Ink and Fire

Ava's POV 

The newsroom always smells faintly like burnt coffee and printer toner, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes long after you leave.

It’s tucked away in the basement of the communications building, half-forgotten by most of the campus. The walls are lined with yellowing clippings of old headlines—football victories from a decade ago, protests on the quad, faculty scandals—and the carpet is threadbare in places. A dozen mismatched chairs squeak every time someone shifts, and the vending machine in the corner groans like it’s dying every time it coughs up a soda.

But for me, there’s something electric about this place. Like the hum of deadlines and half-broken computers is alive, pulling you into its current whether you’re ready or not.

Tonight, though, that hum feels suffocating.

Because my cursor blinks accusingly on a blank document that reads:

Ethan Cole Feature

By Ava Reynolds

It should be simple. I have pages of notes from the first game, neat columns of stats, arrows pointing to moments worth describing. I can still hear the crowd’s roar in my head, see the ball flying through the net like it had no choice but to obey him.

But when I try to start—when my fingers hover over the keys—the words that come feel heavy.

Ethan Cole is reckless, brilliant, and maybe a little too confident for his own good.

I sit back, frowning. It’s true. That’s what I saw when he landed wrong after that dunk, when his hand brushed his knee before he straightened and grinned like nothing hurt. I don’t think anyone else noticed. But I did.

And I can’t decide if it’s my job to write it down—or my responsibility not to.

“Reynolds.”

I jolt, nearly dropping my pen.

Maya, the Chronicle’s editor-in-chief, is standing at my desk with her usual unimpressed expression. She’s tall, sleek ponytail, blazer that screams future media mogul. Maya doesn’t walk so much as prowl, and she has a way of making you feel like you’ve already failed before she opens her mouth.

“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes,” she says, peering at my screen.

I shift defensively. “It’s a first draft. Warming up.”

“It’s due in an hour.”

“I work well under pressure.”

Her sigh is sharp, cutting. “Ava, you begged me for this assignment. Sports isn’t even your beat—you said you wanted to prove yourself. So prove it.”

“I will,” I mutter.

“Good,” she says crisply, already moving toward the next poor soul to terrorize.

I slump back in my chair, pressing my palms over my face. Around me, the newsroom hums with life: the clatter of keyboards, the buzz of printers spitting out proofs, the sports desk guys arguing about whether last year’s team could’ve beaten this year’s.

Normally, energy fuels me. Tonight, it grinds me down.

Because all I can hear, clear as a bell, is Ethan Cole’s voice.

Feels about right.

Win big.

That smirk made me want to throw my pen at him.

I exhale slowly and start typing again.

---

By the time I drag myself back to the dorm, it’s close to one a.m. The hallway smells like stale pizza and cheap perfume—someone down the hall is blasting music even though quiet hours started hours ago.

Lila is waiting for me, stretched across my bed with a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach. She gasps when I walk in.

“You missed the post-game party,” she says dramatically. “Do you know how rare it is for the basketball team to actually let the rest of us peasants mingle in their golden palace?”

I drop my bag onto the chair with a thud. “I was working.”

“On him?” Her eyebrows wiggle. “Tell me you at least mentioned his arms. If you didn’t, I demand a rewrite.”

“Lila.”

“What? It’s important! Those arms are basically a campus landmark.”

I groan and flop face-first onto my bed. “I wrote about his playing.”

She pokes me in the ribs until I roll over. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You so are.”

“Lila—”

“Fine, fine.” She throws up her hands, but her grin says she’s not letting it go. “All I’m saying is, if I got stuck writing about Ethan Cole, I wouldn’t be complaining. I’d be buying better mascara.”

I throw a pillow at her head. She dodges, laughing.

But once the laughter fades, I find myself staring at the ceiling. “He’s… complicated,” I say quietly.

Her eyebrows lift. “Complicated how?”

“He gives nothing and everything at the same time. He’s cocky, sure. But there’s something else. Something he hides when no one’s looking.”

Lila studies me, her teasing fading into something gentler. “Be careful, Ava. Journalists aren’t supposed to fall for their subjects.”

“I’m not—”

Her look cuts me off.

I sigh. “I just want to tell the truth.”

“Then do that,” she says softly.

---

The next morning, the Chronicle is everywhere—stacked in the dining hall, piled outside classrooms, tossed onto benches in the quad. Students flip through on their way to lectures, sipping lattes and skimming headlines.

My stomach knots as I grab a copy and flip to the sports section.

There it is. My words, my byline, staring back at me in black and white.

Brilliant, But Reckless: Ethan Cole Opens the Season

By Ava Reynolds

The article flows cleanly. I gave him credit for leading the team, for igniting the crowd, for setting the tone of the season. But I didn’t shy away from the cracks I saw—the risk in his relentless drive, the way he pushes past his limits without hesitation.

It’s fair. Balanced. Honest.

Maya even scrawled a rare “Nice job” on the proof before it went to print.

So why does it feel like I’ve swallowed a handful of rocks?

---

That afternoon, the gym smells like sweat and pine cleaner when I slip inside, notebook in hand. The team is winding down after practice, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

Ethan emerges from the locker room, duffel slung over his shoulder, hair damp. He looks freshly showered but still carries that same air—like the court belongs to him even off the clock.

When he spots me, his mouth quirks.

“Reynolds,” he says, voice smooth.

“Cole,” I answer evenly.

He pulls a folded copy of the Chronicle from his bag, the headline visible in sharp black print. Tapping the page with his finger, he raises a brow. “Brilliant, but reckless?”

I brace myself. “Didn’t like it?”

His gaze holds mine for a long beat. Then—unexpectedly—he laughs.

“Reckless, huh?” His grin spreads slowly and is infuriatingly confident. “That’s one way to put it.”

I blink. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be?” He tucks the paper back into his bag. “You didn’t sugarcoat it. You saw me, you told the truth. I can respect that.”

The honesty in his tone knocks the air out of me.

I expected defensiveness, maybe even anger. But respect? That wasn’t in the script I’d written in my head.

Before I can find a response, he’s already striding toward Marcus, calling something about grabbing food. His laughter echoes across the gym, pulling the rest of the team with him.

I watch him go, notebook clutched to my chest, heart pounding in my ears.

Because somewhere between the ink on the page and the way Ethan Cole just looked at me, the story shifted.

And I’m no longer sure who’s telling it—me, or him.