ended up in your bed." Riven made air quotes with her fingers, nearly spilling her own drink in the process. "And then 'accidentally' gave us courtside tickets."
"Can we not talk about that?" You took another sip, larger this time. The warmth spread through your limbs, making everything feel slightly softer around the edges. Maybe Riven had a point about the drinking thing.
"Oh, we're definitely talking about it." She flopped onto your bed, somehow not spilling a drop. "You're wearing her best friend's jacket to watch her play. This is like, next level psychological warfare."
You choked on your drink. "It's not warfare! I just didn't have anything else to wear."
"Mhmm." Riven's knowing smirk made you want to throw Mr. Gummy at her again. "That's why you spent twenty minutes adjusting it in the mirror."
"I did not—"
"You did! You were all,” She stood up, mimicking your earlier movements with exaggerated precision. "'Oh, should I zip it up all the way? Maybe halfway? What if I push up the sleeves?'"
You drained your cup in one go, grimacing at the burn. "I hate you."
"You love me." She was already mixing another drink, this one slightly stronger than the last. "And you're going to thank me when Paige sees you in that jacket and loses her mind."
"She's not going to lose her mind," you protested, but accepted the fresh drink anyway. "She probably won't even notice."
Riven's laugh echoed off the walls. "Oh honey. Paige notices everything. Why do you think she's the best point guard in the country?"
The walk to Gampel Pavilion was a blur of Riven's excited chatter and your growing anxiety. The drinks had taken the edge off, but your heart still raced as you approached the arena. Students were already lining up outside, many wearing jerseys and carrying signs. Your hand instinctively went to the zipper of Nika's jacket, suddenly very aware of what you were wearing.
"Stop fidgeting," Riven hissed, pulling you toward a separate entrance. "You look hot. Own it."
The security guard barely glanced at your tickets before waving you through. The arena was already humming with energy— staff rushing around with equipment, the band setting up in their section, early arrivals claiming their seats.
Your courtside seats were exactly where you'd dreaded they'd be: directly behind the UConn bench. Close enough to hear every word, see every expression, feel every moment of tension.
"This is insane," you muttered, sinking into your seat. The court stretched out before you like a stage, the overhead lights making everything feel surreal.
"Look." Riven nudged you, pointing toward the tunnel. "They're coming out for warm-ups."
Your heart jumped into your throat as the team emerged, led by the coaching staff. Players filed onto the court in perfect formation, their practice jerseys a sea of navy and white. You spotted Nika first— impossible to miss with her distinctive playing style, already intense even in warm-ups.
And then there she was.
Paige moved with that effortless grace that made everything look easy, her ponytail swinging as she dribbled two balls simultaneously. She hadn't looked toward the crowd yet, locked in that pre-game focus that elite athletes got.
"Here we go," Riven whispered, her phone already out and recording.
You watched as Paige went through her warm-up routine, each movement precise and practiced. She worked her way around the three-point line, barely seeming to notice as shot after shot swished through the net.
Then she turned to grab a rebound, and her eyes swept across the courtside seats.
You saw the exact moment she registered you. Her hands froze mid-dribble, the ball bouncing away forgotten. Her gaze locked onto the number 10 across your chest, then slowly traveled up to meet your eyes.
The intensity in her stare made your whole body flush hot. You watched as her jaw clenched, that familiar muscle ticking in a way that sent heat straight to your core. Her eyes darkened with something that looked dangerously close to possession.
Nika appeared beside her, saying something that made Paige snap back to attention. But not before you caught the way her gaze lingered on how her best friend's jacket fit your frame.
"Holy shit," Riven breathed, still recording. "I think you broke her."
You slumped lower in your seat, already regretting letting the vodka convince you this was a good idea. "Shut up."
"No way. This is better than any reality show." She zoomed in as Paige missed her next three shots in a row. "Look what you did to her."
"I didn't do anything," you protested weakly, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from Paige's form. The way her practice jersey clung to her shoulders, how her muscles flexed with each movement, the intense focus that had returned to her features – though you swore you caught her glancing in your direction between plays.
This was going to be a very long game.
The game started exactly as you'd expected— with Paige absolutely demolishing Notre Dame's defense while you tried very hard to look anywhere else. It wasn't working.
"Did you see that pass?" Riven screamed in your ear for approximately the eighteenth time. "She didn't even look!"
No, you hadn't seen the pass, because you were very deliberately studying the fascinating architecture of Gampel's ceiling. The vodka buzz had worn off about twenty minutes ago, leaving you hyperaware of every move, every sound, every time Paige jogged past your seats during transitions.
The worst part? Nika kept sending you these knowing looks from the bench, like she was watching her favorite rom-com play out in real time. You were starting to regret not bringing your thermodynamics textbook after all. At least differential equations made sense. They didn't smirk at you or have perfectly defined arm muscles or—
"Time out, Huskies!"
The players jogged toward the bench, and suddenly your personal space was invaded by very tall, very sweaty athletes. You tried to shrink further into your seat, but there was nowhere to go. Especially not when Paige dropped into a crouch right in front of you, ostensibly to grab her water bottle.
"Nice jacket," she said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear over the timeout huddle. Her eyes traveled down your body in a way that made you feel like you were wearing significantly less than a full warmup jacket and jeans.
You opened your mouth to respond with something witty, something that would put her in her place like you had in the library. Instead, what came out was: "Your friend has good taste."
Paige's eyes darkened, that same possessive look from warm-ups returning with intensity. "Does she?"
Before you could dig yourself into an even deeper hole, Coach Auriemma's voice cut through the tension. "Bueckers! Get your ass over here!"
You watched as she jogged back to the huddle, trying to ignore how your skin felt electric where her gaze had lingered. Beside you, Riven was practically vibrating with excitement.
"I got all of that on video," she whispered, waving her phone in your face. "This is going in the group chat."
"If you send that anywhere, I will reprogram your phone to only play the Barney theme song."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The timeout ended, and the players returned to the court. You noticed Paige was playing with even more intensity now, if that was possible. Her crossovers were sharper, her passes more precise, like she had something to prove.
"Twenty bucks says she's showing off for you," Riven muttered.
"Thirty says you're delusional."
But as you watched Paige sink another impossible three-pointer and turn slightly— just slightly - in your direction before jogging back on defense, you had to admit that maybe, just maybe, Riven had a point.
The game continued in a blur of strategic timeouts (during which Paige found increasingly creative ways to end up near your seat), incredible plays (that you definitely weren't watching just to see the way her muscles moved), and Riven's running commentary (which was getting progressively less about basketball and more about the "tension that could be cut with a knife").
By the fourth quarter, UConn had built a comfortable lead, and you'd developed a concerning familiarity with exactly how Paige's practice jersey clung to her shoulders when she was sweating. This was not information you needed in your life. You had CAD models to build, robots to program, a future in engineering to secure. You did not have time to notice how her hair had started falling out of its ponytail in these impossibly attractive wisps, or how—
"Game! Huskies win!"
The final buzzer snapped you out of your completely professional analysis of athletic biomechanics. The crowd erupted as players from both teams exchanged handshakes and hugs. You stood, ready to make your escape before—
"Leaving so soon?"
You turned to find Paige standing right there, still slightly breathless from the game, her presence filling your entire field of vision. Up close, you could see the flush of exertion on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the slight curl of her lips that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to you.
"I have studying to do," you managed, proud that your voice came out steady.
"On a Saturday night?" She stepped closer, and you caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with sweat. It should not have been as attractive as it was. "After watching me put up thirty points?"
"Thirty-two," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Beside you, Riven made a sound that might have been a squeal or a laugh.
Paige's smirk grew wider. "So you were watching."
"It was kind of hard to miss, considering where we're sitting." You gestured to the courtside seats that had started this whole mess.
"About that," she ran a hand through her hair, and those loose strands fell perfectly around her face in a way that had to be practiced. "I was thinking maybe we could—"
"Paige!" Nika's voice cut through whatever she'd been about to say. "Media's waiting!"
You'd never been so grateful for press obligations in your life.
Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "This isn't over," she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear. Then she was gone, jogging toward the media section with that natural athletic grace that made everything look effortless.
You stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Your skin still tingled where she'd been standing close enough to touch.
"So," Riven's voice broke through your daze. "Still think she hasn't noticed you?"
"We're going out," Riven declared, already rummaging through your closet without permission. "No arguments."
You looked up from your laptop, where you'd been desperately trying to focus on anything other than replaying the game in your head for the past two hours. "I have to—"
"If you say 'study' I will literally scream." She emerged with your one decent going-out top, the black one with the low back that you'd bought on impulse and worn exactly once. "You just watched UConn destroy Notre Dame from courtside seats while Paige Bueckers eye-fucked you in front of the entire student section. We're celebrating."
"She wasn't—" You cut yourself off, heat creeping up your neck. "And anyway, shouldn't she be celebrating with her girlfriend?"
The words tasted bitter in your mouth. You'd been trying very hard not to think about Taylor, about how Paige had crashed into your room calling out her name, about how clearly serious it must be if she was that desperate to apologize. The fact that she'd spent the entire game looking at you like... that... well, it just proved what everyone said about her, didn't it?
"Oh my god," Riven threw the shirt at your head. "Put this on. We're getting drunk and you're going to tell me everything you're overthinking about right now."
An hour later, you found yourself at The Tavern, nursing your second Moscow Mule while Riven recounted the game to anyone who would listen. The bar was packed with students celebrating the win, most still wearing their UConn gear and riding the high of victory.
"I just don't get it," you said, mostly to your drink. "Why is she suddenly so interested? I'm literally nobody. I spend my Friday nights debugging Python scripts and building robots that occasionally catch fire."
"Maybe that's exactly why," Riven waggled her eyebrows. "You're different. You don't worship the ground she walks on."
You snorted. "Right. Because what Paige Bueckers really wants is someone who told her to fuck off in the library."
The doors to The Tavern burst open, and suddenly the energy in the room shifted. A new wave of celebration swept through as the team arrived, fresh from their post-game duties. Your stomach did a complicated flip as you spotted Paige among them, now changed into fitted black jeans and a white button-down that should be illegal. Her hair was down, falling in waves that your fingers definitely didn't itch to touch.
"Speak of the devil," Riven smirked. "Want to test that theory?"
"Don't you dare—" But Riven was already waving enthusiastically, catching Nika's attention. The Croatian player's face lit up with unholy glee when she spotted you.
"Engineering girl!" Nika bounded over, dragging a very amused-looking Paige with her. "Still wearing my jacket, I see."
You started to unzip it, but she waved you off. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway." She shot Paige a meaningful look that made your cheeks burn.
"I need another drink," Riven announced suddenly, grabbing Nika's arm. "Come show me where the team keeps their secret stash."
"We don't have a—" Nika caught on quickly, grinning. "Oh, right. That secret stash. This way."
And just like that, you were alone with Paige at the crowded bar, your body humming with awareness of how close she was standing.
"Subtle, aren't they?" Paige smiled, and for once it wasn't that practiced smirk. It was something softer, more genuine. She signaled the bartender, who materialized instantly. Must be nice being a campus celebrity.
"The usual?" The bartender asked Paige, already reaching for a bottle.
"I can buy my own drinks," you said quickly, reaching for your wallet.
Paige's lips twitched. "I know you can. But consider it part of my ongoing apology for the whole bed situation."
You raised an eyebrow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "You always apologize to your drunken mistakes with expensive drinks?"
The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to snatch them back. But instead of looking offended, Paige just studied you with those impossibly intense eyes.
"Only the ones who let me cuddle their stuffed bears."
"Mr. Gummy," you corrected automatically, then immediately wanted to die. Again.
The bartender returned with your drinks, and you grabbed yours perhaps a bit too quickly, needing something to do with your hands. The Moscow Mule was perfect – strong enough to blame your burning cheeks on the alcohol.
"So," Paige said after a moment, looking far too comfortable for someone who'd just been called out on their drunken mistakes. "Engineering, huh?"
You nearly choked on your drink. "Are we really doing small talk right now?"
"Would you prefer I go back to staring at you from across the court?"
"I prefer knowing where I stand," you shot back, the alcohol making you braver than usual. "Because last I checked, you had a girlfriend you were pretty desperate to apologize to."
Something flashed across her face – regret? Embarrassment? "Taylor and I it's complicated."
"Isn't it always?" You couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of your voice. You'd heard enough stories about Paige's "complicated" situations to fill a textbook.
She turned to face you fully, and your breath caught at the unexpected vulnerability in her expression. "Look, I know what people say about me. Some of it's probably true. But Taylor and I have been over for months. That night... I was drunk and stupid because she'd started seeing someone new, and I handled it badly."
"By trying to crawl into her bed?"
"By accidentally crawling into yours." Her voice dropped lower, sending involuntary shivers down your spine. "Which, in retrospect, might have been the universe doing me a favor."
You forced yourself to meet her gaze, ignoring how your heart raced at the way she was looking at you. "Does that line usually work?"
"I don't know," she smiled, and it wasn't her usual cocky smirk. It was something smaller, almost shy. "I've never used it before."
Before you could process that, a commotion erupted near the pool tables. You both turned to see Riven attempting to teach one of the team's shooting guards proper form, which seemed to involve a lot of unnecessary physical contact.
"Ten bucks says they end up making out in the bathroom," Paige said, amusement coloring her tone.
"Twenty says Riven chickens out and spends the next week telling me about all the signals she thinks she missed."
Paige laughed, and the sound did something dangerous to your insides. "You know your roommate well."
"Well enough to know she's going to interrogate me about this conversation later."
"This conversation?" Paige shifted slightly closer, and you caught that intoxicating mix of her perfume and something uniquely her. "What's there to interrogate about?"
You gestured vaguely between you. "This whole... whatever this is. Where you're suddenly interested in small talk about my major and making jokes about the universe doing you favors."
"Maybe I just want to know more about the girl who told me to fuck off in the library." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "While wearing my best friend's jacket, no less."
"That was an accident—"
"Was it?" She was definitely closer now, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like a challenge."
Your grip tightened on your drink. "Not everything is about you, Bueckers."
"No," she agreed, her voice soft but intense. "But the way you've been looking at me all night? That might be."
The air between you crackled with tension. You should step back. You should remember all the stories, all the warnings, all the reasons this was a terrible idea. You should—
"There you are!" Nika's voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water. "Coach just texted. Team meeting tomorrow morning got moved up."
Paige's jaw clenched in frustration, but she recovered quickly. "What time?"
"Eight AM." Nika's eyes darted between you and Paige, her expression far too knowing. "Sorry to interrupt."
"You weren't," you said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly judging by Nika's raised eyebrow.
Paige turned back to you, and the intensity in her gaze made your breath catch. "We'll finish this conversation later."
It wasn't a question.
You watched her walk away, trying to ignore how your body still hummed from her proximity. Nika lingered behind, grinning like she'd just won a bet with herself.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I've never seen her work this hard for someone's attention before."
"I'm not—" you started, but Nika was already following Paige, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a half-empty Moscow Mule.
Riven materialized beside you moments later, her eyes wide. "Okay, what the hell was that?"
"Nothing," you mumbled into your drink. "Just Paige Bueckers being Paige Bueckers."
But as you watched her gather her team to leave, she turned back just for a moment, catching your eye across the bar. The look she gave you was pure heat, a promise of more conversations to come.
summary: in the past, you and paige went viral for high school fights on the court, and you’ve recently transferred to the huskies - people are worried until y’all start… posting eachother???
omg this was so fun to make I love social media au’s !!!!!
2018-2019
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2022
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yourusername
liked by paigebueckers, kamoreaarnold, and more…
tagged: uconnwbb, kamoreaarnold
yourusername new team new me??
user you and paige on the same team??? we are NOT ready maam 😭😭
❤️ you liked this comment
→ user omg she liked this
→ user yeah they def hate each other
user ok muscle mommy
nikamuhl10 ❤️❤️
→ yourusername muahh
kamoreaarnold yea we cute or whateva
❤️ you liked this comment
→ yourusername hell yeah we are
user i give it a week till they kill eachother
→ user wait potential enemies to lovers
→ user girl in what universe…
junetheprodigy Girl we miss you
→ yourusername I miss you most
user can’t believe im saying this but she fits this team soooooo much better
user the it girl!
user they only been teammates for a month and I feel the tension through the screen…
paigebueckers
❤️ you liked this post
liked by kamoreaarnold, therealashlynn12, and more…
tagged kamoreaarnold, nikamuhl10
paigebueckers Let the games begin.
yourusername cropping me out is crazy work
→ paigebueckers cry
→ yourusername die
→ user settle this in the ring
→ yourusername hell nah im not touching that…
→ user OMG HI I LOVE YOU
aaliyahedwards_24 Slide 4 WILDD
❤️ paigebueckers liked this comment
→ user that’s what I’m saying
→ user aaliyah are they in love tell us
user the way she cropped y/n out bro
user Holy fine shyt
user how long do we think until y/n transfers again
→ user id say another month
→ user nah 2 weeks max
→ user this is a ploy guys I bet they tgt
→ user Girl they been like this since hs 😭
→ user ain’t that y/n’s room slide 7….???
yourusername
liked by paigebueckers, aubrey.griffin44, and more…
tagged paigebueckers, aubrey.griffin44
yourusername lil dump
user what in the enemies to lovers
user IS EVERYONE BREATHING
aubrey.griffin44 Fav new study buddy
paigebueckers 🔥
→ user what is happening
❤️ you liked this comment
user SLIDE 4?????
user Y/N AND PAIGE GETTING ALONG WAHT
user soft launch of the year??
❤️ you liked this comment
paigebueckers replied to this comment
→ paigebueckers We friends… chill guys.
🩶 you unliked this comment.
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🔔 kaykay 🤯🤯 sent you a message
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🔔 kaykay 🤯🤯 sent you a message
kay talk to her about it!! Rn!!
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1 week later…
paigebueckers
♡ 682k
❤️ you liked this post
liked by wnba, dijonai, kaitlin.chen, and more…
paigebueckers it’s about time I spilled this lil secret
user Oh my fucking god
nikamuhl10 We all knew
→ user can confirm we did NOT all know
→ kamoreaarnold Can confirm I KNEW FIRST 🤪
yourusername bruh im not lil
❤️ paigebueckers liked your comment
→ paigebueckers yeah you are baby
→ user THIS IS THE RIVARLY WE WANT
trufru deep breaths everybody
user I TOLD YOU GUYS
user The only enemies to lovers that ever mattered
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🔔 kamoreaarnold mentioned you in a story
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This was so fun to make wow…. Hope it’s enjoyed by others as much as it was by me LMAOO
And thank you for all of the support I’ve gotten so many requests and can’t wait to get to writing more of themmm 💕
thank you for taking the time to read my works. below you'll find a collection of my series and standalone stories organized for easy browsing. i hope you find something that gets you onto santas naughty list
last updated: october 29th, 2025
Series
Office Hours | Ongoing
Description: Paige Bueckers is failing biology, and you're the unlucky tutor assigned to drag her out of academic disaster. What should be a simple arrangement becomes anything but, thanks to her complete lack of focus, relentless flirtation, and the infuriating way she manages to get under your skin—and into your head.
Between chaotic study sessions, surprise bar encounters, and more sexual tension than should legally exist between two people trying to discuss mitochondria, it’s clear that the real test isn’t the midterm. It’s whether you can make it through the semester without either making out with her—or killing her.
One thing’s for sure: Paige isn’t the only one getting schooled.
WC: 9.6k
Part: Start Here
The Prophecy | Finished
Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.
But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.
Word Count: 30K
Part: Start Here
The Hit List | In Progress
Description: When an overworked engineering student's late-night CAD project gets interrupted by a very drunk, very lost basketball star stumbling into the wrong dorm room, she learns that some defensive plays work better in love than on the court.
What starts as a case of mistaken identity turns into an unexpected game of cat and mouse when UConn's golden girl, Paige Bueckers, can't seem to take a hint– or maybe just doesn't want to. Armed with nothing but sarcasm, an overprotective stuffed bear named Mr. Gummy, and a borrowed team jacket that definitely isn't helping the situation, our engineering hero finds herself drawing up plays to defend her heart against college basketball's most persistent point guard.
They say offense wins games, but defense wins championships. When you're trying not to fall for a girl who treats the court like her kingdom and your personal space like a suggestion, maybe it's time to admit some battles aren't meant to be won.
Word Count: 34k
Part: Start Here
One Shots
Thin Walls
Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.
What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.
They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.
WC: 8.4k
Read Me
Competitive Stamina
Tags: fuck buddies with unresolved issues, unbearable sexual tension, dom!Paige, strap, degradation, slapping, edging, post-game aggression sex, possessive paige, rough sex that solves nothing, idk just porn w minimal plot (I KNOOOOOW)
WC: 6.3k-ish
Read Me
Love Me Tender (Then Crank Up the Dial)
Description: It’s supposed to be dinner. A quiet, romantic, Valentine’s Day reservation. But nothing about is quiet—especially not when she’s got a remote in her hand, a smug look on her face, and complete control over the vibrator tucked between your thighs.
Tags: uh vibrator, a bathroom, and your little shit girlfriend, this is just literal porn
WC: 4.3k
Read Me
Going UP?
Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn’t get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student’s desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.
Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball’s golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.
They say love is a game of chances. But when you’re trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it’s worth taking the shot.
Sometimes cupid doesn’t use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.
WC: 8.1K
Part: Start Here
Mask Off, Mascot
You and Paige have been hooking up for months. No labels, no complications—just mind-blowing, can’t-stay-away-from-each-other sex. She’s an instigator, though. Loves to push limits, try new shit, make your life very difficult in the best way possible.
So when she joked about fucking the school mascot for team spirit, you should’ve known better than to laugh it off. You should’ve known she’d actually try to do it. Being the mascot was already humiliating enough. The suit was hot, the oversized head made it impossible to see, and kids had no respect for personal space.
Paige is seconds away from hooking up with the “mascot.”
despite being gen z, i am, in fact, not tech savvy. i don't wanna learn abt making an aesthetic writing blog either right now. bc of those, im gna be posting my works here directly in this blog. pls forgive ur resident lazy dumbass <3
posting this just in case it's needed! i believe my one-shots/drabbles (for now?) are being read so i'll try to make it easier for you if you want to keep up or simply want to reread any of my works :")
DNI: disrespectful people in general, very negative indivs (pls i need a break from the world ok its rough out here, and for many others too), those who hate on the queer community, those who are racists, and especially pedos :) one clue that says you’re one of those yet are still reading my works, you will get blocked! idc idc
latest notes:
currently hyper-hyperfixated on paige bueckers so i'm writing about her more, if you haven't noticed
requests are closed. read rules here.
im just writing for fun rn /cri/ pls dont judge me too hard
only writing fluff in general for now hehe
updates will be sporadic bc idk i jus feel like it
@calychuchisontheside is my side blog!
navigation/masterlist:
the last of us
ellie williams - tag: #calychuchis writes abt ellie w.
dazzling
college!modern!au ellie during uni hell week drabble
six months and milo
wanna be your victim
apartmentneighbor!bandmem!ellie drabble | whisper me a love song (pt. 2)
strictly professional?
let's take five!
kabedon and frustratedly in love bestfriend!ellie blurb
creep!
unexpectedly the favorite
enhypen
heeseung - tag: #calychuchis writes abt lhs
when at odds, then in sync
jay - tag: #calychuchis writes abt pjs
love personified
jake - tag: #calychuchis writes abt sjy
faking it for real
sunghoon - tag: #calychuchis writes abt psh
guardian angel
sunoo - tag: #calychuchis writes abt ksw
coming soon...
jungwon - tag: #calychuchis writes abt yjw
when tracks align
exceptions missed in plain sight
ni-ki - tag: #calychuchis writes abt nr
coming soon...
wnba
paige bueckers - tag: #calychuchis writes abt paige b.
all in, fallin' pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3
the ghost
dallaswings!friend!paige knowing you too well blurb
courtside frequencies (req)
after all the times she stayed (req)
unreleased (req)
something like falling (req)
paige x chef!reader hcs (req)
a week of you (req)
the way you look (req)
guards down (req)
home is a flower shop (req)
not nothing (req)
busy woman (unless you call tonight)
conflict of interest (req)
chasing sunsets (and you) (req)
undressed hearts (req)
when i stand beside you
other
recs - tag: #calychuchis recs (insane)
personal posts/announcements - tag: #calychuchis rambles
Most to all dividers used in this series was made by @bernardsbendystraws
Thank you again!! Rose
Rating: General Audiences (for most chapters but ratings will be updated each chapter also along with warnings being updated as well)
Warning: none^
Paring: !Super Senior Paige Bueckers x !photographer fem reader (reader is intended to black, but anyone can read it)
Fandom: Women's basketball
Tagline: Capturing every moment, even the ones that break us.
Brief Description/Intro:
When Y/N’s professor encourages her to use UConn Women’s Basketball as her muse for her final project, she never expects to find herself drawn to one player in particular—Paige Bueckers. As a junior with a passion for game photography, Y/N captures Paige’s every move, but their connection takes an unexpected turn during a game when Paige’s block shatters Y/N’s favorite camera, dueing her first night with the team. What begins as a series of chance encounters quickly grows into something deeper, despite the looming uncertainty of Paige’s final season as a super senior before heading to the WNBA. Can they navigate the lines between passion, distance, and dreams—or will their connection remain a fleeting glimpse into what could have been?
pairing : paige bueckers x notre dame! reader (+ slight olivia miles x reader)
synopsis : after a win against uconn, you find yourself caught in a tug-of-war between your on and off ex and one of your biggest rivals, who you simply can’t stay away from no matter how hard you try.
warnings : do NOT read or interact with this if uncomfortable, i beg that u just block me. smut with a sprinkle of plot. oral r!receiving. strap r!receiving. praise. hint of size kink. slight breeding kink. squirting. toxic reader x paige. toxic reader x olivia. hannah hidalgo. allusions to homophobia. lmk if i forgot anything.
word count : 8k
note : this wasn’t meant to be a 1k special butttt since i hit that yesterday, why not? (thank u sm btw ily) this is probably the filthiest and most time consuming shit i’ve ever written and some parts are a bit messy so i apologize. i’m VERYYY new to writing smut pls go easy on me.
The fourth quarter was winding down, and the air inside Joyce Center was electric. The roar of the home crowd thundered in your ears as you felt your pulse quicken. Notre Dame was already ahead, the scoreboard a glaring reminder of the 10 point deficit UConn couldn't seem to close. But even with victory all but secured, there was no room to let up. Not now.
You dribbled upcourt after catching the rebound Sonia passed your way, only to feel the clumsy pressure of UConn's freshman, Sarah, on your hip. Her hands reached in too aggressively, and the sharp sound of the whistle sliced through the tension. A foul.
The crowd erupted in cheers, and you couldn't help but grin, though you kept your expression controlled. As you stepped up to the free-throw line, the weight of the moment settled on your shoulders. This was your chance to widen the gap and put the game even further out of reach.
You bounced the ball twice, breathing in deeply to steady yourself. But as you readied for the shot, you felt it—those piercing blue eyes on you, unwavering, cutting through the noise like a laser. You didn't have to look to know who they belonged to. Paige Bueckers. She was watching you the way a hawk watches its prey, and though you refused to meet her gaze, you could feel the intensity of it prickling at your skin.
The ball left your hands in a smooth arc, and the net snapped satisfyingly as it dropped through. One down. You bounced the ball again, shaking off the weight of her stare. When the second shot swished cleanly, the crowd's roar grew louder, and your team swarmed you with high-fives.
But you didn't let yourself celebrate. Not yet. There were still minutes left on the clock, and even with the lead, you knew better than to relax.
The game pressed on. Sarah missed a three-point attempt on UConn's next possession, and Olivia held the ball at the top of the arc, scanning the court with her signature calculating gaze. You hovered near the left wing, your focus trained on her movements, when Paige sidled up next to you, just close enough that her voice could cut through the noise.
"Bet you feel real good about yourself, huh?" she murmured, her tone sharp enough to slice through the roaring crowd.
You didn't flinch, didn't even look at her. Instead, you let a small, sarcastic smile curve your lips, keeping your eyes on the ball as Olivia dribbled. "For beating your ass? Guess so. Not that big of an accomplishment."
Paige scoffed, the sound low and unimpressed. "Cute." Her grin mirrored yours, though hers was sharper, more cutting. You could feel her ego bruising beneath the surface, but she hid it well.
It was a moment of mutual irritation, of subtle jabs disguised as casual banter, and you could feel the tension humming between you like a live wire. It wasn't new, this rivalry, this constant push-and-pull. Paige had a way of getting under your skin, but you weren't about to let her know that. Not tonight.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Olivia's gaze snapping to the two of you. Her brown eyes were narrowed, her jaw tight as she watched the interaction unfold. She didn't like it. She didn't like Paige standing so close to you, speaking to you like that, her body angled in a way that felt too familiar, too charged.
Paige noticed it too. Of course, she did. Her smirk deepened as she leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping to a murmur that only you could hear. "Your girl doesn't look too happy about me talking to you. Think she's scared I'll fuck you better again?"
Your breath caught, and your head snapped toward her instinctively, your eyes locking with hers. That smirk—infuriating and self-assured—was still plastered across her face. It was as if she was daring you to react, to say something that would prove she'd struck a nerve.
The brief glance you gave Paige was all it took for Olivia to lose focus. Her frustration boiled over, visible in the way her movements became jerky and imprecise. When she shifted her weight to drive toward the basket, the ref's whistle blew again—this time for a travel.
The ball left Olivia's hands too late, sailing toward the rim and missing entirely, and the crowd erupted in jeers. She looked furious, her glare bouncing between you and Paige as if you were both to blame.
Paige chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Guess she's not handling the pressure too well." Her voice was smug, dripping with satisfaction.
You wanted to fire back, to wipe that cocky grin off her face, but the tension in Olivia's eyes stopped you. There was too much at stake—on the court, off the court. So, you swallowed your retort, turning your attention back to the game.
But even as play resumed, you couldn't shake the weight of Paige's words or the way her presence lingered like an itch you couldn't scratch. She might have been your rival, but in moments like those, she felt like so much more.
And that was a problem.
The ball was in play again, and UConn wasn't ready to give up just yet, even as the seconds dwindled down. Sarah got the inbound pass, quickly tossing it over to Kaitlyn, who barely held on under the Irish defense. Kaitlyn, in turn, sent the ball to Paige.
You watched as Paige, ever-calculated, tried to weave through defenders with her signature finesse. Her focus was sharp, every movement deliberate, but as she went up for the shot, Olivia was there, her body colliding with Paige's in a hard foul. The whistle blew, sharp and decisive.
Paige stumbled slightly but steadied herself, exhaling through her nose as she stepped toward the free-throw line. And that's when Olivia brushed past her, her voice low but unmistakably venomous. "Back off."
It wasn't clear if the ref heard it, but Paige definitely did. Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she kept her composure, though you could tell she was simmering beneath the surface. She wanted to laugh—mockingly, sharply, just enough to dig under Olivia's skin—but instead, she shook her head in amusement, her voice calm and cutting as she shot back, "Not my fault she loves it over here."
The words were quiet, not loud enough to be picked up by the cameras or refs, but the way Olivia's shoulders stiffened told you she heard them loud and clear. You could see her jaw clench, though she kept her expression neutral, refusing to let Paige's jab get the best of her.
As Paige prepared for her free throws, Olivia was already trying to argue with the ref, gesturing in frustration. You rolled your eyes subtly, but the irritation was clear. This wasn't new—Olivia's inability to let things go, her need to control every little aspect of the game (and sometimes, your life).
Paige took a deep breath, her hands steady as she dribbled the ball once, twice. She exhaled and let the first shot fly, the ball swishing cleanly through the net. Despite her calm exterior, you could tell the frustration and disappointment of the impending loss were bubbling under her surface. She glanced at you out of her peripheral vision for a split second before refocusing.
The second shot wasn't as lucky. It bounced off the rim, and before anyone else could react, Hannah Hidalgo snagged the rebound. She dribbled it out for the remaining 15 seconds, much to your annoyance.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes again, but Hannah had a way of getting to you that no one else did. Ever since she joined the team, the 5'6 sophomore had been too loud, too comfortable in her narrow-minded opinions. It was no secret that the two of you didn't get along—especially after a handful of snide comments she'd made about your relationship with Olivia. Comments that weren't just about your incompatibility as a couple but targeted your sexuality with thinly veiled bigotry.
The buzzer sounded, and the tension in your chest released in a wave of satisfaction. You'd won. The Irish had defeated UConn, and the victory felt as sweet as ever. The team quickly swarmed each other, exchanging high-fives and celebratory shouts, but Olivia went straight to you, pulling you into your usual post-game hug.
This time, though, it was different. Her grip was tighter, her touch lingering in a way that felt less like a celebration and more like a claim. Her hand slid lower down your back than you were comfortable with, her gaze locking with Paige's as if daring her to look away.
It was possessive. It was unnecessary. And it was far too public.
You stiffened, your eyes narrowing as you subtly pulled away. "Don't do that in public again," you said firmly, your voice low enough that only she could hear. "Especially not now."
Olivia's jaw tensed, but she didn't argue. She let you go, and you moved to join the line as the teams lined up to shake hands.
The tension was palpable as Olivia and Paige met briefly in the line, their glares sharp and unyielding. No words were exchanged, but the animosity between them was unmistakable.
And then it was your turn. As you reached Paige, you could see the loss weighing on her. For all her bravado, it was clear she hated this, hated losing, hated being on the other side of your rivalry tonight. Her pride was bruised, but she held herself together.
"Good game," you said, forcing yourself to set aside your rivalry for the briefest moment.
Paige's lips quirked into a small, almost condescending smirk. "Yeah, good game, princess." Her tone was laced with her usual sharpness, but something in her eyes softened, just for a second.
The brief contact as you moved past each other sent a shiver down your spine, your skin buzzing at the memory of her hands on you the last time you'd hooked up. It shouldn't have affected you—not now, not here—but it did.
And as you walked off the court, you couldn't help but wonder if she felt it too.
A few hours had passed since the game, but the adrenaline still thrummed in your veins, mixing with the exhaustion that clung to your limbs. You had showered, changed into something comfortable, and spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, hoping sleep would come and erase the memory of what had happened earlier.
The fight with Olivia had been brief but sharp—words exchanged in hushed yet heated tones, the air between you tense with something unresolved. She had wanted to try again. You had told her you weren't sure and needed time to think, and she hadn't taken it well. It wasn't a screaming match, but it didn't need to be. The weight of it was enough to settle over your chest, pressing down like a brick.
So now, you lay on your bed, eyes closed, willing yourself into unconsciousness. But your mind wouldn't shut off.
Then, a sharp ding shattered the silence.
You sighed, exhaling through your nose as you reached for your phone, internally scolding yourself for not turning on Do Not Disturb. The glow of the screen cast light across your face as you blinked down at the notification.
Paige Bueckers: u sleeping?
Your heart stuttered for half a second. You had told yourself a while ago that you'd block her. That you should block her. But you never did. Something—something—always held you back.
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you typed out a response.
You: no. can’t sleep.
You could've left it at a simple ‘no’, but you didn't.
Another ding. You barely had time to lock your phone before the next message popped up.
Paige Bueckers: i can help u with that mama
You inhaled sharply. Your grip on your phone tightened, hesitating for a second longer than you should have. You knew better. You always knew better. Getting involved with Paige—hooking up with Paige—was never a good idea.
And yet, your fingers moved before your brain could stop them.
You: send the address.
As soon as the message sent, you were up, already throwing a hoodie over your head and stepping into sweatpants. Your shoes went on next as you grabbed your keys.
You made it to the door before a voice broke the silence.
"Where are you going?"
You turned to see your roommate peering at you from her bed, brows furrowed in mild curiosity.
Your grip tightened around the doorknob. You thought for a second, then shrugged.
"I'ma go get laid. Don't wait up."
The car ride to the hotel was short. Too short for your taste.
Too short for you to think, to reason, to talk yourself out of this. Maybe if the drive had been longer, if you had even ten more minutes, you would have turned around. You would have gone back to your dorm, maybe even knocked on Olivia's door, tried to fix things in the morning like a rational person. But you didn't.
Instead, you found yourself standing in the elevator, your reflection staring back at you in the polished steel doors, wearing an expression you barely recognized.
Regret? Anticipation? Something in between?
It didn't matter. The damage was done.
You could still feel the receptionist's eyes on you as you'd walked through the lobby, her polite yet knowing smile burning into the back of your mind. It had been awkward, like she had somehow pieced together your entire life story just from the way you carried yourself. The way you had hesitated. The way your smile had felt forced, almost shameful.
Now, as you stood in front of the hotel room door—room 69, because of course Paige would pick that—you didn't find the irony so funny anymore.
You lifted your fist, knocked lightly against the wood, and took a slow inhale.
The door swung open almost instantly, as if she had been waiting right on the other side.
Paige stood before you, every inch of her revealed in slow, agonizing detail the wider the door opened.
Her blonde hair was down, slightly wavy from air-drying after her shower. You rarely saw it like this—only in pictures that would randomly pop up on your feed, a rare sight that always made you pause longer than you should. The game-day braids were gone, leaving her looking softer than usual. But there was nothing soft about the way she stood there now, leaning against the doorframe, her sharp blue eyes scanning you like she already knew what was going through your mind.
She was in a black Nike sports bra, her toned stomach on full display, a pair of loose gray UConn sweatpants slung low on her hips. Just low enough to reveal the waistband of her Calvin Klein boxers.
You swallowed.
The glasses were new. Purple frames perched on the bridge of her nose, somehow making her look even more unfairly attractive. You hated that about her. How effortless it all was. How she made every single thing—every little detail about herself—feel like it existed solely to mess with you.
"Hey, pretty girl."
Her voice was silky smooth, quiet, edged with something that made your skin prickle.
You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to look at anything but the infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. The way she stood there, relaxed, confident, like she knew you had already lost this battle before it even started.
And maybe you had.
You weren't sure what came over you. One second, you were standing in the doorway, debating every decision that had led you here. The next, you were walking inside, wordless, your body moving before your mind could stop it.
Paige stepped aside instinctively, closing the door behind you, and that was when it truly hit you.
The reality of what you were doing.
What you were about to do.
A shaky exhale left your lips. You tilted your head back for a second, staring at the ceiling, as if praying for something—anything—to pull you out of this. To stop you from ruining whatever restraint you had left.
But then you looked back at her.
At Paige, who was standing there, watching you with those eyes that had already picked you apart, dissected every thought racing through your head.
And just like that, you broke.
The space between you disappeared in an instant. You grabbed her, pulled her in, crashing your lips against hers like you had something to prove—like you were trying to drown out the part of yourself that was still screaming for you to stop.
Paige reacted immediately. Her hands were already on you, already pulling you in closer, as if she had been waiting for this, as if she had known all along that you would give in.
Her arms wrapped around your waist, strong and unyielding. Yours found their way around her neck, your fingers tangling into the soft waves of her hair, gripping onto something—anything—to keep yourself from completely losing control.
You were already lost.
And maybe you had been from the very start.
Paige's arms tightened around your waist, her grip firm, possessive. The warmth of her hands seeped through your sweatshirt, but it wasn't enough for her. She wanted more. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed the fabric upward, just enough to slide her hands underneath.
The difference was instant—her skin against yours, her palms warm and steady as they roamed over your sides. It sent a shiver up your spine, one she undoubtedly felt but didn't acknowledge. Instead, she just pulled you in closer, deepening the kiss, letting the taste of whatever candy she had been eating linger on your tongue.
What started out controlled, yet purposeful, quickly turned into something else.
Hotter. Messier.
Neither of you had moved from the door. There was no rush—just the slow, torturous unraveling of restraint with every passing second. Paige kissed you like she had something to prove, like she wanted to pull every last ounce of hesitation from your body and leave you with nothing but her.
It wasn't until your lungs burned for air that she finally pulled back, her lips slick and parted, her breathing uneven. Her hands never left your skin, but something about the way she looked at you made your stomach tighten.
You barely had time to process it before she reached up, pulling her glasses off and tossing them onto the couch nearby. Carelessly. Effortlessly. She never took her eyes off you, not even once.
And just as quickly as she had pulled away, she was dragging you back in.
Her hands gripped your waist as she kissed you harder, rougher, her body guiding yours backward without breaking contact. She moved with purpose, leading you step by step until the back of your knees hit the bed.
You gasped softly as you lost your balance, falling backward onto the mattress. Paige didn't waste time. The second you were down, she was on you, hands sliding to your sides, fingers pressing into your ribcage. With barely any effort, she lifted you, manhandling you further up the bed until your head nearly hit the pillows.
Your breath hitched.
You hadn't expected her to be this eager, this physical. But she was careful—controlled, even in her hunger.
Paige climbed onto the bed, hovering over you with that sharp, unrelenting gaze.
Her hands found the hem of your sweatshirt again, tugging at it slightly. "Can I take this off?" she asked, her voice even lower than before.
You nodded, surprised that she had even bothered to ask. Normally, she wouldn't need to. One look was all it ever took.
The blonde didn't waste time. In one swift motion, she pulled the sweatshirt up, dragging it over your head and arms as you arched your back to help. The cool air prickled against your heated skin, but the sensation barely registered before Paige was on you again.
Her lips found your neck, hot and open-mouthed, each kiss deliberate, each drag of her teeth enough to make your breath stutter.
Then she spoke.
"Does y'girl know you're here?"
The question sent a sharp, electric jolt through you.
Not because she cared.
Because she didn't.
You took a shaky breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to find your voice. "Not my girl," you managed to say. "And no."
Paige smirked against your skin, the curl of her lips sending a fresh wave of heat through you.
"She'll know by the time I'm done with you, mama."
Before you could even think of a response, before you could argue or deny the implication behind her words, she was back on you—biting, sucking, marking, until you were sure she had already made good on that promise.
Paige's lips never left your skin, moving lower, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck and down to your collarbones. Each press of her lips was deliberate, her tongue flicking out to soothe where she had nipped, her breath warm against your skin.
But it wasn't just her lips.
Her hands roamed freely, gliding over every inch of exposed skin, her fingers tracing lazy, feather-light patterns against your sides. The contrast of her large, veined hands against your body sent a shiver through you, anticipation curling in your stomach.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
Her mouth traveled further, ghosting over the tops of your breasts, the thin fabric of your cropped tank offering little protection from the heat of her lips. She didn't rush, didn't hurry—she took her time, dragging her teeth against sensitive skin, biting just enough to leave her mark before soothing it with her tongue.
A sharp inhale escaped you, followed by a soft, airy whimper that you tried—and failed—to bite back.
Paige only smirked against your skin.
Her fingers slipped lower, brushing over the waistband of your sweatpants, teasing, testing. Your breath hitched when she hooked her fingers inside, tugging just slightly—just enough to make your pulse race.
She kept her eyes on you as she kissed down, lower, lower, her lips brushing over your stomach, your body tensing under her touch. Each kiss stole more of your breath, her movements painfully slow, torturous in their precision.
She was in complete control. And the worst part?
You wanted her to be.
The moment your sweatpants hit the ground, it became real. Her lips trailed down further, torturously slow and calculated until her path was blocked by the waistband of your panties. But did that stop Paige? No. Instead of ridding you of them like she had done with your pants mere minutes ago, she continued her actions, now placing kisses over the thin material.
Other than the sounds of shuffling on bedsheets and your breathing that started to turn into quiet pants, it was a cathedral of silence. Her lips halted right above your core, her eyes searching yours before placing another kiss over your clothed cunt, the growing wet patch impossible to miss. A small whine escaped your lips at not only that, but the sight of her altogether. The way her lips were already slightly glossed by you.
"Already wet for me, baby?" She teased, mouth hovering over your core as if she was speaking directly to it instead of you. And that familiar, infuriating smirk made you wanna roll your eyes at her.
"Shut up." You mumbled, not due to embarrassment — nor were you shy — but it was all you could muster thanks to the growing desperation for her. More specifically, for her mouth on you.
Paige simply chuckled. It was deep and irritating, but more than anything, it only fuelled the desire for her. Her finger's hooked into your panties, pulling them down and tossing them to the floor in swift motions, before her arms curled around your thighs, pulling you closer.
You barely had been given the time to process what was happening, because as soon as you felt the cool air against your exposed core, your legs were already thrown over Paige's shoulders and her mouth was on you. As much as the blonde wanted to torture you, she couldn't hold herself back.
Her tongue connected to your drooling pussy and you mewled. Paige licked a fat stripe up your folds, a choked moan tearing from your throat as she tasted you. "Even sweeter than I remembered."
Your head fell back against the soft mattress, hand flying down to tangle itself in her hair as she spat on your pussy. Her eyes were glued onto you for a moment, admiring the way her saliva mixed with your slick before diving right in.
"Fuck, please don't stop." You near to whined in pleasure while she continued her attack on your cunt, tongue flicking over your clit with just enough pressure to drive you insane and cheeks hollowing whenever she sucked on it, lips closing around your throbbing bud. She had no intentions of stopping. Not when tasting you was the same as miraculously stumbling across a source of water in the desert.
Once the tip of Paige's tongue began to circle your entrance, you were a goner. Airy and high pitched whimpers fell from your lips while you white-knuckled her hair — using it as an anchor — and the blonde was absolutely sure that, that had to be her favorite sound in the world.
Your back arched off the bed ever so slightly when her tongue prodded into you, plunging in and out with acute precision. The sight of it had her quietly chuckling against you, sending vibrations through your core.
"Damn, mama. Got you feeling that good just by eating your pretty pussy?" Paige pulled back just enough to be able to speak, the pride and her ego all too evident in her voice. She had you right where she wanted. "Your girl not fucking you right?"
You wanted to say something, anything to shut her up. To wipe that stupid smirk — that you couldn't see but were fully aware of — off her stupidly pretty face. But you couldn't. She had already corrupted your mind and robbed you of your own ego and pride. "No. Not like you." Those were the words slipping from your lips and you had no desire to take them back.
That's all it took for Paige to delve back in between your legs, tongue fucking into you and arms holding you down. You didn't even realize how your hips bucked into Paige's mouth, grinding yourself against the girl.
A low, approving hum rumbled in Paige's chest as your hips bucked against her mouth, "Just like that, baby. Ride my face just like that," Paige encouraged, her voice muffled.
Your moans grew louder, more frantic as you instinctively tried to close your legs, squeezing her head with your thighs.
Paige's hands were quick to spread you open again, one leg slipping off her shoulder but she only saw that as an opportunity, tilting her head sideways for more access. Her tongue left your entrance, running it back and forth over your clit and shaking her head from side to side. Gluttony adorned Paige as she devoured you.
She didn't slow down when you warned her that you were about to cum, didn't stop when your orgasm crashed over you while her name fell from you repeatedly. Only when your hand in her hair started pushing her head back, she finally pulled away. Paige's gaze fixated on your cunt, wetness dripping from your hole as you clenched around nothing.
Your wetness coated her lips and chin as she looked back up at you and the sight of it all had a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth— One that was hidden by her wiping her chin with the back of her hand.
As she was moving to hover over you again, you felt a digit dip back in between your folds and suddenly it was right in front of you lips. "Open up," her voice was firm and her words clear.
Without breaking eye contact, your lips wrapped around her middle finger, tasting yourself. It wasn't anything you hadn't already done before, but the way she spoke, her tone and her eyes boring into yours had you flustered.
"Good girl. Tastes like heaven, hm?" She continued and all you could do was mindlessly nod and hope that the warmth creeping up on your cheeks wasn't noticeable. Normally you'd cringe at those first two words, it was never something that you thought you'd enjoy being called. But coming from Paige? It had you turning into her ditzy little bitch.
The tips of her fingers were barely brushing against your lips, a featherlight touch that sent shivers down your spine. She took her time, her blue eyes studying you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. Your lips were swollen, your hair slightly messy, cheeks flushed with warmth, and your eyes still glistening as you tried to steady yourself. Everything about you held her captive, and she didn't bother to hide it.
"You look so fucking perfect like this," she murmured, her voice low, almost reverent.
You held her gaze, your chest still rising and falling as you came down from it, lost in the moment, in her.
After a beat, Paige pulled away, climbing off of you with a quiet exhale. She was still fully clothed as she strode toward her bag, the absence of her warmth already making you stir. You watched as she crouched down, digging through her things before pulling something out. The moment your eyes landed on the strap, you inhaled deeply, thighs instinctively pressing together.
Paige turned back toward you, her smirk slow and knowing as she studied your reaction, her gaze sweeping over you with deliberate slowness. She took her time walking back to the bed, tilting her head slightly as if contemplating something before finally speaking.
"What's wrong, mama?" she taunted, her voice teasing yet edged with something heavier. "Scared you can't take it?"
You inhaled sharply, fingers twitching against the sheets. Shaking your head, you swallowed hard, willing your voice to come out steady. "No. I can take it."
Paige didn't reply. She only let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and rich as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants. In one smooth motion, she rid herself of them, standing there in nothing but her sports bra and the black harness she was now securing around her hips and thighs.
The sight of her like this—self-assured, composed, and devastatingly attractive—made something deep in your stomach twist. Your fingers curled into the fabric beneath you, anticipation buzzing through your veins as Paige settled her gaze back on you.
She smirked again, rolling her shoulders back, completely in control.
"That's what I thought," she murmured.
You blinked and suddenly felt the mattress dip, the blonde already climbing back onto the other side of the bed and resting her back against the pillows and bed's headboard. "C'mere." She demanded, patting her lap in such a cocky, infuriating way that had you wanting to roll your eyes and put your clothes back on.
But you didn't. Instead, you listened and your legs were already thrown over her thighs. You watched as spat in her hand, using it as lubricant to stroke her silicone strap while she eyed you up and down. The way your hardened nipples poked at your thin tank top and the way your cunt continued to drip on her bare thigh.
"As much as I wanna see you ride my thigh, I'd rather watch you take this dick right now." Her words were clear and direct, tainted with desire in a way that sent shivers down your spine.
Upon not getting a response from you, her hands reached out to grip your waist, pulling further up on her lap. That's all it took for you to prop yourself up on your knees—as wobbly as they felt— pussy hovering over her strap before you replaced her hand with yours, positioning the tip towards your entrance and slowly sinking down on it.
A chocked gasp fell from you, lips parting at the sheer size and girth of it. It had been a while since you took anything more than a couple digits and the switch was overwhelming to say the least.
Paige's gazes was glued onto the scene, watching the way your pussy swallowed her whole with a faint smirk—slowly but surely. Inch by inch. Her palms caressed all over your torso in order to help you feel more comfortable.
It didn't take long for you to get accustomed to the intrusion, your hips grinding back and forth. You could barely look at her, the way her hungry eyes focused you like a hunter it's prey, tongue darting out to lick her lips and occasionally biting the bottom one. It drove you insane and you couldn't think straight, your head tipped back.
"You can do better than that, baby. C'mon, ride me with the same energy you had on that court today." She spoke again, her tone encouraging, yet taunting. It almost made you chuckle. Of course she was still stuck on that, she'd always been a sore loser.
Taking a deep breath, you began to bounce up and down on her, small moans coming from you every time it hit that certain spot. You hadn't realized just how close her face was to yours until you looked down at her again, her blue eyes so dark and sharp that tore a whimper from you.
Her hands snaked up to your tank top, pushing the material up until your breasts sprung free. Her smirk grew wider and her hands slid down to your hips, her grip tightening as she watched your bounce so close to her face, before fully riding you of the material.
Paige breathed, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and up the column of your throat. She took a moment to admire the sight of your tits, her gaze hungry and appreciative. "Fuck, baby... Look at you," she murmured, leaning down to take one hardened nipple into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the sensitive bud, sucking and grazing it with her teeth
The muscles in your thighs were starting to tighten and burn, but you tried to ignore it. The pleasure was far greater than a little pain that you could easily handle.
Paige's blunt nails were digging into your skin as she looked up at your face now, admiring the way your brows furrowed, eyes fluttering shut and lips parted as you panted. The knot in your abdomen was starting to tighten and you had no intentions of losing it.
Next thing you knew, you were being lifted off of her and thrown back onto the mattress stomach down. It only took her a couple seconds to lift your hips up and kneel behind you. In the blink of an eye, she slid herself back inside of you, her hips already back to snapping into you. A mix of 'wait's and 'slow down's came from you, but she was already in too deep.
"Said y'could take it, right? Fucking take it then. You know the safeword."
Her pace was quick and relentless, every need to prove herself to you suddenly making a grand return. Paige knew that by the end of the night, you'd be her's, one way or another. With every movement from the blonde, you were being pushed further up the bed, face pressed into the mattress with one of her hands pushing down against your shoulder and your cries muffled. Even the simplest touch of her hands and the way her fingertips dug into your hips was enough to have you a mess.
"Fuck, Paige. S' good." You managed to cry out, words muffled due to the position you were in. In all honesty, if you could've stopped yourself from praising her, you would've. But it was impossible to keep your pride alive when she was killing you from the back.
A smug smile curled at her lips and her chest filled with pride. "Yeah? Just like old times, hm?" Her voice honeyed up, cooing at you.
Of course she would say that— remind you that it wasn't the first time she's had you like this. Face down and ass up while she claimed you as hers for as long as she could. Until the post nut clarity would eventually hit you like a truck.
But until then, you were all hers.
It was clear that you were still holding back, biting your lip or burying your face into the sheets to drown out the sounds you were making. Paige wasn't having any of it.
"Lemme hear you, mama." Her tone sounded almost demanding, hands tightening their grip around your hips as she pulled you closer against her, filling you to the brim. "God— sucking my cock in, hm?"
You couldn't help but let out a loud cry, your own hands gripping the bedsheets like they were a lifeline and the sloppy sounds of Paige driving into you at full force were nothing shy of pornographic.
It didn't take long for the knot in your stomach to tighten and for the familiar warmth to pool in your pit. You didn't have to say anything—didn't want to say anything further. With the way you were clenching around her, she swore that she could almost feel it as if it were her own cock, and she knew you were close.
"Paige—"
She was quick to interrupt you. "I know. Cum for me, mama." Her tone was almost comforting, urging you to let go.
You didn't have to be told twice. The wave of pleasure washed over you, sinful and pornographic sounds escaping you— not that you had the energy to hold them back this time.
Paige's grip loosened and instead her palms were gently rubbing your lower back, soothing the areas she had held onto too tightly. The blonde carefully slipped out of you, giving you a few moments to catch your breath while she bent forward to place feather light kisses on your skin.
You were still in the same position. Face down, ass up and softly panting for much needed air. Her eyes were now on your cunt, admiring the way your own cum leaked out of you and she couldn't help but lower herself until she face facing it. Her tongue darted out to lick a stripe up your folds, just to have another quick taste, she told herself.
"Sorry. Couldn't stop myself." She chuckled lightly in response to you whining at the sensation.
Paige moved without warning, her strength effortless as she flipped you onto your back, the mattress dipping beneath you. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling as you looked up at her, doe-eyed.
She hovered over you, her gaze dark and unreadable, a slow, deliberate heat simmering beneath the surface. Her hands—rough, calloused from years of playing—traced the curve of your waist, fingertips skimming your ribs before sliding down to your stomach in a slow, teasing glide.
She wasn't rushing. She was waiting.
Waiting for you to catch your breath, to meet her eyes, to let her know you were still right there with her.
"Think you can give me one more?" Her knuckles brushed over your abdomen, up and down and just that was enough to leave you wanting even more.
You nodded your head, taking a deep breath through your nose and letting it rest inside your lungs for a couple seconds before releasing it.
Paige grinned faintly, eyes still dark and clouded with just as much lust as the second she opened the door for you. "I'ma be softer this time, don't worry, baby." You both knew she was lying.
Eventually she was positioned between your legs, tip of her strap gliding back and forth over your soaked cunt. She paused for a moment, just long enough to admire, but the whine that ripped out of you brought her back to earth.
"Just put it in." You couldn't stand the way she was teasing you. Not when everything in you was screaming for her. The desire you felt towards Paige was like wanting her to live inside your rib cage— impossibly close.
"You want it that bad?" Her brows raised ever so slightly, no doubt taunting you for her own enjoyment.
But by this point, you'd given up. No more holding back, you'd let her have you in whatever way and every way. "Need it so bad. Please, baby."
A feral, triumphant grin spread across Paige's face at your desperate, needy pleas. With a swift, gentle thrust of her hips, Paige sheathed her thick, girthy strap deep into your dripping, eager hole.
Paige exhaled at the sight, starting to roll her hips in a steady, deep rhythm. The way you were gripping her 'dick' like a vice, coating it so beautifully had her head spinning.
She hooked your knees over her elbows, nearly folding you in half as she loomed over you, consuming you completely. "Y’need it, huh? It's mine? Pussy all mine?" Paige punctuated her words with sharp, rough snaps of her hips, forcing her cock deeper in than you thought possible, filling you to the brim.
Your eyes squeezed shut, lips parted as you tried to speak. "Yours." It came out airy, too quiet for Paige's liking.
"What was that?" She near to mocked, pressing your thighs closer against your chest so she could hit at a deeper angle. "Speak up or I'm gonna stop."
You didn't let the 'threat' linger in the air, your mind instantly scrambling to spew out somewhat coherent rambles. "Yes— yes it's yours. All fucking yours, Paige."
"There you go. Wasn't so hard." Leaning down, Paige captured your lips in a filthy, dominating kiss, all tongue and teeth as she fucked into her harder and faster. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin and the noises you both made filling the room.
She panted at the strength in which she was fucking you. Paige knew she was hitting your cervix with every thrust, stirring up your guts, but she couldn't stop. Not until she'd ruined you for everybody else.
All you could do was whimper against Paige's lips, nodding your head at every word even if you couldn't fully process all of them. All you could think of was the feeling of the blonde on top of you, gripping and touching, the tip continuously abusing that one spot
Your moans filled the room and you prayed there would be no noise complaint with how loud the two of you were being, not that either of you truly cared. Not in that moment at least.
"Slower, please," you managed to choke out, wanting to savour it for as long as possible. Wanted to be closer to her. You could swear that you felt Paige all up in your guts— maybe even your chest— tight pussy clenching over the blonde's strap.
"Mmm, you want me to slow down, baby? Want me to fuck you nice and gentle?" She purred, her voice a seductive rasp.
Paige began to roll her hips in a slower, more deliberate rhythm, grinding her thick strap against your g-spot with each thrust.
"Can feel it in my guts." You slurred your words slightly, mind blank— fucked dumb by her cock as Paige usually liked to call it.
The blonde let out her throaty, signature chuckle. "That's because I am," she nodded her head down and your gaze followed, eyes widening and breath hitching in your throat.
You could actually see her inside of you, the bulge in your belly an indicator of just how deep she was inside of you. You rasped out a deep "fuck" at the sinful sight.
"Would knock you up if I could, pretty girl," she smirked as you clenched around her. "Yeah? Y'like the sound of that? Y'wanna have my babies, mama?"
The sight of it mixed with the idea—the vision of her breeding you, her cum dripping out of you—was pushing you towards the edge. You nodded your head frantically, nails digging into the skin of her biceps as you gripped them.
Your whimpers and moans grew more high pitched the closer you got to your orgasm, mouth agape as you tried to keep somewhat quiet. You couldn't help but hold your breath occasionally, too lost in the pleasure to breathe evenly.
Paige's hand came up to grip your jaw, squeezing your cheeks slightly and forcing you to look at her. "You wanna cum on my dick? Gotta ask for it first."
"Yes, please. Please, Paige, Please, please, please," you repeated over and over, begging for it like a whore. It felt like you couldn't even think, let alone speak coherently.
She continued to thrust into you with slow and deep strokes, coaxing your release out of you. And once again, the pit inside ur tummy started to burn, tightening until you felt like you couldn't hold it anymore. In all honesty, you can no idea whether you were about to cum or if you were about to utterly embarrass yourself.
"Go ahead, baby. Let go f’me."
You didn't have to be told twice, eyes staring into hers and jaw falling slack as it crashed over you, barely any sound escaping you as you came. Paige could feel you soaking not only her thighs, but the bedsheets as well as her eyes trained on the way you gushed all over her in awe.
It took you a few moments to come back down from it and one glance down had your hands flying up to cover your face. You groaned into your palms in embarrassment. To be fair, you had no idea that you were even capable of squirting.
"God, that was so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I've ever seen." She breathed out a faint chuckle, "Hey, look at me."
And for some reason, you complied— letting your hands fall from your face and glancing up at her.
"You're fucking perfect, yeah? Nothing to be embarrassed of." And the way she said those words, so soft and clear, told you that she was being genuine.
Paige pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before carefully sliding out of you and slipping away, the warmth of her body leaving yours as she padded toward the bathroom. You listened to the sound of running water, your breath still steadying as you lay there, staring at the ceiling.
When she returned, she had a damp towel in hand, her expression softened as she knelt beside you. There was no arrogance in her touch now—just quiet care, her hands moving with gentle precision. The sight of it tugged at something deep in your chest.
Maybe Paige wasn't as bad as you'd thought. Maybe there was more to her than the cocky, womanizing basketball star.
You couldn't stop watching her, admiring the way her brows knit slightly in concentration, the way the dim light caught the sharp lines of her face. This time, you were the one staring in awe.
"What?" Paige asked, a small smile pulling at her lips, catching the way you were looking at her.
"You're just so beautiful." The words left you before you could think better of them, but you meant them. Every single one.
A hint of color dusted her pale cheeks, and before you could take in the sight of it for too long, Paige leaned back in, pressing another kiss to your lips—this time slower, as if she was savoring it.
When she pulled away, her voice was light but laced with something genuine. "So... you gon give me a chance or what?" It was a joke, but there was something behind it, something almost hopeful.
You held her gaze for a moment before giving the subtlest of nods, your smile faint but real. "Sure. Why not."
Paige exhaled a soft laugh, but you could feel it—the way her heart was racing just as much as yours.
taglist (mostly ppl who asked weeks ago lol i’m so sorry) @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @starlighttsv @ekisokay @st4rrzynight @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @omg-imtumbling @xxloveralways14 @cowboylikeavaa @prettygirl-gabi @itsstavy13 @kaelaheartsyou @jnkbueckers @shootingstarrrrr @melpthatsme
Having your main anxiety response be Avoidance is crazy cause you'll think you're chillin and then one day you're like waitttt I've been paralyzed with fear this whole time. Damn
Was anybody else playing dead the whole time they were teenagers or is that just a me problem. Like I'm 20 now and I'm like Oh shit I didn't do anything. Because I'm scared
welcome to clown town @usuallyshadowybasement - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
