𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 • Paige Bueckers

𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲

THE GYM WAS alive with the echo of bouncing balls and screeching sneakers, a sign of determination as the clock ticked down the final week before March Madness. Under the steel gaze of Coach, the team had been running drills since the early morning light had filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows on the court that now, as the afternoon sun began to wane, had shrunk to mere slivers.

Geno, had been relentless, pushing his players to the brink of their abilities. Yet, with Nailea, his usual steel was tempered with a cautiousness that bordered on paternal. He'd cut her reps, called her out of runs early on, all in obedience to the medical team's guarded optimism about her recovery. They were threading the needle, trying to weave her back into the fabric of the team without tearing the delicate progress she'd made.

Nailea, her hands on her hips, watched her teammates with a storm brewing behind her eyes. The whispers of doubt that had been her constant companions since her diagnosis were growing louder. What if she couldn't play? What if all the sweat and pain amounted to nothing but a spectator's seat during the most critical time of the year? That thought pushed her, even as the voice of the doctors' explicit warnings tried to pull her back.

"Alright, let's finish strong with suicides then some shooting drills! Men's team, you're up with us too," Geno bellowed, clapping his hands to gather the teams.

As the intense interval running began, Nailea felt the familiar throb of a headache building behind her eyes. She squeezed them shut, willing the pain to dissipate, to dissolve into the ether like morning fog under the relentless sun. But it clung stubbornly, a dark cloud on her horizon blurring her vision.

Paige watched with a hawk's intensity, her focus never straying from Nailea. She knew the signs of struggle, the slight wince, the brief clench of jaw, the fleeting grimace. Paige had seen these faint expressions before, the silent language of pain that Nailea spoke without ever uttering a word.

She approached Nailea mid-drill, her voice cutting through the loud noises of the gym with a clarity sharpened by concern. "Take a break," Paige instructed, her tone firm but worried.

"What— I'm literally fine—" Nailea protested, her words clipped by breathlessness, a veil over the denial in her eyes.

Paige squared her shoulders, her resolve as unyielding as the hardwood beneath their feet. "No, cut the bullshit, Nai. I see it in your face; you need a break."

"Paige, I'm fine—" Nailea's retort was stubborn, but her body betrayed her, a look of tiredness not entirely due to the exercise glistening on her brow.

It was then that Nick stepped in, his concern overruling his usual respect for Nailea's fierce independence. He remembered the incident in the gym all too well—the guilt still gnawed at him for keeping silent. He wouldn't stand idle again. Without a word, he guided her towards the quiet room , his touch firm but not unkind. Nailea's protests fell on deaf ears; she needed rest, and he would ensure she took it.

Nika, sensing the growing tension, took command of the group with a subtlety that spoke of a natural leader. She whispered to the team to keep their focus on the drill, to afford Nailea a moment of privacy in her vulnerability.

Yet, Paige couldn't help but feel a pang of something more than concern as she watched Nick support Nailea. The sight of the boy, Nailea's first friend at UConn, being so close to her, stirred a jealousy she didn't want to acknowledge.

"Focus, Paige," she whispered to herself, her eyes lingering for a moment longer before turning back to the court.

Nailea perched on the cold aluminum of the bleachers, the chill a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her body. As she gulped down water, she felt the sweat that had plastered hair to her forehead, and with a swipe of her arm, she cleared it away like brushing off the doubts that tried to cling to her.