Behind the Mask

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 good quote to slap under a photo of me making a three-pointer.

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 back. Most people linger around me, hoping for attention. She couldn’t get away fast enough.

My teammates are still hanging around the court, stretching, joking, winding down. Marcus jogs over and bumps my shoulder with his.

“Damn, Cole,” he says, grinning. “That was brutal. Think you made her cry?”

“Please,” I mutter, grabbing my water bottle. “She came at me swinging.”

Jordan joins us, smirking. “I saw the way she looked at you. Like she wanted to set you on fire.”

“Good,” I say flatly. “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 do n’t-mess-with-me tone—every game, every practice, every bus ride.

The guys laugh, already moving on, but my chest is 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 was 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.

My little brother, Tyler, is sprawled on the couch with his textbooks, earbuds in, head bent low. He’s fifteen and already taller than half my teammates, though he’s still all elbows and knees.

“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.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just need to ice it later.”

His eyes narrow, suspicious, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Tyler—he sees everything but says nothing.

We eat leftovers, watch a little TV, and then he disappears into his room. I sit there in the quiet, knee throbbing, Ava’s words echoing in my head.

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

She said it like a challenge.

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 chanting our names. I slip into my role without thinking, mask snapping into place the second my sneakers hit the hardwood.

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 in my knee. Out here, none of it exists. Out here, I’m invincible.

At least, that’s what they all think.

I catch Ava watching from the press box, pen flying across her notebook. She doesn’t cheer, doesn’t clap. Just observes, eyes sharp like she’s trying to dissect me.

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

I push harder. Faster. The ball leaves my hands in a perfect arc, swishing through the net. The gym explodes.

I grin, raising my arms. But the landing sends a jolt of pain 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, will start 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 and trash talk. Reporters swarm the hallway, but I duck out fast, hoodie pulled over my head.

Outside, the night air is sharp and cold. My knee throbs with every step, but I keep walking, jaw tight.

Because I can already se

e the headline in tomorrow’s paper.

Ethan Cole: Brilliant, but reckless.

And damn it—she’d be right.