Crossing The Line

Ava's POV

"Ava, if you keep glaring at your laptop like that, it's going to file an official complaint."

I don't even glance up. Lila's voice drips with amusement, and if I make eye contact, she'll just get more dramatic.

"I'm not glaring," I mumble, my fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard. "I'm concentrating."

"On what? The blinking cursor? Maybe if you stare long enough, it'll write your article for you."

With a groan, I push my chair back from the desk and grab the nearest pillow. Lila ducks just in time, and it smacks harmlessly against our dorm wall.

"You're impossible."

She grins, tucking her legs beneath her on her bed. "And you're avoiding. Big difference. What's the deal this time?"

I press my lips together, debating whether to admit it, but Lila's my best friend. She'd find out eventually.

"The paper editor just called," I mutter. "I've been assigned to cover Crescent Heights University's basketball season."

Her reaction is instant. She gasps so dramatically you'd think I told her tuition was canceled. "No. Way."

"Yes way," I say grimly.

She clasps her hands like she's about to burst into applause. "This is perfect!"

"For who? Definitely not me."

"For everyone! Ava, come on-you're going to have the best seat in the house. Interviews, game passes, maybe even road trips. This is like journalist gold."

I shoot her a glare. "This is torture. I don't do sports. I do features, profiles, human-interest stuff. Not sweaty guys chasing an orange ball across polished wood."

"Correction: sweaty, very attractive guys. And one in particular-"

"Don't you dare." I point a finger at her.

Her grin widens. "Ethan Cole."

I groan and let my head fall against the desk. "Every girl on this campus practically faints when he breathes in their direction. He's arrogant, cocky, and the last person I want to waste my time on."

"Strong feelings. You sure this isn't the beginning of an enemies-to-lovers thing?"

I snatch another pillow and hurl it at her. She laughs, catching it this time.

"This isn't a romance novel, Lila. It's journalism. Objective reporting. No matter how infuriating the subject is."

"Uh-huh," she says, unconvinced. "What did Andrew say, exactly?"

I sit up straighter and put on my best imitation of Andrew's chipper voice. "'Reynolds! You're going to love this assignment. Big games, star players, drama, rivalries-think of all the stories. You've got the writing chops, and the coach already trusts you-'"

"Because he's your dad," Lila supplies.

"Exactly. But Andrew calls it 'convenient access.'" I roll my eyes. "He wants my first piece on his desk by Friday. And he specifically said, "I need to start with an interview with Ethan Cole."

Lila's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Tomorrow is going to be the best day of my life."

"Tomorrow is going to be the worst day of mine."

"Come on, Ava." Her tone softens. "I get that you don't love basketball, but this is an opportunity. Everyone already knows you can write, but if you nail this, you prove you're more than Coach Reynolds' daughter. You prove you can stand on your own."

I hate that she's right.

For as long as I can remember, basketball has been the third person at every family dinner. My mom left when I was twelve, and after that, it was just me, Dad, and the game. Plays, stats, and recruits-basketball was everything. By the time I hit high school, people didn't even call me Ava anymore. I was "Coach Reynolds' daughter." It stuck like a tattoo I never asked for.

The irony? I wasn't even that interested in the sport. Sure, I understood it-I couldn't escape it-but my love was for stories. People. Writing.

Still, Lila's words poke at the part of me that desperately wants to be more than my dad's shadow.

"Fine," I say, slumping back in my chair. "I'll do it. But if Ethan Cole throws a basketball at my head, you're buying me Starbucks for a week."

Lila claps her hands in delight. "Deal. Though something tells me you'll come back ranting about how annoyingly attractive he is instead."

I groan, throwing my head back dramatically. "You're impossible."

She smirks. "And you love me for it."

---

The next morning, I regretted everything.

By the time I make it to the sports complex, my stomach is tied in knots. The smell of polished hardwood and faint sweat hits me as soon as I step inside, triggering flashbacks of every childhood spent in gym bleachers while Dad shouted plays.

The team is finishing practice, sneakers squeaking against the floor, the ball thumping rhythmically. My dad is at the sideline, barking orders, and for a second, I'm twelve again, hugging a notebook while he ignores everything except the scoreboard.

I shake the thought off and tighten my grip on my bag. I'm not twelve anymore. I'm here as a journalist, not his daughter.

"Reynolds."

I turn and spot Andrew, my editor, waving from the bleachers. He's wearing his signature too-big glasses and holding a recorder like it's a holy relic.

"You made it!" he says. "Perfect. Ethan's wrapping up. You'll get your interview in five."

My heart sinks.

Andrew must see the panic on my face because he grins. "Don't worry, he's charming."

"Charming isn't the word I'd use," I mutter.

As if on cue, Ethan Cole jogs toward the side-line, sweat dripping down his temple. Up close, he's even taller than I realized-broad shoulders, confident stride, that easy grin that makes half the female population lose their minds.

He notices me standing there, clipboard clutched like a shield, and his grin widens. "Coach's daughter. Guess I should've known they'd send you."

I grit my teeth. "Ava. My name is Ava."

"Right. Ava." His eyes glint with mischief, like he already knows exactly how much he's getting under my skin. "So you're writing about us, huh? Hope you can keep up."

I lift my chin. "Hope you can answer questions without your ego getting in the way."

For a split second, his grin falters. Then he laughs, low and easy, like I just passed some kind of test.

"Looks like this is going to be fun," he says.

My stomach twists-not because he

It's right, but because I have a terrible feeling that "fun" is the last word I should be associating with Ethan Cole.

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.