Chapter 6

(Flashback, 2016)

The gym in Chicago is too loud.

Too many courts packed into one building, too many whistles blowing at once, shoes squeaking nonstop against polished hardwood.

AAU nationals.

Or at least that’s what everyone keeps calling it. Isadora thinks it mostly just feels hot.

She sits on the bench next to Paige, elbows resting on her knees while she reties her shoes for the third time in twenty minutes.

“You’re gonna rip the laces,” Paige says beside her.

“I’m making them tighter.”

“You already made them tight.”

Isadora frowns down at them anyway. “I’m still sliding.”

“That’s because you’re tiny.”

Isadora glares sideways at her immediately.

Paige grins.

At thirteen, Paige is already taller than most girls their age, all long limbs and confidence and sharp movement. Isadora, meanwhile, hasn’t grown in almost a year.

Every team they play notices. And they use it.

“Seriously,” Paige says, nudging her shoulder. “You’re like fun-sized.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Coach blows the whistle. “Ramirez, Bueckers, you’re up.”

Paige stands first, grabbing the ball off the bench and tossing it lightly toward Isadora. “C’mon, Dora.”

Isadora catches it against her hip and follows her onto the court.

The other team is big. Not just taller. Physical.

The kind of team that traps hard, reaches constantly, and talks after every play.

The girl guarding Isadora has at least four inches on her and keeps smirking every time they line up.

“You’re the point guard?” the girl asks.

Isadora ignores her.

The girl laughs. “Coach got little kids out here now?”

Paige hears it immediately.

Isadora can tell because her head snaps around from the wing before the inbound even happens.

“You talk a lot for someone who can’t guard,” Paige says flatly.

The girl rolls her eyes. “Worry about your own matchup.”

Paige just stares at her until the ref hands over the ball.

It starts almost immediately after that.

Hands-on with Isadora every possession. Forearm checks. Bumps.

One girl grabs a fistful of her jersey during a cut when the refs aren’t looking.

“Get stronger,” someone mutters after knocking her off balance near half court.

Isadora shoves the frustration down and keeps playing. That’s what she always does. She’s used to it by now.

Mostly.

But Paige isn’t.

“Call that!” Paige yells after Isadora gets hit again, driving to the rim.

The ref barely glances over. “Play on.”

Paige throws her hands up dramatically. “Are you serious?”

“Paige,” Coach warns from the sideline.

Paige shakes her head, already jogging back on defense, muttering under her breath.

Isadora catches up beside her.

“I’m fine,” she says quietly.

Paige looks over immediately. “I know you are.”

The way she says it makes Isadora glance away first. Not because of the words. Because Paige sounds genuinely angry for her.

Isadora brings the ball up again.

The taller defender crowds her immediately, hip-checking her near the top of the key.”

“Move,” the girl says.

Isadora tries. The girl bumps her harder. And suddenly Paige is there.

Sliding between them fast enough to make sneakers screech.

“Back off,” Paige snaps.

The defender laughs. “Or what?”

Paige steps closer without hesitation. “Or for the next twenty minutes, I’ll make you my little bitch.”

“Paige!”

The ref blows the whistle sharply before it can escalate further.

Everyone pauses.

Paige backs up first, hands raised innocently. “What? I’m playing defense.”

The other girl scoffs.

Isadora tries not to smile. Fails a little.

Paige notices instantly.

“There you are,” she mutters while they line back up.

“Shut up.”

“You were getting all moody.”

“I was not.”

“You so were.”

The ref hands Isadora the ball again. Paige leans closer for half a second before the play starts.

“Kick her ass,” she says simply. Then she takes off downcourt.

So Isadora does.

The next few possessions feel sharper somehow. Cleaner. The defender keeps pressing up too high, too aggressive.

Isadora notices it now.

Uses it.

One crossover sends the girl stumbling just enough for the entire bench to react.

“Ohhh!”

Paige is the loudest one. “Yeah, Dora!”

Isadora drives straight to the rim after that, finishing through contact despite another hard bump.

Whistle. And-one.

The gym erupts from their bench.

Paige is already halfway onto the court before the ref shoos her back.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” she yells.

Isadora can’t stop smiling now. Not when Paige looks at her like that. Like she knew all along.

Later, during a timeout, Isadora drops onto the bench breathing hard. Her shoulder already aches from all the contact.

Paige sits beside her immediately. “You okay?”

Isadora nods once. “Yeah.”

Paige looks unconvinced. “She keeps hitting you when the refs turn around.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna hit her back.”

That startles a laugh out of Isadora before she can stop it.

Paige grins immediately like that was the goal.

“I’m serious,” she says.

Something warm settles low in Isadora’s chest at that. Simple. Automatic.

Like Paige protecting her is the easiest thing in the world.

Coach starts drawing up the next play.

Paige barely looks at the clipboard before nudging Isadora’s knee lightly with hers. “You good?”

Isadora looks over at her.

Paige’s hair is damp with sweat already, cheeks flushed pink from running up and down the court.

Waiting for her answer like it actually matters.

“Yeah,” Isadora says quietly.

And she means it now.

~~~

By the end of the game, everyone’s exhausted.

The scoreboard reads 68-54, their team circled near center court while parents clap from the bleachers and coaches shake hands near the scorer’s table.

Isadora can still feel the bruising hits in her shoulders every time she moves.

Beside her, Paige looks completely fine somehow. Sweaty, flushed, hair falling out of her ponytail, but fine.

“Good game, ladies!” Coach calls. “Be back here at eight tomorrow morning.”

A chorus of tired groans answers him.

Paige immediately turns toward Isadora. “You’re limping.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You are a little,” Paige insists.

“I got bumped.”

“You got assaulted.”

Isadora rolls her eyes, shoving her lightly as they walk toward the bleachers. “You’re dramatic.”

“You almost died like four times.”

“I scored twenty-two points.”

“Exactly. Heroic.”

Isadora fights a smile and loses.

Their parents are already waiting near the exit.

Paige’s mom waves first. “There they are.”

“Good game, girls,” Isadora’s dad says, reaching down to squeeze her shoulder gently. “You okay, mija?”

Before Isadora can answer, Paige cuts in.

“She got hacked the whole game.”

Isadora groans immediately. “Paige.”

“I’m serious!”

“She’s tough,” Paige’s dad says with a laugh.

“I know she’s tough,” Paige says. “That’s not the point.”

The adults exchange amused looks instantly.

Isadora feels heat creep into her cheeks.

“Okay,” she mutters. “Can we leave now?”

Paige grins triumphantly beside her. “See? She’s grumpy because she’s injured.”

“I’m not injured!”

“You’re emotionally injured then.”

That gets a louder laugh from both parents.

“Alright,” Isadora’s mom says, smiling as she unlocks the van. “Everybody in before you two start fighting again.”

“Again?” Paige repeats innocently. “Dora always starts it.”

The hotel ride is loud.

Mostly because Paige never stops talking.

She’s sprawled across the backseat beside Isadora, one leg bouncing restlessly while she reenacts parts of the game dramatically enough that even Isadora’s dad is laughing from the front seat.

“And then,” Paige says, sitting forward suddenly, “Dora crossed that girl so bad I almost felt guilty.”

“You did not feel guilty.”

“No, I didn’t,” Paige admits immediately. “It was awesome.”

“She recovered,” Isadora mutters.

Paige stares at her. “She literally touched the floor.”

“She slipped.”

“She slipped because you cooked her.”

Isadora tries to stay annoyed.

Tries.

But Paige is looking at her with this ridiculous amount of excitement, like Isadora scoring somehow matters as much to Paige as it does to herself.

Maybe more.

“You should’ve seen your face after the and-one,” Paige continues. “You looked so mad.”

“Because she kept hitting me.”

“And you still scored.”

Paige says it like she’s proud of her.

Like she always is.

The thought settles strangely warm in Isadora’s chest.

Outside the window, city lights blur past in streaks. Inside the van, Paige keeps talking.

About the game. About tomorrow’s bracket. About how the hotel waffles better not suck this time.

Eventually, Isadora’s mom laughs softly from the passenger seat. “Paige, do you ever run out of energy?”

“No.”

“Clearly.”

“I could keep going for at least another six hours.”

“That’s terrifying,” Isadora says.

Paige bumps their shoulders together. “You love me.”

The words come so naturally that neither of them reacts at first.

Then, Isadora goes still for half a second. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Paige doesn’t seem to notice either, already looking out the window now. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she says it so easily.

Because to Paige, it means something simple.

Obvious. Best friends. Teammates. Always.

But Isadora feels the words settle somewhere deeper than that. Somewhere dangerous. She looks down quickly, picking at the frayed edge of her hoodie sleeve.

Beside her, Paige keeps talking like nothing happened.

And eventually, without really thinking about it, Isadora starts smiling again anyway.