Chapter Text
The first time Paige ever saw Azzi Fudd, the Dallas Wings were 6 minutes into the second quarter.
It was a testament to the intensity and importance of the game—away against the Storm, halfway through the season and crucial in the fight to stay within the top 8–that it takes Paige almost until halftime to even notice her. She is sitting courtside, wearing a white jacket, unbuttoned, over a black tank top and a pair of blue jeans. But what Paige mostly notices, as she inbounds the ball, are her heavily lidded eyes, gazing up at Paige for a split moment, as if scanning her for some secret she didn’t even know she was keeping.
The ref’s shrill whistle takes Paige out of her moment of reverie, and she turns, scanning the court for Arike. Tonight was not the game to get distracted by anything, not least a courtside baddie. And so she keeps her head down and plays. The Wings, who are down by 10 going into halftime, need something to get the game turned around. So Paige listens carefully to the plays coach draws up, takes some deep breaths. And then, right before the whistle blows to commence the third quarter, she glances over to the side of the court. Lets herself stare for a moment, take in the woman’s curly hair falling elegantly from her messy bun, the silvery stud pierced in her bellybutton.
Because it was always true that Paige played better when she had an audience.
In the next quarter, Paige drops 15 points, clocks 5 assists and 2 steals. She brings the Wings up to a 10 point lead, thoroughly taking the wind out of Washington’s sails. A kind of methodical calm had washed over her, as if the attention of the woman sitting courtside is a kind of performance enhancing drug. She doesn’t let herself look anywhere but the court until the lead carries into the fourth quarter, not even when the announcer acknowledges “Azzi Fudd and Andi Sullivan of the Washington Spirit here at Carefirst Arena.” Only then, after sinking another three, does she let herself look courtside.
Azzi Fudd is staring right back at her, with a smug quirk of her glossy lips. Paige almost trips over her own feet.
When all is said and done, the Mystics win, 100-85. Paige drops 35 points, earning a double double. It is her highest scoring game of the season yet.
After the game, Paige is hustled around to various interviews and fans. She tells the reporter in the post-game presser that the “great atmosphere” and “amazing fans” had helped contribute to her post-half streak. It is not a lie.
And as soon as she could get back to the locker room, she types “Azzi Fudd” into Instagram.
“Arike?” She asks, without even looking up from her phone. “Will you go to a Washington Spirit game with me?”
—
DC was hot in the summer. Paige had known this, when she signed her contract in March, but coming from Dallas, where the summer heat pulsed like a living thing, she hadn’t been too concerned. But the humidity in DC is aggressive, settling itself like a blanket over every aspect of Paige’s life. It was there in full force on that late June day at Audi Field, finding Paige in knee-length jorts and a white tank top, sitting by the field next to Arike. And it finds Azzi Fudd, on the field, in her navy jersey and black shorts hitched high up onto her upper thigh.
“…Paige, hello, are you listening?” Paige shakes her head clear and turns to Arike, who was talking about some couples spat she was having with her fiance.
“Yeah, yeah sorry. It’s just so hot, damn.”
Arike smirks. “Bitch, you down bad huh. Have yall even talked?”
“Well, not in person. But we were texting after the game she was at the other day.” Paige thinks back to how many times she had thought through what to say to the girl, before settling on a simple ‘hey, saw you at the game tn, thanks for popping out.’ And the way that her heart had skipped a beat when Azzi had replied, a few minutes later: ‘yeah, of course! Congrats on the win, you played great.’
Paige had thought a long time about what she was going to say next, before deciding on, “thx! gonna try and pull up to your next game against LA.”
And then Azzi had sent her two free tickets for right by the side of the field, and that’s how Paige had ended up here, watching Azzi Fudd making a clean sliding defensive tackle, landing on her stomach as the ball trickles out of bounds.
The next 90 minutes go by quickly, as the Spirit makes quick work of Angel City. Azzi, who plays center back, has a beautiful lofting pass from the bottom of the attacking third to assist Trinity Rodman, and makes several clever defensive moves. Paige watches, enthralled, and barely notices when the camera comes over to announce her and Arike as “the Mystics’ backcourt.”
When the game is over, Paige waits a little before getting up, her thighs sticking to the plastic chair. She isn’t fully sure what to expect, if anything. They’d both been to the other’s game, but they hadn’t yet even talked in person.
Then, 30 minutes after the last whistle, Paige’s phone buzzed deep inside her jorts pocket. “Hey, some of the team is going out for drinks in 30 if you want to come?”
So, with a slightly reluctant Arike in tow, Paige gets to the bar that Azzi told her to meet her at. She’s early. Arike gets them a table and orders a round of beers. Paige drinks deeply, bounces her leg nervously, looks around. Still no Washington Spirit players.
“Yo P, you gotta chill bro,” says Arike, amused. “I thought you were just looking for a hookup?”
“Yeah, yeah, I am,” replies Paige, quickly. It’s true. She’s been single for the past year and a half now, ever since she got drafted and broke up with her college sweetheart, Emmy. Since then, casual hookups have been all she’s been able to do to stay focused on basketball—and, if she’s honest, keep her mind off Emmy, who was her first love and had supported her through four years of injuries and college and every big win and devastating loss. Since then, she’s been focused on the W, and all that come with it. She can’t imagine fitting a significant person in her life right now.
“And don’t you do this, like, twice a week?” Arike asks. Paige glares at her.
“Shut up, that’s not even true.” Not twice a week.
She’s about to try and get back by telling Arike that she’s losing her game after being wifed up for so long when she spots a woman with long blond hair open the door to the bar, closely followed by another girl, her curly hair tied up into a bun and her strong caramel arms accentuated by a tube top that’s cropped far above her belly button.
“Shhh, she’s here,” says Paige, unnecessarily.
“Girl I wasn’t even talking. I’m not standing in your way either, go do your thing.”
Paige hesitates, not sure how to approach her, but Azzi’s brown eyes find her somehow from across the room. Paige swallows, then raises her hand in an awkward half-wave. Arike snickers. What the hell, Paige, she thinks. Since when did she lose all her charisma?
Azzi’s making her way over to the bar, so Paige follows her, sliding up beside her right as she’s about to order. “One aperol spritz, please,” asks Azzi.
“That’s on me,” Paige adds quickly, and Azzi looks over, noticing her for the first time, and smiles sweetly.
“No, you don’t have to do that,” she says, but there’s not much conviction in her voice. The bartender looks at them, bemused.
“You deserve it, after that game,” says Paige, and now the drink is ready so Paige swipes her card quickly, before Azzi can protest more.
Paige hands the drink to Azzi and looks at her thoroughly for the first time. There’s a small scar on her upper arm, she notices, and there’s that bellybutton piercing again—gold this time—and Paige is close enough to see the details of the jewel.
“Well, I guess now I owe you something,” she says sweetly, taking the sweaty glass out of her hand, and Paige swears to god she would kiss her right there and then, in front of her teammates and Arike and the bartender.
“We’ll figure something out,” replies Paige.
Arike has enough sense to go home as soon as she sees Paige bring Azzi back to their table. “Stay chill,” she whispers as she passes Paige on her way out, and Paige does her best. It is strange, she thinks; it isn’t exactly twice a week that she brings a girl home like Arike had been insinuating, but it isn’t uncommon. There’s something about Azzi, though, that feels extra real, not rushed and frantic like the other girls she hooks up with. Azzi’s smooth—she’s a little quiet, but not shy. Forward, but not domineering.
They talk at the bar for over an hour, and conversation flows naturally, from life as a professional athlete, to the differences between their respective sports, to family. Paige talks about her career in soccer (3rd-5th grade), and Azzi tells her about how her mom played in the WNBA during its early years. And the whole time, Azzi inches imperceptibly closer to her, and Paige nudges her pinky onto her thigh, her foot onto Azzi’s, then her whole hand on her knee.
“So,” Azzi says, leaning in a little closer, her elbows leaning on the greasy bar table. “If we each did a shooting contest for the other one’s sport, who would win?” Her brown eyes never stray from Paige’s blue ones.
“Me, obviously,” says Paige, but only because she likes the banter. (In reality, she’s seen Azzi’s biceps; Azzi Fudd would not struggle to shoot a basketball). She leans back and stretches her legs out so that her shins bump against Azzi’s.
“Oh, it’s obvious is it?” Azzi has her head resting on her hand, eyebrow quirked up in a perfect arch. “We’ll have to set a date, then.”
And finally, after a period of comfortable but charged silence–in which Paige holds eye contact with Azzi’s deep brown eyes until she feels hot and has to look away–Paige has the foresight to invite her back to her apartment. “We could, ya know, have another drink, or just watch a movie or whatever.” It’s awkward and dripping with intention and desire, but Azzi just nods, quickly and intentionally.
Paige orders an uber, and it’s only ten minutes back to her apartment but it feels like an hour, Azzi’s perfect lavender nails gently grazing Paige’s thigh, Paige’s arm swung definitively around Azzi’s shoulders. Paige can feel her core lighting on fire, and gets only hotter when she thinks about how Azzi is feeling, how she would look on Paige’s bed.
When they finally get to her apartment, Paige leads Azzi upstairs as quickly as she can, and Azzi’s hand pushing softly on the small of Paige’s back as she follows her upstairs tells Paige that there will be no movies tonight. They cross the threshold of her apartment, and it’s unclear who goes in first but now they’re kissing, so hard and so passionately that it’s as if they’ve been waiting for this for their whole lives.
And Azzi is a good kisser. Her hands reach up onto the back of Paige’s neck, pressing her fingers into the sensitive flesh there and kneading softly, and Paige has her mouth on Azzi Fudd’s soft lips that taste of vanilla chapstick and vodka; intoxicating. Paige pushes her against the door so their bodies are flush with each other, and Azzi gasps at the contact. Paige has to bite her lip so she doesn’t moan.
She pulls at the bottom of Azzi’s tank top, and Azzi nods, answering her unspoken question. Pulling the fabric over Azzi’s muscular shoulders, Paige audibly groans at the sight of Azzi’s two perfectly round breasts, her nipples hard and erect.
“Paige,” Azzi whispers, desperately, and Paige is knocked out of her reverie.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” she says, and pushes a curl off of Azzi’s forehead, before leaving a searing kiss on her neck, which makes Azzi’s head tip back against the wall. “What do you need?”
“Ughn, Paige,” Azzi moaned. “Your fingers, please.”
Please, thinks Paige, trying not to moan herself. Holy shit.
“Yeah, I gotchu baby.” Paige whispers breathlessly, and lets one hand wander down Azzi’s front, leaving open-mouthed kisses all the way down her chest as she goes. Her other hand she keeps on Azzi’s breast, swirling her finger around the nipple.
Wait,” she rasps. She takes a deep breath, trying to slow her heartbeat, which feels out of control. She isn’t exactly sure what she’s waiting for, only that Azzi’s lips are pink and swollen, her cheeks a charming pink, and her brown eyes are wide and blown. She looks so perfect and Paige feels an immense and almost painful desire to drink it in and appreciate it, something she has never really felt in the urgency of a regular hookup.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Azzi says.
“No nothing,” says Paige, leaning down to kiss her abdomen, which is taut and muscular. “Just wanna take you to bed, wanna take my time.”
Paige looks up in time to see Azzi blush, and then nod. “Yeah, ok, just not too long,” she says, slightly bashfully, and Paige nods, overcome with the need to please. She picks Azzi up, bridal style, and carries her into her room, laying her down gently on the bed so that her legs are dangling over the side of the bed. Paige stands between her legs, kissing her passionately, and Azzi slips her tongue into Paige’s mouth as if inviting more intensity.
“Wanna touch you,” Paige says vaguely, drunk on the feel of Azzi’s breasts against her stomach, her mouth on her neck.
“Please, Paige, I need your fingers,” gasps Azzi, and Paige complies, letting her hand wander with more purpose now, further and further down her chest and stomach until they reach her jeans, the button an annoying hurdle. Azzi meets her hands there, helps her unclasp the button and pulls the denim away, revealing black panties with a little bow on the front. They’re already soaked through. She slides one finger up and down the black fabric, damp and warm, and Azzi lifts her hips, her eyes never straying from Paige’s. So Paige slowly pushes the thin fabric away, revealing Azzi’s bare pussy, wet and pulsing. Paige moans. “Fuck, Azzi.” Softly, tentatively, she slips a finger in between her slick folds, and Azzi whimpers and the contact, bucks her hips up to meet Paige’s motions.
For the next few minutes, Paige fingers Azzi as if she’s in a trance, desperate to make her feel good, hyper-conscious of her luck in getting this beautiful woman in her bed, hearing nothing but Azzi’s breath hitch and the slick sound of Paige’s fingers slipping in and out of her slick pussy. The gold piercing on Azzi’s midriff rises and falls with her breath, which is now coming heavier and heavier as helpless little moans fall out of her perfect lips. Somewhere along the line, as Azzi’s pink pussy gets wetter and wetter and the sound of Paige inside of her sloppier and sloppier, Paige starts to kiss her all the way down her chest. She finds the bellybutton piercing and sucks, swirls her tongue in little patterns until she reaches Azzi’s mound and rests there for a moment, never letting the pace of her fingers slow.
“Paige, uhggg I need you,” says Azzi almost incoherently.
“Need me where?” says Paige, trying to tease but mostly failing in her own desperation to taste Azzi.
“Fuck, want your mouth, want you to eat me out.” And that’s all Paige needs to hear before licking a deep stripe through Azzi’s folds. Her cunt tastes of salt water and musk and Paige is going crazy for it, needs it more than anything she’s ever needed. She licks Azzi’s cunt all the way up and down from her hole to her clit and stays there, noticing the way she bucks her hips at contact there. Paige could swear she’s never been this turned on before, and is chasing after pressure on her own clit, humping the bed in any attempt to get herself off. It feels pathetic and obscene, and Paige is high on it.
It doesn’t take long for Azzi’s moans to start picking up, her pussy clenching around Paige’s tongue, and Paige can feel the pressure mounting in her abdomen. Azzi puts one hand on Paige’s head, holding her there, and Paige moans into Azzi’s clit, her own pleasure mounting. Paige looks up just in time to see Azzi’s head tilted back, her curls framing her flushed face screwed up with pleasure, a silent moan dying on her pretty lips. And that’s all it takes for Paige to cum too, face between Azzi’s legs, tongue tasting of her slick.
Paige rolls over, chest heaving. She’s never came from just eating someone out. She’s gotten close, needing only a few strokes from her fingers to push her over the edge. But she needed nothing this time, just the enthralling feeling of Azzi on her tongue, her thighs squeezing her head, her hand pulling her hair.
“Shit,” says Paige softly, and to her astonishment, Azzi giggles, her face pink and dimpled.
“Whatchu laughing bout?” says Paige, trying to regain her swagger. “That wasn’t good or some?”
“No no,” says Azzi, rolling over so that she’s facing Paige. “It was really good,” she says, earnestly. “I just can’t believe the famous Paige Bueckers got flustered while she was giving me head.”
“Excuse me, I was not flustered!” Paige replies, indignately. “And I don’t think that the famous Azzi Fudd looked much better, moaning my name like that.”
Azzi leaves 20 minutes later, after Paige has offered a glass of wine—and Azzi has politely denied it—and the clock on Paige’s stovetop reads 10:34. Azzi fills Paige in on her upcoming game schedule, a stretch of home games and then a a bunch away, and training in between. Paige tries to explain to Azzi the details of the new CBA because Azzi asks, and Azzi nods along, her brow furrowed adorably as she appears very interested in the parts Paige had found boring when it was explained to her.
“Hey, I know we’re both busy,” Paige says, as she leads Azzi to the door. “But I understand training schedules better than anyone else you’ll ever sleep with, so.” Paige lets the end of the sentence hang like a cliff, hoping she will catch on. Azzi turns to face Paige and raises her eyebrows with a smirk.
“That’s an inticing offer, Bueckers,” Azzi says, taking her hair out of its messy bun and then replacing it with a relaxed ease that is almost mesmerizing. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
Paige smiles. “Just sex, right?” She’s not quite sure why she adds this part on, only that it feels somehow important to clarify, almost just to herself.
Azzi nods. “Yeah, sounds good to me.” She gives Paige a brilliant smile, and then turns and heads into the night.