Under the Spotlight

Ethan's POV

Practice ends in a storm of sneakers and sweat. The gym hums with the sharp rhythm of bouncing balls, the squeak of rubber soles, and Coach Reynolds’ barked instructions echoing off the rafters. My lungs burn from the sprints he tacked on at the end, punishment for missed free throws. My calves ache, jersey clinging to me like a second skin.

This is the part I’m supposed to love—the grind, the ache that proves I pushed myself further than yesterday. But lately it feels different. Like no matter how much I sweat, how much I drive the guys to go harder, it’s never enough.

I bend over, hands braced on my knees, sucking in air. The guys collapse around me, stretching, grabbing water, pulling at sweaty jerseys. My eyes drift—almost against my will—toward the bleachers.

She’s there. Again.

Ava Reynolds. Notebook balanced on her knees, pen tapping against the spiral binding. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, strands escaping to brush her cheeks. Her eyes are fixed on me with that same maddening mix of curiosity and calculation.

It’s not the first time this week. She’s been at two practices already, scribbling notes like I’m some specimen under glass. My chest tightens even though I keep my expression neutral.

Of course she’s here. Coach Reynolds’ daughter, trying to carve her name out of her father’s shadow by writing about me.

I push myself upright and force my body into autopilot—stretch, nod at the guys, head toward the locker room. But I can still feel her gaze burning between my shoulder blades.

“Man, she’s really digging in,” Marcus mutters, falling into step beside me. He tosses his towel around his neck and grins like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. He jerks his chin toward Ava. “Think she’s writing a hit piece? Or maybe she’s just got a crush.”

“Shut up,” I snap before I can stop myself.

Marcus laughs, the sound bouncing off the gym walls. “Touchy. Don’t worry, Captain. If she’s writing a tell-all, at least she thinks you’re interesting enough to stalk.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, but my grip tightens on the strap of my duffel bag.

---

The locker room smells like sweat, deodorant, and damp towels that never seem to dry all the way. Metal lockers clang as guys slam them open and shut. Tyler’s already sitting on the bench, untying his sneakers, his damp hair falling into his eyes.

“She’s here again,” he says casually, not even glancing up. He doesn’t have to. He knows. Everyone knows.

I glare at him as I yank my shirt over my head. “So?”

“So…” He drags the word out with a grin. “What’s it like having Coach’s daughter writing about you? Must feel like a setup.”

“It’s not a setup.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. I shove my sweaty jersey into my bag. “She’s just doing her job.”

Tyler smirks. “Uh-huh. Except it’s more than that, isn’t it? That first article had teeth. ‘Reckless captain Ethan Cole.’” He makes air quotes, mocking. “Now she’s here every day. What do you think she’s trying to prove?”

“She thinks she knows me,” I mutter, slamming my sneakers into the locker. “She doesn’t.”

“Maybe she’s trying to.” His grin fades, replaced by something more thoughtful. “Maybe that’s what scares you.”

I don’t answer. The clang of lockers and the spray of showers fill the silence.

---

By the time I leave the building, the sun is low, streaking the campus sky in bruised shades of orange and purple. The air is cool against my overheated skin. Students stream across the quad in little groups, laughter and chatter mixing with the rustle of leaves.

I tug my hoodie over my head, shoving my hands into the pocket, ready to disappear into the crowd. But the sound of footsteps quickening behind me makes my shoulders tense.

“Ethan!”

Her voice.

I stop, jaw tightening, and turn. Ava jogs to catch up, her notebook clutched under her arm, breathless from hurrying. A few strands of hair fall loose around her face, catching the last glow of sunlight.

“You really like following me around, don’t you?” The words come out with a bite I don’t bother to hide.

She squares her shoulders, unflinching. “I’m not following you. I’m reporting.”

“On what? My water breaks? My sprints? You’ve got enough already, don’t you? Or is ‘reckless’ just chapter one of your exposé?”

Her eyes flash, sharp as glass. For a second, I almost regret the jab. Almost.

“I’m not here to drag you,” she says evenly. “I’m trying to understand you. To get the full picture.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “You don’t get it. You can’t. You’re Coach Reynolds’ daughter. You’ve had access your whole life. You’ll always be seen as his kid first, reporter second. So don’t act like you’re some unbiased truth-seeker.”

Her face tightens. Hurt flickers across her eyes before she masks it with steel.

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” she says quietly. “To prove I’m more than that.”

Something twists in my chest, something I don’t want to name. The determination in her voice hits too close to home.

We stand there, a few feet apart, the space between us charged. I can hear voices in the distance, the sound of a Frisbee hitting grass, but it’s like the whole campus has gone still, waiting.

She shakes her head, tucks her notebook tighter under her arm, and brushes past me, her stride clipped and fast. I watch her go, jaw clenched, a strange ache settling behind my ribs.

---

The drive home is quiet except for the hum of my old car’s engine. I keep replaying her words, every one like a stone skipping across my thoughts.

By the time I pull into the driveway, the house lights are already glowing. Inside, Tyler is sprawled across the couch, controller in hand, blasting zombies on the TV. He doesn’t even look up when I toss my duffel against the wall.

“There’s pizza in the fridge,” he says, thumbs flying over the buttons.

“Thanks,” I mutter, running a hand through my damp hair.

I grab a slice, cold and greasy, and eat standing up, staring out the kitchen window at the dark yard. Tyler’s laughter floats in from the living room, carefree and easy.

I should be relieved he’s like this—normal, relaxed, not weighed down. That’s the whole point of me pushing so hard. But sometimes his lightness just reminds me of the weight pressing down on me.

Later, in my room, I collapse onto the bed. The mattress squeaks, the springs complaining like they’re just as tired as I am. But my mind won’t stop.

Her voice won’t stop. To prove I’m more than that.

I get it. More than I want to admit. People look at me and see “Captain Cole.” The leader. The golden boy. The guy who doesn’t crack, doesn’t falter, doesn’t fail. But underneath all that is pressure I can’t shake—the pressure of carrying the team, of making scouts notice, of not letting Mom down after everything she’s sacrificed. Of making sure Tyler has a shot too.

I hate showing weakness. Hate the idea of someone like Ava peeling back the mask and putting my cracks on display for the whole school. But I also can’t stop thinking about the way her voice shook with determination.

She doesn’t want to be just “Coach Reynolds’ daughter.”

And I don’t want to be just “the captain.”

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled gunfire and laughter from the other room. Tyler’s wor

ld feels light-years away from mine.

This girl is trouble.

The worst part? I’m not sure I want her to stop.