Beyond the Basket - Paige Bueckers

part 23 - against the noise

Sunday April 6, 2025

Paige POV

I'm standing here, waiting for the tipoff of the championship game. The air in the arena is electric, the cheers from the crowd buzzing around me like static. But none of that reaches me right now. I'm trying to contain the weight pressing down on my shoulders. It feels heavier than it ever has before.

This is it. The last game I'll ever play with "UConn" across my chest.

My last chance to do what I came here for. To win.

I shift on my feet, trying to steady my nerves. My hands are already sweaty, and I wipe them on the sides of my shorts, feeling the pressure build with every second that ticks closer to tipoff. This isn't just any game—it's everything. My career at UConn, my legacy, the hours of blood, sweat, and tears I've poured into this program all come down to this moment.

The ball is tossed into the air, and for a split second, everything else disappears. The arena, the pressure, the expectations. It's just me, the court, and the game I've loved my whole life.

I need this win. Not just for the team, or the fans, but for me.

The ball is tossed into the air, and the championship game begins. Everything I've worked for, all the hours spent in the gym, all the sacrifices—it's all led to this. I can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me, but I push it aside. There's no room for doubt, no room for fear. Just focus.

Stanford's defense is relentless, just like we expected. Every possession feels like a battle, a constant back-and-forth. My teammates are playing their hearts out, but the game stays tight. No one's pulling away.

I can hear the crowd roaring, but it feels distant, like a hum in the background. It's just white noise, drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat. I glance at the scoreboard: we're down by two, with only a minute left. My chest tightens, but I don't let it shake me. There's still time.

I take the ball, dribbling up the court, my eyes scanning the defense. My body moves on instinct now, muscle memory from years of playing at this level. A screen from one of my teammates gives me a brief opening, and I drive hard to the basket, drawing two defenders. I kick it out to Azzi, who nails a three-pointer, putting us up by one. The crowd explodes.

The ball leaves my hands, the sound of the buzzer almost simultaneous. Everything seems to slow down. For a moment, the world fades into nothing but the arc of the ball in the air.

And then, as if fate itself decided to pull my focus elsewhere, I see her.

In the crowd, just behind the basket, Kiera. She's sitting there, her face half-hidden under a baseball cap, but our eyes lock. My heart stutters in my chest. What is she doing here? Of all places... here. I see her eyes widen, a flicker of something—recognition, shock, maybe even something deeper.

The ball hits the rim, bounces once. I can't breathe.

Then it drops in.

The arena erupts. My teammates are screaming, pulling me into a frenzy of celebration, but I can't move. My body's frozen, my gaze still locked on Kiera. She's standing now, her eyes still on me, as if the world around us doesn't exist.

The weight of everything hits me all at once—the win, the game, the end of my college career—and her. Always her. She's here, and for the briefest of moments, it feels like the entire championship game, this final victory, was meant to lead me to this point. To her.