Chapter Text
The dimmed overhead lighting inside the Team USA practice facility gives the place an abandoned, hollowed-out feeling at night. One Paige really doesn’t care for.
It casts warped shadows across the court and into the bleachers folded up against the wall, draining the color from the championship banners hanging overhead like they’ve been left there too long.
The whole place looks wrong.
Like a movie set after everyone’s gone home. Like the horror movie Paige stayed up too late watching on FaceTime with Azzi last week; the same washed-out palette, same feeling that something bad is about to step out of the dark.
The exact opposite of practice.
It’s not even that late. It just feels late. Practice ended a while ago, showers have been taken, music turned off, laughter faded down the hallway until it disappeared completely. Everyone scattered to dinner plans and hotel rooms and whatever passes for normalcy on Team USA trips.
Now it’s just Paige and the quiet.
The kind of quiet that presses in on her ears and makes her footsteps sound too loud as she cuts across the empty court. No balls bouncing. No sneakers squeaking. No whistles. No scoreboard glow.
Just the low hum of electricity and the air conditioning breathing steadily above her head as she ducks into the back hallway.
A door slams somewhere far off.
Paige jumps despite herself.
Great. At least someone else is still around. Admin, maybe. Sue, hopefully.
Or worse, some unhinged serial killer looking for their next Dateline episode.
Jesus.
Anything else.
Think of literally anything else except that fucking movie.
She’s going to kill Azzi.
Not really.
Probably.
Maybe.
After she finds her jacket.
The blue one. Soft at the cuffs, worn down just enough that it feels broken-in in the best way. The one she wears on every bus ride, every flight. The one that feels like home in places that don’t.
She’s got about an hour before dinner with Stewie and Phee, and she picks up her pace, annoyed at herself for forgetting it in the first place.
Stewie offered to lend her one. But Stewie wouldn’t get it. It’s her jacket. And if Paige ever explained why, Stewie would tease her mercilessly, and Paige would never hear the end of it.
That conversation can wait.
Paige pushes through the locker room doors-
and-
Click.
The sound is small. Metallic.
Click.
Repetitive.
Paige frowns.
Freezes just inside the doorway.
Squints.
Click.
It takes a second for the locker room’s fluorescent brightness to fully settle, for her eyes to adjust, but when it does…
Caitlin is standing at her locker.
For a brief, disorienting moment, Paige genuinely thinks she’s mistaken. That she’s hallucinating. That she’s still half-asleep and about to wake up in her hotel room, late, groggy, embarrassed.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Flits her gaze across the room.
The other lockers are shut. Dark. Abandoned.
Half-crushed water bottles sit where they were dropped earlier.
Damp towels overflow the hamper in the corner.
And no. Not a dream.
Everyone else is gone.
Caitlin isn’t.
“Oh,” Paige murmurs, a little surprised. “You’re still here?”
Caitlin nods without turning around.
Closes her locker with another soft click.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m heading out.”
She’s still in her practice shorts. Team USA hoodie hanging loose on her frame. Hair damp like she didn’t bother drying it all the way. Bag zipped and slung over one shoulder, positioned perfectly, like she’s been ready to leave for a while now.
She looks ready.
Paige almost takes her at face value.
Almost.
Except…
Caitlin spins the dial again.
And opens the locker.
The sound slices clean through the empty room as Caitlin’s fingers trace the edge of the inner shelf.
Left to right.
Careful. Methodical.
Then she closes it.
And still doesn’t step away.
Paige stands in the entrance a beat longer than she means to.
Waiting for Caitlin to fill the silence.
Waiting for a joke. A comment. Something sarcastic or awkward or playful.
She and Caitlin haven’t necessarily been close in years, but they’re not antagonistic with each other. At the very least, she’d expected Caitlin to glance over, acknowledge her existence.
She doesn’t.
The air tightens, sudden and oppressive, like the pressure drop before a storm.
“I forgot my jacket,” Paige says lightly, forcing a casual tone. “Figured I’d grab it before security locks me out.”
Humor.
Humor always breaks the ice.
Caitlin hums.
Nods once.
And spins the lock again.
“…Okay.”
The locker room feels off now.
Heavy. Stale.
Paige drifts to her own locker, slow, deliberate, watching Caitlin out of the corner of her eye as the brunette opens the door to her locker again.
Her heart starts beating harder for reasons she can’t name.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Paige fumbles quietly with her own lock.
Unlock.
Her jacket is right where she left it.
Open.
The blue one. Soft at the cuffs.
Close.
She pulls it free but doesn’t put it on.
Lock.
Instead, she watches Caitlin spin the dial again.
Unlock.
Open.
Wait.
There’s no pause. No relief. No end.
Close.
Lock.
Caitlin presses her thumb against the latch after she turns it, like she doesn’t trust it. Like it might betray her the second she looks away.
What is she doing?
“Hey,” Paige says carefully, the jacket suddenly heavy in her hands. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
No hesitation.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
“I’m headed out.”
Her voice is too bright. Too easy.
And she still hasn’t moved.
“Okay,”
Paige says, sliding one arm into her jacket, exaggerating the motion. Giving Caitlin an out. An excuse to laugh it off and leave with her.
The lock clicks again.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Under the fluorescent lights, Caitlin’s jaw twitches. She clenches her teeth so hard it looks painful.
Still.
She doesn’t move.
Paige’s chest tightens.
The room feels bigger now. Emptier. The benches stretch too far. The rows of lockers feel endless. The hum of the lights buzzes loudly between the clicks.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
“Ready?”
Paige tries tentatively.
“Yeah.”
Caitlin nods. Once. Twice. Three times.
Her hand never leaves the dial.
Her breathing is wrong. Too careful, like she’s rationing air.
“M’headed out in a sec.”
The words come out thinner than before. Frayed at the edges. Her fingers are shaking now, just enough that Paige can see it. Just enough that she can’t pretend she doesn’t.
Click.
And it dawns on Paige then, heavy and sickening, that she doesn’t believe her.
Not because Caitlin is lying.
But because the metal keeps clicking.
Because Caitlin hasn’t taken a single step.
Because her hand won’t let go.
Paige swallows, a cold unease sliding down her spine.
“Okay.”
She murmurs.
But Paige doesn’t leave either.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
She feels helpless in a way she hates. On the court there’s always something to do. A pass to make. A screen to set. Here she’s just standing still, watching her teammate unravel in small, mechanical movements.
Paige glances at the clock on the wall.
Her stomach drops.
It’s been a long time.
Too long.
Her brain scrambles, rewinding, searching for the moment this started. Did she see Caitlin after practice? Did Caitlin leave early? Did she wave, distracted, and walk away without noticing something was already wrong?
“Cait.”
Caitlin flinches like the sound physically hurts.
“You can go,” Caitlin says suddenly, too quickly. “You don’t have to stay.”
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
The sound is maddeningly rhythmic. Endless.
“I’m headed out in a sec.”
That’s the fourth time she’s said that.
But she still doesn’t move.
Her words and her body are saying different things, and Caitlin doesn’t seem to realize it.
The disconnect hits Paige all at once as she shifts her weight.
Closes her locker.
She should go.
She can go. Her jacket’s on. Her own locker’s closed.
Her phone buzzes faintly in her pocket; probably Stewie checking if she’s on her way.
Dinner plans are waiting.
She can go.
Exit the building, get in the car, pretend this moment never happened.
Her eyes flit toward the exit.
And at the same time…
Click.
The sound lands like a bolt of lighting in her chest
The lights flicker.
Caitlin inhales sharply, like the flicker means something.
Unlock.
Open.
“Caitlin…”
Close.
Caitlin doesn’t look at her.
Barely even blinks.
Paige takes a step closer, keeps her hands loose at her sides, forces her posture to stay relaxed, like this isn’t one of the strangest things she’s ever witnessed.
“Caitlin, what are you doing?”
Lock.
Because this isn’t normal.
This is past uneasy, ricocheting towards something darker Paige doesn’t have a name for yet.
Because Paige has seen Caitlin a lot of ways.
But not like this.
Never like this.
“I just… I don’t want to forget anything.”
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
“You’re already packed.”
Paige says carefully.
“Yeah.”
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
“Yeah.”
Caitlin whispers again.
Quieter.
Nods to herself.
Click.
“I’m done.”
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
“I’m leaving,” she says.
Then she turns the dial again.
Unlocks.
Opens.
Closes.
Locks.
Her fingers tremble now.
“I just need to make sure.”
She whispers more to herself than to Paige, but the blonde answers anyway.
“Make sure what?”
Caitlin swallows.
“That it’s locked.”
Paige steps closer, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile.
“It is.”
Caitlin nods.
“I know.”
Except she’s unlocking it again.
Opening it.
Running her fingers over the inner shelf.
Left to right.
The contradiction makes Paige’s blood curdle.
Sits between them like something alive.
Closing it.
Locking it.
“I know it is,” Caitlin repeats, softer. “I just…”
Her lip quivers and her voice cracks a little on the last word as she presses her thumb against the lock again; like she’s measuring the world in tiny metallic rotations, like the universe itself hinges on the perfection of the click.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
The tremor is working its way to her shoulders now.
Her knuckles are white. Her skin is raw where the metal bites.
“I just need it to feel right.”
Caitlin whispers.
Paige swallows past the lump in her throat.
“Feel right how?”
Paige’s question hangs there.
The locker hums under Caitlin’s palm, faint vibration through metal, through bone, like it’s alive and watching her. She stares at it, brows furrowed, like it might blink first and doesn’t answer.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Her breathing stutters on the lock turn this time.
Paige takes another step closer before she realizes she’s doing it.
“Caitlin. It’s locked. We can leave.”
Click.
Caitlin’s shoulders jerk.
Her gaze flits over to Paige for the first time since she’d walked back in here.
Just for a second.
Her face is pale. Paler than usual.
And her eyes are glassy. Not crying. Just stretched too thin.
“I’m almost done,” she says quickly, like she’s cutting Paige off before she can finish a thought. “I swear. Just… just give me a second.”
Another second stretches into too many.
Caitlin’s looking at the locker again.
So is Paige.
It’s a normal locker.
Nothing is wrong with it.
Nothing that she can see.
“Cait,” she says, slower. “You don’t have to-”
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Paige’s pulse is loud in her ears now. This isn’t spacing out. This isn’t zoning in. This is something else. Something mechanical. Something trapped.
“I know it’s locked,” Caitlin repeats emptily, like she’s reciting something she memorized, like she’s trying to make it make sense. “I can see that it’s locked.”
Unlock.
Close.
Lock.
“But it doesn’t…”
Caitlin's breath stutters, her thumb presses the latch again, harder this time. Like force might fix whatever invisible equation she’s trying to balance.
“It doesn’t feel right.”
Unlock
Open
Close
Lock.
The repetition is unbearable now.
The sound is unbearable.
“I’m fine,” Caitlin insists, strained now. “I’m fine. I just… if I leave and it’s not right, then-”
She stops. Swallows. Tries again.
“I’ll feel it. All night. On the bus. In my room. I won’t be able to...”
The sentence trails off and the words hang suspended there in the air for a moment before Caitlin shakes her head quickly, like she’s trying to rid herself of whatever she said out loud.
Resets.
“I’m leaving. Just give me a second.”
Paige nods automatically, even though every part of her is screaming.
“Okay,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to say. Because disagreeing feels like pushing. Because pushing feels like it might make this worse.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Another second passes.
Then another.
Then ten.
Paige watches her for another full minute.
Like if she stays still enough, quiet enough, Caitlin might suddenly look at her and say okay. Might let go of the latch. Might step back into herself.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The repetition is unbearable now. The sound is unbearable.
“You’re not leaving.”
Paige says finally.
Caitlin’s hand stills for half a second.
Then…
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Her jaw works back and forth, like she’s trying not to cry.
“I am,” she says, voice wobbling. “I am leaving.”
But she isn’t.
She can’t.
The room feels too small.
The lights dim another shade.
Paige looks at the clock again.
Paige checks the time again.
This isn’t five minutes.
This isn’t ten.
This is a loop.
The realization hits her all at once, heavy and suffocating.
“Cait,” Paige starts carefully, dread already curling in her chest. “How long have you been standing here?”
Silence.
The lock clicks.
“Caitlin,” she tries again, softer than before. “How long?”
Caitlin’s shoulders hitch.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Nothing,
Paige realizes with a sinking, sick certainty that Caitlin has probably been standing here since practice ended.
And if Paige leaves her here, Caitlin will still be standing at this locker at midnight.
Still saying she’s fine.
Still saying she’s leaving.
Still turning the dial.
If she hadn’t forgotten her jacket, if she hadn’t come back-
Paige’s throat burns.
Fuck.
She drags a hand down her face, grounding herself in the familiar scrape of callused fingers over skin. Think. Don’t panic. Panicking helps no one. On the court, when things go sideways, you slow it down. She calls a set. She gets the ball to someone steady.
Right now, there is no set.
There is just Caitlin. And the locker. And the endless clicking that feels like it’s drilling straight through Paige’s skull.
The air feels completely wrong now. Thick. Pressurized.
Caitlin’s hand slips on the dial.
She curses under her breath, sharp and frantic, and grabs it again like she’s afraid it might get away from her.
“I messed it up,”
She whispers.
Paige’s heart stutters.
“Messed what up?”
Caitlin shakes her head, fast and desperate.
“It’s-no. I just- just hold on.”
Unlock.
Open.
Fingers across the inner shelf.
Close.
Lock.
Her breathing turns ragged. One breath in, two out. Like she’s trying to calm herself down and failing at it spectacularly.
“Okay,” Paige says softly, decisively, like she’s making a choice she can’t un-make. “Okay, we’re gonna pause for a second.
“You can go,” Caitlin repeats, weaker this time. “Please. I’m okay. I just need-”
Click.
Her breath breaks.
Paige feels it then; fear, real fear radiating of her, sharp enough to make her dizzy.
“-just need a second.”
Paige steps fully into her space now. Not touching. Not crowding. Just… there.
A human anchor.
“Hey, hey,” she says, lower, like lowering her voice might lower the moment with it. “Look at me for a sec.”
Nothing.
Caitlin’s fumbling now, frantically with the locker.
Her thumb presses the latch again, harder, knuckle whitening as if pain might finally register where certainty won’t.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Paige swallows. Her throat feels tight, like she’s the one forgetting how to breathe. She tries again, firmer, almost pleading.
“Caitlin. Please.”
For a moment, Paige thinks it’s not going to work.
That Caitlin’s already too far gone, lost somewhere Paige can’t follow.
Then… another flicker of stillness.
Caitlin’s eyes lift again. Just barely. They don’t really see Paige so much as land in her general direction, unfocused and frantic, like she’s looking through her instead of at her.
Her hand doesn’t leave the lock.
Paige holds that gaze like it’s a lifeline.
She wants to reach out so badly it hurts. To put a hand on Caitlin’s arm. To pull her into a hug. To do something that proves she’s real, that this moment is real, that Caitlin isn’t alone in it.
Because Caitlin looks like she’s about to cry.
Over a locker.
And Paige has no idea what’s going on.
Her mind cycles through all the worst case scenarios.
She was fine at practice.
She thinks.
They weren’t even on the same scrimmage unit, but Paige would’ve noticed. She always notices.
Someone would’ve said something. Stewie. Angel. Angel always says something.
Nothing is adding up.
Caitlin’s pupils dart again. Back to metal.
Her breathing is shallow, quick little sips of air that don’t seem to go anywhere useful.
“Hey,” Paige murmurs again, aims for even, steady, calming. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“I’m leaving," Caitlin insists again in a whisper. “I just need…. I-I I…. just… just need a second.”
One more second.
And then another.
And another.
There’s no finish line here.
Paige feels it in her bones now. This isn’t something she can fix by saying the right thing. There’s no joke sharp enough, no reassurance clean enough to cut through whatever loop Caitlin’s trapped in. Every instinct she has is screaming to do something, but every movement feels like it might snap whatever fragile thread is keeping Caitlin upright.
“Okay,” Paige says again, even though nothing about this feels okay. “That’s… that’s fine. You don’t have to leave right now.”
Caitlin nods desperately, like she’s been given permission to breathe.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Paige closes her eyes for half a second.
This is beyond her.
She knows how to pull someone back from a bad game. From self-doubt. From anger, from grief, from tears that make sense. She knows how to sit in the ugly parts of things.
But this?
This feels like watching someone drown while standing on the shore with no rope.
Her phone vibrates again in her pocket.
Paige doesn’t look at it.
Glances toward the hallway.
The choice is already forming, heavy and inevitable. She hates it. Hates that it feels like betrayal. Hates that it feels like leaving.
She makes the decision anyway.
“Hey,” she says carefully, pitching her voice like she’s approaching a skittish animal. “I’m gonna grab some help, okay?”
She doesn’t say help like it’s an accusation. She doesn’t say it like Caitlin is broken.
She says it like a plan. Like something steady
It doesn’t seem to matter.
“No,” Caitlin says immediately, panic sharp enough to cut. “No, I don’t- I don’t need help. I just-”
Click.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
“I just need a second,” Caitlin insists, words tumbling faster now, stacking on top of each other. “That’s all this is. I’m fine. I just… I just need to finish this and then I’m leaving. I swear. I’m leaving.”
Her voice cracks on the word second, like it’s splintering under the weight of how many she’s already taken.
Her hand never stops moving.
Paige stays where she is. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t retreat.
Something is wrong in a way Paige doesn’t have words for. Something medical. Something mental. Something that doesn’t get better if she just stands here and waits.
“Cait,” she says softly. “You’ve been saying that for the last half hour.”
“I know,” Caitlin snaps, then flinches at her own tone. Her voice drops immediately, brittle and apologetic. “I know. I just- you don’t understand. If I stop now-”
She shakes her head hard, like the rest of the sentence is too dangerous to let out.
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
Paige glances at the exit again.
Then back at Caitlin.
Caitlin, who looks smaller than Paige has ever seen her.
Caitlin, who can’t stop.
Caitlin, who is drowning in front of her without making a sound.
Paige inhales slowly through her nose, grounding herself the way she does at the line, heart hammering, everything riding on one steady motion.
She plants her feet.
“I know you don’t want me to,” she says, gentle but unyielding, the voice she uses when a huddle is slipping apart. “But I don’t think you can do this alone right now.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m-” Caitlin’s voice breaks clean in half. “I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”
Paige’s chest tightens painfully.
“Hey,” she says immediately, voice breaking despite herself. “No. No, never. Look at me.”
This time, Caitlin does.
Really looks.
Her eyes are red. Raw. Exhausted in a way Paige recognizes all too well.
“I don’t think that,” Paige says. “Not even a little.”
Unlock.
Open.
Close.
Lock.
The motion is almost automatic now, like her body doesn’t need Caitlin’s permission anymore.
Paige reaches out, not touching; just close enough that Caitlin knows she’s there.
“I’m not leaving you,” Paige says quietly. “But I’m also not gonna pretend this is nothing.”
Caitlin’s breath stutters.
“I’m gonna grab someone,” Paige continues, already backing away, every step feeling wrong. Like betrayal. Like abandonment. “Okay? Just… just stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Paige hesitates at the edge of the locker room, heart pounding so hard she can hear it in her ears.
Every instinct tells her this is the wrong choice.
And every other instinct tells her it’s the only one.
“I’ll be fast,” she says, and it comes out like a promise and an apology all at once.
Caitlin doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t look up.
She just keeps her hand on the dial.
Click.