The Follow-up

Ava's POV

By the time I make it back to my dorm, the Chronicle feels heavier in my bag than it should.

It’s just paper and ink, words on a page. But now those words have a face. A smirk. A voice.

“Reckless looks pretty good on me.”

I drop my bag onto my desk, the headline staring back at me like a dare. Across the room, Lila is perched on her bed in pajama shorts, balancing a bowl of popcorn on her knees while flipping through flashcards. She glances up when I come in.

“You’re back late,” she says. “Another intense Chronicle mission?”

“Something like that.” I kick off my sneakers, trying to sound casual.

She narrows her eyes like she doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t push. Lila has a radar for when I’m hiding things, but she also knows when to let me stew. She pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth and goes back to her cards.

I sink into my desk chair, flicking on the little lamp. My notebook stares up at me, filled with cramped shorthand and scribbles from the past week. Ethan’s name threads through the pages, underlined more than once.

I tell myself it’s just because he’s the story. That’s all.

But when he stood in front of me at the gym, holding up the paper, there was a shift. I expected anger, arrogance, maybe even a lecture. Instead, he grinned. Teased me. And for one traitorous moment, I forgot I was supposed to be objective.

---

The next morning, Maya corners me in the newsroom before I’ve even had a chance to drink coffee.

She slaps a fresh copy of the Chronicle on my desk, grinning so wide her dimples practically puncture her cheeks. “Front page, Ava! Do you see this? Do you see this?”

Her excitement is so loud that heads turn. I press a finger to my lips. “It’s just one article, Maya.”

“Just one article?” She drops dramatically into the chair across from mine. “You just wrote the piece everyone’s talking about. The cafeteria was buzzing this morning. Half the journalism faculty quoted you in class. My Uber driver last night even said, and I quote, ‘That kid Cole? Reckless but brilliant.’”

I can’t help laughing. “You’re making that up.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “Okay, maybe my Uber driver didn’t say that, but you get the point. You’ve got momentum. And you can’t stop here. You need a follow-up.”

I hesitate. “A follow-up?”

“Yes!” Maya’s eyes gleam. “Dig deeper. Make it a series. The rise and risks of Ethan Cole. Readers would eat it up. Think about it—front-row access, raw honesty, peeling back the myth of the golden boy.”

I chew the end of my pen, nervous. “Do you think he’d even talk to me again?”

“Of course he will. Didn’t he already? Besides…” She smirks. “Athletes love attention. Just maybe don’t call him reckless to his face again.”

Heat crawls up my neck at the memory of Ethan smirking when he did exactly that himself.

---

That afternoon, I pass the gym on my way to class. The sound of sneakers squeaking against the court echoes through the double doors.

I pause at the window, notebook clutched to my chest.

On the court, Ethan is in motion, and it’s impossible not to watch. He drives past a defender, pivots, and sinks a jumper with effortless grace. But it isn’t just the shots that catch my attention. It’s the little things.

The way he pats a teammate on the back after a miss. The way he listens when the coach speaks, nodding instead of tuning out like the others. The way he refuses to slow down, even when everyone else is flagging.

Brilliant. Reckless. Both at once.

For a moment, I see beyond the headlines. Beyond the myth.

And I realize Maya’s right. There’s more here than one article.

---

That evening, I call Maya while pacing the hallway outside my dorm.

“You were right,” I blurt before she even says hello.

“Of course I was,” she replies smoothly. “What about this time?”

“The follow-up. There’s more to him than just the game.”

“Obviously. The guy’s a walking headline.”

“No, I mean…” I lower my voice, leaning against the wall. “It’s not just about basketball. There’s something personal under the surface. You can feel it.”

Maya hums knowingly. “Careful, Ava. You’re starting to sound like you like him.”

I roll my eyes, though she can’t see it. “I don’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. But my conviction is thinner than paper.

Because the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know why my pulse raced when he leaned in at the gym. I don’t know why his smirk keeps replaying in my head. And I definitely don’t know why I’m tempted to see what lies beneath that confident mask.

---

Back in my dorm, Lila’s already asleep, the glow of her fairy lights soft against the walls. I slip into my chair and open my laptop.

The cursor blinks on a fresh document. The Chronicle’s draft page waits for me to give it something.

I start typing slowly, the words hesitant but sure enough to hold weight:

“The public sees the star. But what they don’t see is the weight behind the spotlight, the balance between brilliance and breaking point. To understand Ethan Cole, you have to look past the points on the board and see the person running the court.”

I pause, rereading it, my chest

tight.

Because this isn’t just about the story anymore.

It’s about Ethan.

And that terrifies me.