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.

Ethan's POV 

If I had a dollar for every headline written about me, I could've already bought Tyler a car.

Cole Dominates the Court.

Ethan Cole Leads Hawks to Victory.

Campus Hero Does It Again.

 Same words, different day. The kind of puff pieces you skim once and forget.

 But this one?

 This one's different.

 Brilliant but Reckless: The Dual Edge of Ethan Cole.

 Even now, the words keep replaying in my head.

 The first time I saw her after it went live, I caught her in the gym. She was waiting near the bleachers with that notebook tucked under her arm like it was a shield.

 Most people shrink when I walk in, give me the wide-eyed "that's him" look and shuffle out of the way. But Ava Reynolds didn't move. She looked me straight in the eye, like she was daring me to say something.

 So I did.

 I grabbed a stray copy of the paper one of the assistants left lying around, slapped it against my palm, and stopped right in front of her.

 Brilliant but reckless," I read aloud, letting the words hang there.

"Catchy, isn't it?"

 She blinked, a little startled, but didn't back down. Her chin lifted. "I wrote what I saw."

 God help me, that almost made me smile.

 Because most reporters would've stumbled over apologies or excuses, trying to smooth it over. She just... owned it.

 "That so?" I leaned in slightly, enough that I could see the faint flush on her cheeks. "Well, Ava Reynolds... reckless looks pretty good on me."

 Her mouth parted like she wanted to fire back, but no words came out.

 I left her there, notebook clutched tighter to her chest, while my teammates hollered for me to join warm-ups.

And the whole time, walking across the court, I couldn't shake the thought:

 She's not like the others.

By the time practice ends, though, the locker room is buzzing like it's Christmas morning. Marcus smacks the headline against my shoulder before I can even drop my bag.

 "Hey, Captain Reckless!" he crows, waving the article like a banner.

 Jordan piles on, drumming his fingers on the bench like he's reading a proclamation. "The Chronicle says Cole plays with brilliance and danger. Hide your children, hide your girlfriends."

 The whole room cracks up.

 I tug my hoodie over my head, pretending not to care, but it's useless. The guys circle like sharks scenting blood, each tossing their own spin on it.

 "Don't trip, Reckless, the Chronicle might call it career suicide."

"Reckless for life!"

"Man's about to dunk his way into the ER."

 "Alright, alright," I finally say, pushing past them. "You clowns done?"

 But I'm grinning. I can't help it.

 Because they think it's a joke. Just another headline to slap on the bulletin board.

But I know better.

 Ava saw it. She put it in black and white for everyone else to see, but when she looked at me this afternoon, I swear she knew it meant more.

I duck out of the locker room faster than usual, phone buzzing with texts I ignore. The cool evening air outside feels like a relief, cutting through the leftover heat from practice.

 The diner on Main Street is already lit up, neon buzzing faintly against the glass windows. Tyler's hunched in our usual booth, earbuds dangling around his neck, a burger half-gone in front of him.

"Hey," I say, sliding in.

 "Hey," he answers, eyes flicking up for half a second before returning to his fries.

We eat quietly at first, the jukebox crooning in the corner. I let the silence stretch; Tyler's never been big on small talk. But eventually, he slides a folded copy of the Chronicle across the table.

 "You saw it?" he asks.

"Yeah."

 He nods, chewing thoughtfully, then says, "She nailed you."

 I snort. "Glad my own brother thinks I'm reckless."

 "You are." His tone is so flat, so matter-of-fact, I almost choke on my soda.

 "Supposed to be on my side, Ty."

 "I am. Doesn't mean I'm blind." He shrugs. "You push too hard sometimes. You don't stop even when you should. Maybe she's the only one honest enough to write it."

 I can't decide if I want to argue or laugh.

 Because damn it, he's right.

 He's always been sharper than people give him credit for. Smarter. Older, somehow, than his sixteen years. That happens when life doesn't give you the luxury of being a kid.

 I reach across the table, ruffling his hair just to break the heaviness. "Eat your fries. Journalism's not your career path."

He bats my hand away, smirking, but his eyes linger on me for a second too long.

 Like he's still waiting for me to admit it.

 Later, when the apartment is quiet and Tyler's door is shut, I sit at the kitchen table with the Chronicle spread out in front of me.

 I read Ava's words again. And again.

 She didn't call me invincible. She didn't write the usual fluff piece. She stripped the gloss right off and showed the cracks beneath.

 And instead of hating her for it, I feel... exposed.

 Because she's not wrong.

 The knee that throbs at night. The pressure that gnaws at me every day. The fear that one wrong move could ruin everything-for me, for Tyler.

She doesn't know that part. Not yet. But the way she looks at me, like she sees past the shine, makes me wonder how long I can keep those secrets buried.

 I press a hand to my face, dragging it down slowly.

 I can't afford this. Can't afford her.

 And yet-when she looked at me in the gym today, unflinching, almost challenging-something shifted.

 For the first time in a long time, I wonder if my mask is slipping.

 And if Ava Reynolds is the one holding the hammer.