Ava's POV

The first thing I notice about Ethan Cole up close is that he doesn't look tired.

He should. He just finished a gruelling practice, sweat dripping down his face, jersey clinging to his skin. His teammates collapsed on the bench, gulping down water like they'd been wandering the desert. Shoes squeaked on the hardwood, a whistle shrilled somewhere, and the air smelled faintly of floor polish mixed with the sharp tang of sweat. But Ethan? He's leaning casually against the bleachers, arms folded like the court is his living room, like he could go another two hours and still win a sprint to the cafeteria.

The second thing I notice is that he knows exactly how good he looks.

"Ready when you are, Reynolds," he says, like we're old pals meeting for coffee instead of me trying to drag an interview out of him.

I grip my pen tighter. "It's Ava. Reynolds is my dad."

He smirks, a quick tilt of his mouth that makes it clear he enjoys poking at me. "Right. I wouldn't want to mix up my coach with the girl writing about me."

His tone makes it sound less like "writing" and more like "spying."

I force my professional smile-the one I perfected in Intro to Journalism when I had to interview students about cafeteria food and pretend like their complaints about mystery meat mattered. "This is for the Crescent Heights Chronicle. A seasonal feature."

"Ah," he says, dragging the sound out as if it's a punchline. "So I'm your headline."

"You're a source," I correct, clicking my pen. "And I have a few questions."

He wipes his forehead with the hem of his jersey, slow and unhurried. I pointedly look down at my notes instead of at the defined abs staring back at me. Lila would kill me if she knew I looked away, but this is supposed to be work, not a free front-row seat at an Ethan Cole appreciation show.

"Shoot," Ethan says.

I glance at my list, deciding to start easy. "How do you feel about being the team captain this year?"

His smile sharpens. "Feels about right."

"That's not really an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

I narrow my eyes. "The Chronicle is looking for more than sound bites. Readers want detail. Insight. Maybe even a little honesty."

He leans closer, lowering his voice like he's letting me in on a secret. I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, clean and distracting. "You really think people pick up the student paper to read about my feelings?"

"Some people do."

"Like your dad?"

That does it. My professional smile cracks right down the middle. "My dad is the coach, yes. But I'm not here as his daughter. I'm here as a journalist."

"Sure you are."

The pen digs into my fingers hard enough to leave a dent. "If you can't take this seriously, I'll just-"

"Hey, I'm serious." He straightens, raising his hands like he's surrendering, though his grin says otherwise. "Ask me again."

I bite back a sigh. "How do you feel about being captain this year?"

He holds my gaze without flinching. "It feels right. I've worked for it. I've earned it. And I'm not letting anyone down."

It's... actually a decent answer. More than decent. The words carry weight, confidence without apology, and he delivers them like a man who believes every syllable. But he says it with such unshakable certainty that I almost roll my eyes anyway.

I jot it down, tapping my pen against the paper. "Fine. Next question: What are your goals for the season?"

"Win."

I glare. "That's not a goal, that's a word."

"Okay." He grins, leaning back on the bleachers like he's on break instead of under questioning. "Win big."

I close my notebook with a snap, frustration bubbling in my chest. "You know what? Forget it. I'll just use generic quotes from your press releases. Clearly you're not interested in an actual interview."

He looks genuinely amused. "You're the first reporter to storm off after five minutes."

"I'm not storming."

"You're definitely storming."

I spin on my heel before I say something unprintable. Behind me, his laugh follows-low, confident, infuriating.

Andrew catches me on the way out, looking way too entertained for someone who should be on my side. "How'd it go?"

"Fantastic," I say sweetly. "If the Chronicle is looking for the most arrogant man alive, I've found him."

Andrew just grins, because of course he thinks this is hilarious.

By the time I get back to the dorm, Lila is sprawled across my bed, scrolling through her phone like she owns the place. She looks up the second I slam the door.

"Oooh. That bad?"

"Worse." I toss my bag onto the chair, nearly knocking over the stack of textbooks waiting to guilt-trip me. "He gave me one-word answers. And smirks. And then accused me of storming off when I walked away."

Lila presses a hand over her mouth, clearly fighting a laugh.

"This isn't funny."

"It's kind of funny," she says, eyes dancing. "You stormed away from the campus golden boy. Half the girls here would pay for that privilege."

I collapse beside her, groaning into my pillow. "I can't believe I'm stuck covering him all season."

"Maybe it'll get better."

"Or maybe I'll lose my mind."

She pats my back like I'm a wounded soldier. "If you do, at least it'll be entertaining."

Two days later, I'm in the press box for the first home game of the season, notebook ready, pen poised. The gym is packed, a sea of school colours and restless energy. Students chant in waves, the pep band blasts some overly cheerful fight song that rattles my eardrums, and popcorn vendors weave through the crowd like it's a professional arena instead of a college gym.

And down on the court, Ethan Cole is everywhere.

He moves like the game belongs to him, like the ball is an extension of his hand and the rest of the team just orbits around his rhythm. Every shot swishes, every pass finds its mark. He shouts plays, points, commands, and the others respond without hesitation. The crowd eats it up, screaming his name so loudly the bleachers vibrate beneath my shoes.

And yet-when he lands after a dunk, I catch it. A flicker. A wince. His hand brushing his knee for just a second before he straightens, grinning like nothing's wrong.

No one else seems to notice. The fans roar, the scoreboard lights up, and the cheer squad waves their pompoms in perfect rhythm. But I see it.

I scribble a note in my margins: Reckless.

Maybe I can work with that.

Ethan's POV

I've done a hundred interviews, maybe more.

Local papers. Regional sports blogs. Even one national piece after last season's championship run. They all go the same way-smiles, canned questions, and me spitting out answers I've already rehearsed in the mirror. We play hard. We're focused on the next game. One day at a time.

Nobody expects me to mean any of it. They just want a clean soundbite to slap under a photo of me hitting a three-pointer. A script. A performance.

But Ava Reynolds? She didn't come at me with softballs. She jabbed like she was trying to draw blood.

And I'll admit-it threw me.

I watch her leave the gym, notebook tucked tight against her chest, back stiff with irritation. She doesn't even glance over her shoulder. Most people linger around me, hovering for attention, hoping for a smile or a word. She couldn't get away fast enough.

My teammates are still scattered across the court, winding down-Marcus sitting on the baseline stretching, Jordan trying to spin a ball on one finger, others laughing about a play that went wrong. The air is thick with sweat and the squeak of sneakers.

Marcus jogs over and bumps his shoulder into mine, a grin splitting his face. "Damn, Cole. That was brutal. Think you made her cry?"

"Please." I grab my water bottle, twisting the cap too hard. "She came at me swinging."

Jordan joins in, smirk already in place. "I saw the way she looked at you. Like she wanted to set you on fire."

"Good." I drain half the bottle in one go. "Maybe she'll find someone else to bother."

Except the problem is, she's not going to. She's covering us all season. Which means I'll be seeing her face-those sharp eyes, that don't-mess-with-me tone-every practice, every bus ride, every game.

The guys laugh, already moving on to other things, but my chest feels tight in a way I can't shake. Because here's the truth: she wasn't wrong.

About the ego. About the arrogance. About me deflecting questions like I'm allergic to honesty.

The thing is, if I start being honest, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.

And there's too much I can't afford to say.

That night, the apartment is quiet when I unlock the door.

Tyler's on the couch with his textbooks spread around him like a fort, earbuds in, head bent low. Fifteen and already taller than half my teammates, though he's still all elbows, knees, and the occasional voice crack.

"Hey," I say, tossing my duffel into the corner.

He glances up, pulls one earbud out. "How was practice?"

"Same as always." I drop into the armchair across from him. "How was school?"

He shrugs. "Fine."

That's our rhythm. Short answers. Heavy silences. But it works.

I rub my knee absentmindedly, the joint still tight from landing wrong earlier. Tyler notices, because of course he does. His eyes flick to my hand, then to my face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," I say quickly, forcing a grin. "Just need to ice it later."

He narrows his eyes, suspicion written all over him, but he doesn't push. That's Tyler. He sees everything, says nothing, carries it quietly.

We eat leftovers-microwaved pasta that tastes vaguely of cardboard-then watch a little TV until he disappears into his room. I stay behind in the living room, the glow of the muted screen washing over me.

My knee throbs steady as a drumbeat. Ava's voice won't leave my head.

Readers want detail. Insight. Maybe even a little honesty.

She'd said it like a challenge, daring me to step up, daring me to drop the act.

And for the first time in a long time, I wonder what would happen if I actually rose to it.

Game night is always the same.

Bright lights. Loud music. The crowd chants our names until the rafters shake. The smell of popcorn, sweat, and floor polish all mixing together. My sneakers hit the hardwood, and the mask slides into place automatically.

Ethan Cole, star guard. Ethan Cole, campus hero. Ethan Cole, untouchable.

The roar of the crowd drowns out everything else. The worries. The pressure. The ache gnawing at my knee. Out here, none of it exists. Out here, I'm invincible.

At least, that's what they all think.

I catch Ava in the press box, pen flying across her notebook. She doesn't clap, doesn't cheer. Just watches, eyes sharp and steady, like she's trying to take me apart and see what's underneath.

It should annoy me. Instead, it makes something hot burn in my chest.

So I push harder. Faster. Drive the ball down the court and sink a three. The gym erupts. I push again, cutting through defenders, taking it to the rim. The dunk rattles the backboard, the crowd on its feet.

I grin, arms raised, soaking it in. But the landing sends a bolt of pain shooting through my knee, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath.

I don't let it show. Can't let it show.

Because if the scouts see weakness, if my teammates see doubt, if Ava Reynolds writes "reckless" in tomorrow's paper-then all of this, every hour I've spent grinding, every sacrifice I've made-starts to unravel.

And I can't let that happen. Not when Tyler's counting on me. Not when this season is my only shot at going pro, at dragging us both out of the mess we were born into.

So I run harder. Smile wider. Pretend I don't feel like I'm playing with a time bomb strapped to my leg.

After the game, the locker room is a blur of high-fives, towel snaps, and trash talk. Reporters swarm the hallway, recorders raised, but I duck out fast, hoodie pulled over my head before anyone can stop me.

Outside, the night air bites sharp and cold. My knee throbs with every step, but I keep walking, jaw tight, hoodie strings pulled low.

Because I can already see the headline in tomorrow's paper.

Ethan Cole: Brilliant, but reckless.

And damn it-she'd be right.

Ava's POV 

The newsroom always smells faintly like burnt coffee and printer toner, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes long after you leave.

It's tucked away in the basement of the communications building, half-forgotten by most of the campus. The walls are lined with yellowing clippings of old headlines-football victories from a decade ago, protests on the quad, faculty scandals-and the carpet is threadbare in places. A dozen mismatched chairs squeak every time someone shifts, and the vending machine in the corner groans like it's dying every time it coughs up a soda.

But for me, there's something electric about this place. Like the hum of deadlines and half-broken computers is alive, pulling you into its current whether you're ready or not.

Tonight, though, that hum feels suffocating.

Because my cursor blinks accusingly on a blank document that reads:

Ethan Cole Feature

By Ava Reynolds

It should be simple. I have pages of notes from the first game, neat columns of stats, arrows pointing to moments worth describing. I can still hear the crowd's roar in my head, see the ball flying through the net like it had no choice but to obey him.

But when I try to start-when my fingers hover over the keys-the words that come feel heavy.

Ethan Cole is reckless, brilliant, and maybe a little too confident for his own good.

I sit back, frowning. It's true. That's what I saw when he landed wrong after that dunk, when his hand brushed his knee before he straightened and grinned like nothing hurt. I don't think anyone else noticed. But I did.

And I can't decide if it's my job to write it down-or my responsibility not to.

"Reynolds."

I jolt, nearly dropping my pen.

Maya, the Chronicle's editor-in-chief, is standing at my desk with her usual unimpressed expression. She's tall, sleek ponytail, blazer that screams future media mogul. Maya doesn't walk so much as prowl, and she has a way of making you feel like you've already failed before she opens her mouth.

"You've been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes," she says, peering at my screen.

I shift defensively. "It's a first draft. Warming up."

"It's due in an hour."

"I work well under pressure."

Her sigh is sharp, cutting. "Ava, you begged me for this assignment. Sports isn't even your beat-you said you wanted to prove yourself. So prove it."

"I will," I mutter.

"Good," she says crisply, already moving toward the next poor soul to terrorize.

I slump back in my chair, pressing my palms over my face. Around me, the newsroom hums with life: the clatter of keyboards, the buzz of printers spitting out proofs, the sports desk guys arguing about whether last year's team could've beaten this year's.

Normally, energy fuels me. Tonight, it grinds me down.

Because all I can hear, clear as a bell, is Ethan Cole's voice.

Feels about right.

Win big.

That smirk made me want to throw my pen at him.

I exhale slowly and start typing again.

---

By the time I drag myself back to the dorm, it's close to one a.m. The hallway smells like stale pizza and cheap perfume-someone down the hall is blasting music even though quiet hours started hours ago.

Lila is waiting for me, stretched across my bed with a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach. She gasps when I walk in.

"You missed the post-game party," she says dramatically. "Do you know how rare it is for the basketball team to actually let the rest of us peasants mingle in their golden palace?"

I drop my bag onto the chair with a thud. "I was working."

"On him?" Her eyebrows wiggle. "Tell me you at least mentioned his arms. If you didn't, I demand a rewrite."

"Lila."

"What? It's important! Those arms are basically a campus landmark."

I groan and flop face-first onto my bed. "I wrote about his playing."

She pokes me in the ribs until I roll over. "You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You are. You so are."

"Lila-"

"Fine, fine." She throws up her hands, but her grin says she's not letting it go. "All I'm saying is, if I got stuck writing about Ethan Cole, I wouldn't be complaining. I'd be buying better mascara."

I throw a pillow at her head. She dodges, laughing.

But once the laughter fades, I find myself staring at the ceiling. "He's... complicated," I say quietly.

Her eyebrows lift. "Complicated how?"

"He gives nothing and everything at the same time. He's cocky, sure. But there's something else. Something he hides when no one's looking."

Lila studies me, her teasing fading into something gentler. "Be careful, Ava. Journalists aren't supposed to fall for their subjects."

"I'm not-"

Her look cuts me off.

I sigh. "I just want to tell the truth."

"Then do that," she says softly.

---

The next morning, the Chronicle is everywhere-stacked in the dining hall, piled outside classrooms, tossed onto benches in the quad. Students flip through on their way to lectures, sipping lattes and skimming headlines.

My stomach knots as I grab a copy and flip to the sports section.

There it is. My words, my byline, staring back at me in black and white.

Brilliant, But Reckless: Ethan Cole Opens the Season

By Ava Reynolds

The article flows cleanly. I gave him credit for leading the team, for igniting the crowd, for setting the tone of the season. But I didn't shy away from the cracks I saw-the risk in his relentless drive, the way he pushes past his limits without hesitation.

It's fair. Balanced. Honest.

Maya even scrawled a rare "Nice job" on the proof before it went to print.

So why does it feel like I've swallowed a handful of rocks?

---

That afternoon, the gym smells like sweat and pine cleaner when I slip inside, notebook in hand. The team is winding down after practice, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

Ethan emerges from the locker room, duffel slung over his shoulder, hair damp. He looks freshly showered but still carries that same air-like the court belongs to him even off the clock.

When he spots me, his mouth quirks.

"Reynolds," he says, voice smooth.

"Cole," I answer evenly.

He pulls a folded copy of the Chronicle from his bag, the headline visible in sharp black print. Tapping the page with his finger, he raises a brow. "Brilliant, but reckless?"

I brace myself. "Didn't like it?"

His gaze holds mine for a long beat. Then-unexpectedly-he laughs.

"Reckless, huh?" His grin spreads slowly and is infuriatingly confident. "That's one way to put it."

I blink. "You're not mad?"

"Why would I be?" He tucks the paper back into his bag. "You didn't sugarcoat it. You saw me, you told the truth. I can respect that."

The honesty in his tone knocks the air out of me.

I expected defensiveness, maybe even anger. But respect? That wasn't in the script I'd written in my head.

Before I can find a response, he's already striding toward Marcus, calling something about grabbing food. His laughter echoes across the gym, pulling the rest of the team with him.

I watch him go, notebook clutched to my chest, heart pounding in my ears.

Because somewhere between the ink on the page and the way Ethan Cole just looked at me, the story shifted.

And I'm no longer sure who's telling it-me, or him.