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Paige notices it on the first day, which feels like a betrayal of her own priorities.
It’s a laugh she’s listening for. Or rather, the absence of it.
Team USA training camp is loud in the way only elite gyms are; the squeak-squeak-pause rhythm of footwork drills, the balls slapping polished hardwood in rhythmic echoes, the nets snapping, crisp and commanding over player’s conversations and the coaches calling out numbers that sound like code.
It is sound personified; fused with the faint tang of polished hardwood and sweaty jerseys thick enough to make her throat taste it...
Paige should be locked in. She tells herself she is locked in.
World Cup tryouts don’t leave room for distractions, and she doesn’t need to invent them.
But when Caitlin Clark drills a pull-up three in transition and barely reacts; no shrug, no grin, no half-yell to the bench; Paige notices.
It’s stupid. Paige knows it’s stupid. She hasn’t been close to Caitlin in years. Not really. Not since U17s, when everything still felt like a shared secret instead of a headline.
Since then it’s been high school gyms packed with cameras, college seasons framed as duels, WNBA matchups turned into narratives neither of them asked for. The media did what it always does: sharpened them into opposites and then wondered why the edges cut.
So why would Paige remember how Caitlin used to laugh?
Why would she care?
She forces herself back into her own drills. Into her own body. Her own breath.
Back onto a court that remembers every practice, every game, every player who’s passed through.
Lets basketball save her for a while.
Sue Bird stops her after a passing drill and tells her, “Great read. That’s exactly it.”
Jackie Young whoops when Paige snakes a screen and finishes through contact.
Chelsea Gray claps from the sideline like she always does, cool and affirming.
Basketball, when it’s right, is freeing.
Paige feels it bloom in her chest, that clean joy, even when the sweat is running down her back and sticking her jersey to her skin as she scoops her water bottle off the bench, shoulder to shoulder with Sonia Citron, tilts her head back, and takes a long drink and almost forgets-
Almost forgets until she glances over and sees Caitlin in the corner of the gym with Aliyah Boston.
They’re angled away from everyone else, like they’re trying to be invisible in a room where nothing ever is. Caitlin’s hands are balled up in her jersey. Aliyah’s voice is low, her posture protective, the way it gets when she’s being careful with someone else’s weight, and she has a hand on Caitlin’s shoulder.
Not playful. Not congratulatory.
Steady.
Paige looks away immediately, heat flushing up her neck, back behind her ears, like she’s butted in on something private, like she shouldn’t be seeing this, whatever this was.
KiKi cracks a joke and Paige feels herself laugh at it, but the next swig of water tastes like chalk.
She doesn’t know why.
… … …
The first day bleeds into the second and it’s not that Caitlin is playing badly.
If anything, she’s playing well.
Her reads are crisp, her passes on time, the three falling back into rhythm like it never left.
Paige watches in a detached, professional way and feels the familiar, begrudging admiration.
Caitlin’s gravity warps the floor. It always has.
But something is off and it bothers Paige even more after seeing them in the corner like that yesterday.
She can’t shake the memory of old Caitlin; emotional, fiery, impossible to ignore. Every reaction carried her heart on her sleeve. Sometimes too much, sometimes it cost her, but it was always unmistakable she played loud. She felt loud. She was loud.
And even that wasn’t even a too distant memory, that was this season, mere months ago.
But it's the second day and this version of Caitlin is not loud.
She’s quiet and her eyes are hollow in a way Paige doesn’t have words for and something is wrong and it’s like the worst kept secret no one knows.
It shows up clearest during live play.
Five-on-five, short clock, red vs. blue. Paige is the Two, on the weakside wing, hands low, eyes flicking between Veronica Burton and the ball. Caitlin’s at the top, calling the set with two fingers, her voice cutting through the chaos.
The action unfolds like muscle memory.
High screen. Switch. Help comes a beat late.
Normally, this is where Caitlin would punish it, where she would pull from the logo, grin forming, crowd reaction arriving a beat behind.
Instead, she swings it.
It’s the right read. Paige knows it.
The pass snaps to the corner, on time, on target. The shot goes up and drops.
Point.
But Caitlin doesn’t move.
She doesn’t crash. Doesn’t backpedal with the loose-limbed bounce Paige remembers. She just jogs back on defense, head down, face blank.
Paige frowns despite herself.
Next possession. Same thing.
Caitlin comes off a stagger, catches clean at the top of the arc with real space, and for half a second Paige braces for the shot the way she always has. Instinct. Gravity tilting toward her.
Caitlin hesitates.
Half a heartbeat. Just enough.
She drives, collapses the defense, kicks it out again. Another good shot. Another make.
Sue claps once. “Good basketball.”
It is. Paige knows it.
And still It feels wrong.
On the next trip down, Paige cuts backdoor, flashes her hands. Caitlin threads the pass through traffic like always. Paige finishes and turns, ready to bump shoulders, exchange something… anything.
Caitlin’s already gone. Retreating. No eye contact. No acknowledgment.
They switch on defense, brush past each other, and Paige catches a glimpse of Caitlin’s face. Distant. Not unfocused. Just… not here.
Like she’s playing behind glass.
Later, Caitlin finally takes one. Deep. Clean. Nothing but net.
The gym reacts. Whoops, a laugh, a voice from the bench calling, “Finally”
Caitlin doesn’t. She turns, runs back, jaw tight, hands clenched briefly at her sides before she lets them fall.
Paige misses her next rotation, still watching.
That’s when she knows.
Not because Caitlin is struggling. Not because she’s off her game.
Because she’s disappearing inside it.
… .. …
At the next water break, Sonia Citron leans in beside Paige and murmurs, “Is it just me, or does Clark seem… different?”
The relief is immediate and unwelcome.
Paige nods once.
“Yeah,” she says, and hates how much it means to hear it out loud.
Angel Reese snorts from a few feet away. “She’s fine. She’s intense. That’s her thing.”
Rickea Jackson adds something sharper under her breath, not bothering to lower her voice. Paige doesn’t catch all of it, but the tone lands anyway.
Kahleah Copper says nothing. She just drinks her water and stares straight ahead, unreadable.
It comes to a head in the middle of another scrimmage. Paige doesn’t see what leads up to it—she’s cutting weakside, eyes on the ball—when everything stalls.
The whistle cuts through the air, and Stephanie White’s voice follows, calm but firm.
“Caitlin. Take a walk.”
The gym stills in that specific way athletes recognize instantly.
No one turns fully. Everyone pretends not to listen.
Caitlin’s shoulders stiffen.
She says something Paige can’t hear, hands flicking out in a frustrated gesture.
It’s the most emotion the blonde has seen from her all camp.
“Not now,” Coach White says. “We’ll talk later.”
For a second, Caitlin looks like she might push it.
Then whatever fight is there drains out of her face, replaced with something blank. She turns and walks off the court, steps clipped and controlled.
Paige’s skin feels too tight, but she keeps playing.
She has to.
The ball comes back to her, the possession unfolds, instincts carrying her through. Around her, the energy is different.Tighter, quieter.
Nosiness hums under the surface, but no one breaks rank. No one wants to be obvious.
Caitlin doesn’t come back.
Eventually, Coach White disappears too.
When there’s another break, Paige drifts toward Aliyah like it’s accidental.
“She’s still gone.”
Paige says, tries to keep her voice calm and casual, like it’s a mere observation.
Aliyah exhales, long and tired.
Doesn’t quite look at her, not fully.
“Yeah.”
“Is she-”
“She’s dealing with stuff,” Aliyah cuts in, not unkindly. “And she hates when people circle her.”
Paige nods.
“I wasn’t trying to-”
“I know.” Aliyah’s voice softens. “But you don’t really know what it’s like for her right now. None of us do. And she doesn’t want it ruining camp for anyone else.”
That word, ruining, sticks in Paige’s throat.
“She’s not ruining anything.”
Aliyah’s mouth twitches into something reminiscent of a smile.
“Try telling her that.”
The whistle blows. The moment fractures.
Caitlin does return later, but she never reenters the scrimmage.
Instead, she’s sent to the far basket with JuJu Watkins, taking shot after shot.
Catch, release. Rebound, reset.
No conversation. No wasted movement.
No one comments on it. No one asks.
… …
That night, Paige can’t sleep.
Cameron Brink conked out right after the dinner without even turning the lights off, and now it’s hours later and Paige finds herself counting the pebbled dots on the ceiling until the whole thing blurs because her mind refuses to quiet.
The energy under her skin thrums and thrums and the quiet presses in and in until it feels like it’s crushing her from the inside out and she finds herself fumbling for her Nike hoodie in the dark, muscle memory carrying her to the gym because it’s the only place that ever makes sense when her head doesn’t.
She hears the soft thump of a basketball hitting the floor before she’s even rounded the corner to see the glimmer of light seeping out from underneath the door
Someone’s already there.
Probably can’t sleep either.
Paige stops just inside the doorway.
It’s Caitlin.
Alone. Still in practice gear.
Of course it is.
The ball hits the floor with relentless rhythm.
Shoot. Rebound. Shoot again.
It sounds like someone counting down.
Echoes too loud in the empty space.
Caitlin doesn’t notice her. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care.
She looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with conditioning. Like rest is something she forgot how to take. Like stopping would mean feeling everything she’s been holding at bay.
Work ethic turned inward, sharpened until it hurts.
Paige doesn’t plan on saying anything. She’s learned how to mind her business.
Years of media questions taught her that. Years of being careful taught her that.
Caring loudly only ever made things worse.
So she tells herself that as she stands there, hands shoved deep into her sweats, watching Caitlin shoot like the basket is the only thing keeping her upright.
But something in her breaks anyway.
“Cait.”
Caitlin’s shot rims out.
She freezes, hands still raised, like her body doesn’t know what to do without the next instruction. Slowly, she turns.
“Oh,” she says. Her voice is flat, scraped thin. “Hey, Bueckers.”
No smile. No joke. Not you stalking my shots now? like there would’ve been once.
And its Bueckers. Not Paige. Not P.
Like they weren’t P&C, joined at the hip, all the way through that U17 travel tournament.
Paige swallows.
Hates how distant it sounds.
“You… uh. Coach said lights were supposed to be off.”
Caitlin snorts quietly and turns back to the ball rack.
“Guess I missed that memo.”
She shoots again. Swish. No reaction.
Paige steps further onto the court before she can talk herself out of it.
“You didn’t come back today.”
Caitlin stiffens. Just barely. Enough that Paige notices.
“I was there,”
Caitlin says. She grabs another ball.
“That’s not—” Paige exhales, frustrated. “I mean. You didn’t come back in.”
Silence stretches. Caitlin dribbles once. Twice. Another swish.
“They told me to shoot,” she says. “So I shot.”
Something in Paige’s chest twists painfully as Caitlin reaches for another ball.
“You argued with Coach.”
“I asked a question.”
Caitlin snaps, then flinches like she didn’t mean to raise her voice.
“Sorry.”
The ball clangs just off the rim. Hits back iron. Bounces left.
Neither of them move to get the rebound.
Paige steps closer.
“Shooting doesn’t fix everything you know.”
Caitlin finally looks at her then. Really looks.
Her eyes are sharp and tired and guarded in a way that makes Paige wish she’d never opened her mouth.
“I’m fine.”
The words are automatic, practiced, as she reaches for another ball.
“I know you keep saying that.”
Caitlin’s eyes flash defensive and exhausted all at once as she picks up her dribble, knuckles turning white against leather, a ripple of misplaced anger passing through her over to the blonde as she turns suddenly and then they’re face to face, eye to eye.
“What is your problem?,” - and if this is how it’s going to go- “Coming down here like you-”
“You don’t laugh anymore.”
Paige blurts, the truth ripping out of her before she can stop it.
The air is sucked out of the room instantly.
Caitlin’s face goes blank.
The flash of anger gone like it never happened.
“That’s a weird thing to say,” she says after a moment.
“I know,” Paige says quickly. “I know. I just… You used to. All the time.”
Caitlin’s jaw tightens, but she’s looking away now, somewhere off in the distance.
Like she remembers too.
“Used to is doing a lot of work there.”
The brunette’s fingers curl and flex around the ball, but she doesn’t dribble it, doesn’t turn back to the basket.
Silence stretches between them, heavy and raw.
But they both hear the question.
Why?
“They don’t need me to laugh,” Caitlin says eventually, quietly. “They need me to make shots.”
They they They.
The mythical They.
Not the players, not even the coaches really, because Sue and Steph care a lot more about their players beyond the stat sheet.
It’s the media, the nameless faces behind the screen, the fans.
Paige knows that without even having to ask.
“You’re allowed to be more than that.”
Caitlin scoffs.
“No. No! Because if I don’t make my shots, it’s a problem. If I slow down, it’s a storyline. If I struggle, it’s a disappointment. If I’m not locked in, I’m letting everyone down.”
She bounces the ball once, too hard. It hits the edge of her shoe, skitters right, hits the bench a few feet away, then ricochets to the end of the court.
“So no Paige, they don’t need me to laugh. They need me to make shots.”
The brunette’s eyes are glassy, not falling apart, but close, too close; and the other woman does turn away now, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hand.
Like she still can’t allow herself to be seen in a way that’s anything other than infallible.
Paige’s throat tightens.
The gym feels impossibly big.
“You’re more than just your shots.”
“No,” Caitlin says immediately and her shoulder’s hitch like she’s trying to hold onto something trying to break free. “I’m not. If I am, I lose this.”
She gestures wildly at the court.
“I lose me.”
Her voice wavers on the last word, pressing both palms into the edges of her face now, like Paige doesn’t see her shoulders shaking.
“You already are.”
Paige says, quietly, like the words themselves might shatter.
“Jesus! Fuck! Paige, stop-” Caitlin’s voice breaks hard on the words, “P-please! Please just stop.”
The last word comes out torn and soaked and desperate and wrong and Paige freezes.
Vision tunneled in on the panic in Cait’s voice, the way she said please like it hurt to say at all.
Shit.
Shitshitshi-
“I’m sorry.”
She says immediately, hands dropping, palms open.
Trying to keep her voice steady and calm and everything her chest is not.
“I didn't mean to push. I swear.”
Caitlin’s already shaking her head, wiping at her face with her jersey hard, building up that wall again like she’s mad at herself for breaking at all.
“I just- I can’t do this right now,” she says voice shaking “I can’t.”
“Then let's not. Let’s not talk, “Paige agrees softly. “Let’s not do anything.”
If I stop,” Caitlin says, voice breaking through clenched teeth, “everything catches up. I don’t know how to survive that.”
Small. Fractured.
Like a kid.
Paige hesitates. She doesn’t want to sound like a coach. Or a headline. Or someone pretending to have answers.
“Five minutes,” she says finally. “That’s it. Stretch. Sit. Do nothing. Just breathe.”
Caitlin lets out a shaky puff of breath. Looks at the hoop. At the rack. Back at Paige.
“I don’t know how to do nothing.”
“I didn’t either,” Paige says. “Still don’t, really.”
Caitlin is trembling, blinking hard, blinking fast, blinking at the rack.
Like it’s a lifeline.
Like throwing herself at it would fix everything.
Even when it’s the reason she’s drowning in the first place.
Paige steps closer, she nudges the ball rack away with the edge of her foot.
“You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to understand it. Just… pause.”
For a long moment, Caitlin looks like she’s going to bolt. Like five minutes is an impossible ask.
Then her shoulders slump.
“Okay,” she mutters. “Five.”
They sit shoulder to shoulder without touching, backs against the padding, enough distance between them to remain respectful, close enough that Paige can feel the warmth radiating off her, the residual energy of someone who doesn’t know how to power down.
The gym envelops them softly, the quiet settling in around the vents, the distant overhead lights, them.
No dribbling. No sneakers squeaking. No swish of the net.
Just the clock on the far wall, with its red numbers steady and uncaring, and a distant door slamming somewhere in the building, as the world moves on without them.
Caitlin’s knee bounces once. Twice.
Paige resists the urge to say it’s okay, when it’s clearly not.
And on the third bounce, Caitlin stills it with her hand, pressing her palm down hard, like she's pinning something in place.
Her breathing is shallow. Controlled. Like she’s counting without numbers.
Paige matches it anyway.
In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Steady. Unremarkable.
She doesn't speak. She just sits there, breathing, letting the silence be what it is.
After a while, Paige doesn’t know how long, Caitlin leans her head back against the padding.
Closes her eyes.
Her knee doesn’t start bouncing again.
When Paige finally glances at the clock, six minutes have passed.
She doesn’t say anything.
Neither does Caitlin.
They stay silent.
They don’t fix anything.
And somehow, that matters.
… ….
The last two days of camp pass like a blur.
Caitlin doesn’t get better. Not really. She still doesn’t laugh. Still doesn’t celebrate the way Paige remembers. The sharpness is still there; the precision, the edge; but the joy doesn’t magically come back because of a midnight conversation and a few minutes of stillness.
Paige knows better than to expect that.
A pep talk in an empty gym isn’t a cure-all. Basketball doesn’t work like that. People don’t work like that.
But Paige knows now.
She knows that Caitlin isn’t unshakable. That the steadiness is built, not innate. That there’s effort in it. Cost.
When camp ends, Paige packs up, says goodbye to the others—Jackie, Chelsea, Aliyah. Some of them she’ll see soon enough at Unrivaled, their paths overlapping again like they always do.
Caitlin is by her locker, quiet as usual.
“Hey,” Paige says. “I’m heading out.”
Caitlin looks up. She smiles.
It’s small. Tired. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Bye, Paige,” she says. Then, after a beat, “Thanks.”
She doesn’t explain.
She doesn’t have to.
Paige nods and leaves with something heavy and unresolved sitting in her chest.
… ….
Two weeks later, the roster for the World Cup comes out on a random Tuesday afternoon.
Paige opens it alone.
Her name is there, right between Aliyah Boston and Kahleah Copper’s.
Relief hits her, that sharp, dizzy gratitude settles into her bones so hard she has to sit down.
She gets to do this. She gets to play. Compete. With the best of the best.
She keeps scrolling.
Some names are exactly where she expected them to be.
A’ja. Sabrina. Phee.
Anchors. Constants. Players so good they didn’t even have to go to camp.
And then there are the gaps.
Names she’d gotten used to hearing called in drills. Names she’d packed next to. Names that had laughed, complained, competed with Players like Angel and Cam who had been good, but not good enough this time. Paige swallows, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
She knows how thin the margins are. She knows how cruel timing can be. How much never shows up on a stat sheet.
She thinks about how none of that had anything to do with effort.
Then she sees Caitlin’s name.
She exhales slowly, something heavy and tangled loosening just a fraction in her chest.
They both made it.
Paige doesn’t feel triumphant. She feels quiet.
Because she knows now, making the team doesn’t mean you’re okay. It doesn’t mean the nights aren’t long or that the pressure eases or that the cracks don’t ache when you press on them. It just means you kept standing long enough for the door to stay open.
She thinks about Caitlin’s tired smile at camp. The way it hadn’t reached her eyes. The soft thanks that carried more weight than it should’ve.
She thinks about the names that didn’t make it. About how close everyone always is to the edge, even the ones people call unshakable.
Paige closes her phone.
She knows what the world will say about the roster.
About talent, dominance, inevitability.
About fucking defense.
She knows what narratives will spin.
But she also knows something quieter now.
That strength doesn’t look the same up close. That survival can look like excellence. That sometimes the bravest thing someone does is sit still for five minutes and breathe.