Digging Deeper

Ava's POV

The newsroom smells like burnt coffee and stale paper, a combination that should feel familiar but still manages to make my stomach twist. My laptop screen glows accusingly in front of me, the cursor blinking at the top of a blank document like it’s daring me to actually write something worth reading.

I’ve been staring for almost twenty minutes, chewing the end of my pen, but every draft line sounds the same: flat, recycled, or worse, like I’m repeating my last article. The Chronicle expects a follow-up. I can’t just turn in a copy-paste version of “reckless captain Ethan Cole.”

“Stop glaring at the screen like it stole your lunch money,” Maya says, dropping into the chair beside me. She smells like peppermint gum and determination. Balanced in her hands is a cardboard tray with two lattes. She slides one across the desk to me. “Caffeine. Your brain’s best friend.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, wrapping my hands around the cup. The warmth seeps into my fingers, grounding me.

“Progress?” she asks, peering at my screen.

“Kind of,” I admit. “I have notes.”

“Notes aren’t progress.” She taps her pen on her notebook with sharp little clicks. “What you need are sources. Quotes. Teammates. Coaches. People who see him from the inside. Right now you’re just circling around the guy like a nervous bee.”

I sigh. She’s not wrong. The thought of approaching his teammates makes my pulse jump, though. They’re protective, and after my article? I’m not sure I’ll get anything except glares.

Maya must see the hesitation in my face. “Ava, you’re not unearthing government secrets. They’re college athletes. Smile, be curious, ask the right questions. You’ll get what you need.”

She makes it sound simple. She doesn’t understand that my last name is Reynolds — and here, that changes everything.

---

Two days later, I’m sitting on the bleachers after practice, notebook open on my lap. The gym smells like sweat, wood polish, and faint laundry detergent. The echo of squeaky sneakers lingers in the rafters.

A couple of players stay behind after drills, lazily shooting baskets. I scribble in my notebook, mostly to look busy, when Marcus — the grinning guard who never seems to take life seriously — plops down on the bench next to me. His hair is damp, his jersey sticking to his chest. He eyes my notebook like it’s a weapon.

“You’re Coach Reynolds’ kid, right?”

I freeze, pen hovering midair. “I’m Ava,” I say carefully.

He smirks. “Yeah, Ava Reynolds. Thought so. So what’s this? Daddy letting you do a feature piece as practice?”

The words sting sharper than I expect. I press my lips together. “I’m here for the Chronicle. I pitch my own stories.”

Marcus shrugs, not unkindly, but the damage is done. To him, I’m not a reporter. I’m just the coach’s daughter with a notepad.

“Relax,” he says after a beat, grinning. “I’m messing. You wanna talk about Cole, right?”

I nod, forcing myself to breathe.

“Ethan’s a beast. Best captain we’ve had. He pushes us harder than anyone else.”

“Harder how?”

“Like… if we run ten drills, he runs fifteen. If we screw up, he stays until we fix it. He doesn’t quit. Makes the rest of us feel guilty if we slack off.”

There’s pride in Marcus’s voice, but also a flicker of weariness. I scribble down his words. “Does he ever push too hard?”

Marcus hesitates, towel draped over his shoulder. “Sometimes. He’ll play through pain. Won’t sit out even if he’s limping. Coach gets pissed about it. But Ethan? He hates looking weak. Hates letting anyone down.”

Before I can ask more, the assistant coach shouts his name. Marcus jogs off, leaving me with the echo of his words buzzing in my ears.

He hates looking weak.

I know what that feels like.

---

That night, I’m sprawled on my bed, notebook open. Lila is perched across from me, carefully painting her nails a glossy blue. The sharp smell of polish fills the room.

“You’re distracted,” she says without looking up.

“I’m working.”

“You’re obsessing.”

I sit up, defensive. “It’s for the Chronicle. It’s my job.”

She blows on her nails, then looks at me, eyebrow raised. “Or it’s personal. Is this about proving you’re more than Coach Reynolds’ daughter?”

My throat tightens.

“Lila—”

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ve said it yourself. People don’t take you seriously because of him.”

I slam the notebook shut. “I’m not here because of my dad. I pitched this story, not him.”

“Maybe. But every time you walk into that gym, do you know what they see? Not ‘Ava the reporter.’ They see ‘Coach’s daughter.’”

Her words hit home. She’s not wrong. Marcus proved that earlier. The assistant coach had too — I’d cornered him after practice, asked about Ethan, and his answers had been clipped, cautious. Like he was afraid anything he said might get back to my father.

“Do you know how humiliating it is,” I blurt, “to spend weeks proving myself just to have someone smirk and say ‘Daddy’s girl with a pen’? Like I don’t belong here unless I’m holding his whistle?”

Lila watches me for a long moment, her expression softening. “Then prove them wrong. Write something so good they can’t ignore you.”

---

The following afternoon, I catch the assistant coach again in the hallway. He shifts uneasily when I ask about Ethan.

“Kid’s got heart,” he says finally. “Too much sometimes. Plays through injuries he shouldn’t. I tell him to slow down, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Why not?” I press.

The coach shakes his head. “Pressure. He’s carrying more than he lets on. He’s not just playing for himself.”

I jot it down, though I can tell he’s holding back. Because I’m not just a reporter. I’m Coach Reynolds’ daughter.

---

Later that night, Lila is asleep, the glow from her desk lamp still faint against the wall. I sit at my own desk, laptop open, the page still blank. My fingers hover over the keys.

“To his teammates, Ethan Cole is relentless—always pushing, always leading, always refusing to slow down. To his coaches, he’s both an asset and a risk. To the public, he’s the golden boy of campus basketball. But to me, Ava Reynolds—who will never just be seen as herself—he’s starting to look like more than a headline. He’s a question I can’t stop trying to answer.”

I pause, heart hammering. I shouldn’t put myself in the story. Reporters aren’t supposed to. But my perspective is bleeding through anyway.

This isn’t just a profile. It’s a se

arch. For who Ethan Cole is—and maybe, if I’m brave enough, for who I am beyond being Coach Reynolds’ daughter.