Last Seconds of the Game – Gampel Pavilion, UConn

The crowd is deafening. Tied at 72.

The shot clock is down to five. The ball’s in Aubrey’s hands.

You’re frozen on the sideline, pom-poms clenched tight against your chest. The whole student section is screaming, fans on their feet, jerseys flying. You should be focused on your counts, but you’re not. You’re watching her.

Aubrey’s in the paint, low and coiled like a spring. Two defenders on her.

She fakes left.

Spins right.

One second.

She launches.

The buzzer blares.

Swish.

The crowd erupts.

And you don’t even think.

You bolt past the other dancers, past security, straight onto the court like it’s instinct. And the second she turns around, you jump — arms flying around her neck, legs lifting off the floor — and she catches you without hesitation.

“You did it!” you’re yelling against her ear, laughing, breathless. “Oh my God, you did it!”

Aubrey’s grinning — that rare, open smile like the sun cracked through her calm. Her hands grip your waist, tight like she forgot anyone was watching.

But everyone is.

Cameras flash in a blinding storm. Phones record. Reporters snap. Some students even chant something — you’re not sure if it’s her name or yours. Doesn’t matter.

She sets you down gently, brushing your hip once with her thumb before turning back to her team.

——————

The locker room is chaos. Music’s thumping. Reporters hover near the door. Sweat, champagne, the smell of victory—it’s everywhere. You’re perched on the edge of one of the massage tables, still in your UConn dancer gear, sipping from a neon water bottle and catching your breath.

Paige is next to you.

Too close.

“You looked real proud of your girl out there,” she says, voice syrupy, elbow nudging your thigh. “That celebration hug was serious.”

You blink at her. Smile, small and polite. “She earned it.”

“Sure.” She leans back on her hands, letting her knee bump yours. “Just funny. You two keep saying ^nothing’s going on,*’but you were clinging to her like you’d die if she let go.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You feel heat rise to your cheeks.

“Don’t worry,” she adds, voice dropping as she tilts her head. “If she’s not making a move… I will.”

Your smile fades.

Before you can react, Aubrey’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

“Back the fuck off, Paige.”

Everything stills.

Even the music. Even the laughter. A few of the girls glance up from their lockers, wide-eyed.

Paige raises a brow, like this is funny to her. “Damn. You are touchy about her.”

Aubrey’s already crossing the room. Towel slung over her shoulder, jaw locked, braids slightly damp, still in her uniform pants and compression top — and looking absolutely lethal.

“You think I didn’t hear you the first time?” Aubrey’s voice is low and sharp. “You flirt with everyone. That’s your game. But you don’t touch her.”

You’re frozen, breath caught in your throat.

Paige chuckles. “It was just a joke, Griffin—”

“Try it again and you’ll find out how funny I think it is.”

The room is dead quiet. Tension thick like static in the air.

Aubrey turns to you. Doesn’t touch you yet. Just looks at you with something unreadable in her eyes — something taut and dangerous and undeniable.

“Let’s go.”

It’s not a question.

She brushes past Paige like she’s nothing and holds the locker room door open for you. One hand on the handle. The other flexing like she’s still restraining herself.

And when you follow her out — heart pounding, face flushed, chest tight — you hear Paige mutter behind you:

“Didn’t know you were claimed.”