Crossing The Line

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.