In the relentless spotlight of fame, Jocelyn West (rising pop princess) and Paige Bueckers' fiery romance ignites, but their struggle with toxic tendencies threatens to consume BOTH their careers, and each other. Who knows if they'll come out alive.
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Jocelyn's laugh still echoed faintly in Paige's mind, though it had been years since she'd last heard it. In the dim haze of early morning, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her San Francisco penthouse, casting long, golden rays across the room. Paige stirred beneath the silk sheets, her body aching slightly from the rigorous workout she'd had the night before. Or maybe it was from the drinks she couldn't remember having after.
Beside her, a blonde figure shifted, the sharp contrast of naked skin against the dark sheets catching her attention. Paige blinked, disoriented for a moment, then sighed as the woman beside her stretched luxuriously, completely comfortable in the space. Paige couldn't remember her name, didn't care to ask, but her mind wasn't on the girl anyway. It was on Jocelyn, always on Jocelyn, even when it shouldn't be.
Paige propped herself up on one elbow, glancing around the penthouse—her penthouse, a monument to the life she'd built, the fame, the success, all the things she'd chased so relentlessly since leaving UConn. And yet, in moments like this, the glossy surfaces and pristine décor felt empty. The silence of the place, once peaceful, now weighed on her.
The woman beside her rolled over, draping an arm over Paige's waist, pulling her closer. Paige resisted the temptation to shut her eyes and forget everything for a little while longer. But she knew better. This was just another distraction.
"Aye, you gotta go," Paige muttered, her voice thick with the remnants of sleep but carrying a firmness that suggested she'd done this many times before.
The woman groaned, half-asleep still. "What time is it?"
"Doesn't matter. You gotta go," Paige repeated, already tossing the covers off herself and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
The woman sat up now, pouting as she brushed her hair out of her face. "You're serious?"
Paige didn't bother responding as she grabbed her phone from the nightstand, already seeing notifications piling up—messages, emails, calendar reminders. It was easier to focus on that than anything else.
"I'll call you," Paige said offhandedly, though she knew she wouldn't. The model nodded, gathering her clothes from the floor, not looking the least bit hurt or surprised. She knew the drill too.
As Paige waited for the sound of the front door closing behind her latest fling, she found herself staring out at the city below. San Francisco was alive, bustling, but she still felt the same emptiness inside. She'd won three championships with the Golden State Valkyries, cemented her status as one of the greatest athletes of her generation, and yet—none of it filled the void that had been there since she lost Jocelyn.
She rubbed her temples, trying to push the thought away. She didn't need this. Didn't need her. But as she stood there, staring at her reflection in the glass, Paige knew that was a lie she couldn't keep telling herself for much longer.
