Twenty Eight

The morning sun streamed through the blinds in my tiny apartment, casting long shadows on the walls. I had barely slept, replaying last night's kiss with Paige on a mental loop. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel her lips on mine, her warm breath against my skin, the way her voice dipped when she whispered my name.

I was doomed, and I didn't even care.

A loud buzz snapped me out of my daydream, and I reached for my phone on the nightstand. Paige's name lit up the screen.

Paige: Morning, baby girl. You coming to practice today, or did I wear you out?

I rolled my eyes, a grin tugging at my lips. She was impossible.

Me: Morning, mama. I'm always at practice. Can't let you slack off

Her reply came almost immediately.

Paige: Funny. You keep me distracted, not the other way around

Heat rushed to my face, and I dropped my phone on the bed like it had burned me. She had no business being this smooth.

By the time I arrived at Gampel Pavilion, the team was already warming up on the court. Sneakers squeaked against the hardwood, and the rhythmic thud of basketballs echoed through the arena. The energy was electric, even during practice—it always was with this team.

Nika spotted me first, waving wildly as she jogged toward me. "India! Tell me you brought snacks."

"I'm not your personal chef," I said, laughing.

"But you're so good at it!" Nika protested, flashing me her most innocent smile. "Come on, just a granola bar? Protein? Anything?"

"Try focusing on your dribbling instead of your stomach," Paige called out, her voice cutting through the noise. She was standing near the free-throw line, her hands on her hips, watching Nika with a smirk.

Nika rolled her eyes but didn't argue, jogging back to join the rest of the team.

I set up my camera near the sideline, checking the angles and lighting. This was my routine—capturing the sweat, the grit, the pure joy on these players' faces. But today, my focus was off. Every time Paige moved, my lens seemed to find her. The way she shot, the way she commanded the court, the way her muscles flexed beneath her jersey—how was I supposed to concentrate?

"Staring won't improve her game, you know."

I jumped, nearly dropping my camera, and turned to see Aaliyah standing behind me, her arms crossed and a sly grin on her face.

"I wasn't staring," I lied, though my cheeks betrayed me, burning hotter than the gym lights.

"Sure you weren't." Aaliyah snorted, leaning against the railing. "You're about as subtle as Nika in a food line."

"Don't you have drills to run?" I shot back, narrowing my eyes.

She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. But for real, you two are cute. Just don't let Coach catch you making googly eyes during practice."

Paige caught my eye as practice wound down. She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly in a silent question. I nodded, already knowing what she wanted: more time, just the two of us.

As the rest of the team hit the showers, Paige stayed behind, shooting free throws with an intensity that made it clear she wasn't done for the day. I lingered near the bench, pretending to organize my gear but really just waiting for her.

"Hey, Inds," she called, her voice echoing across the empty court.

I looked up, and she gestured for me to come closer.

"Take a shot," she said, tossing me the ball.

"Me? On a basketball court? Are you trying to humiliate me?"

She grinned, walking toward me until we were standing just a few feet apart. "Come on, baby. Show me what you've got."

Her teasing tone was impossible to resist, even if I knew I'd embarrass myself. I lined up at the free-throw line, trying to mimic the way I'd seen her shoot a thousand times.

"Bend your knees more," Paige said, stepping behind me. Her hands rested lightly on my hips, guiding me into position. "Relax your shoulders. You're too stiff."

"Gee, thanks," I muttered, though my heart was racing from her touch.

"Now shoot," she murmured, her voice low in my ear.

I took a deep breath and let the ball fly. It clanged against the rim and bounced off.

"Not bad," Paige said, grabbing the ball as it rolled away. "For a beginner."

I turned to glare at her, but she was already grinning, that cocky, dimpled smile that made it impossible to stay mad. "Let me show you how it's done," she said, dribbling to the line.

She sank the shot effortlessly, of course, then turned to me with a wink. "See? Easy."

"Show-off," I muttered, but I couldn't stop smiling.

We stayed on the court longer than I'd planned, passing the ball back and forth, talking about nothing and everything. Paige told me about her first game as a kid, how nervous she'd been but how her mom had calmed her down with a simple, "Just play, Paige. The rest doesn't matter."

I told her about my love for photography, how it had started with my dad handing me an old camera and letting me take pictures of anything I wanted.

By the time we finally left the gym, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the campus.

As we walked to our cars, Paige reached out, her fingers brushing against mine. I laced them together without a second thought.

"Thanks for staying," she said softly, her eyes meeting mine.

"Always," I replied, meaning it more than I could say.

And as we stood there, hand in hand, with the world fading around us, I realized something: I was falling for Paige Bueckers, hard and fast. And I didn't want to stop.