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 sideline, 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.