Chapter 5: The Project I Never Asked For

ELENA’S POV

The lecture hall smelled like damp notebooks which was not exactly inspiring. I slid into my seat halfway up the tiered rows, and pulling out my laptop while students filtered in around me. Someone behind me was arguing about word count requirements. Two girls in front whispered about a breakup that sounded way more dramatic than it probably was.

I wrapped my fingers around my coffee, letting the heat seep into my palms as I stared at the blank document on my screen. My notes from last night were gone—completely wrecked by the rain—and I hadn’t had the energy to rewrite them in my laptop.

Or maybe I just didn’t want to think about why I hadn’t because every time I tried, my brain went right back to that car. I shut my laptop halfway, exhaling softly. I needed to focus. This was why I came back. Not to relive old mistakes or get dragged into whatever unresolved mess was still hanging between us.

Just school and journalism.

“Alright, settle down.” Dr. Reyes walked in like she owned the room, heels clicking against the floor, a stack of papers tucked under one arm and a coffee in the other. Her sharp gaze swept across the lecture hall and students straightened immediately.

“If you’re here for an easy A,” she began, setting her coffee down on the desk, “you’re in the wrong class. If you’re here because you think journalism is just writing what people want to hear, you’re also in the wrong class.”

A few nervous laughs scattered through the room.

“Journalism,” she went on, pacing slowly, “is not about comfort. It’s not about approval. It’s about truth and the problem with truth—” she paused, glancing up at us, “—is that people rarely agree on what it is.”

“Your job,” Dr. Reyes continued, “is to find the version that holds up under pressure. The one that survives questions, scrutiny, and contradiction.”

Her eyes swept the room again.

“Which means,” she added, turning back to the board, “you don’t get to rely on assumptions. You verify. You cross-check. You dig deeper, even when it’s inconvenient.”

A few students started typing quickly. The lecture soon progressed into structure after that. Source credibility. Interview techniques. How to push for answers without losing access. I focused on taking good notes. By the time class ended, my head felt clearer or at least quieter. Students packed up quickly and conversations starting up again as everyone spilled out into the hallway. I took my time, slipping my laptop back into my bag before standing.

“Miss Voss?”

I looked up.

Dr. Reyes stood a few rows down, watching me. “Walk with me.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and made my way down, falling into step beside her as we moved out of the lecture hall.

“You missed a few key points last night,” she said, not looking at me.

“I know,” I admitted. “My notes got ruined in the rain.”

She hummed softly. “You’re here on a fresh start so I expect you to act like it.”

“I am, Dr. Reyes.”

“Good.” She stopped outside the journalism building, turning to face me fully now. “Because I don’t assign students to real coverage unless I think they can handle it.”

My stomach tightened slightly. “What kind of coverage?”

Her lips curved just a little. “You’ll find out.”

The student media office was absolute chaos. Phones were ringing, keyboards clacking, and someone was arguing about headline phrasing near the back. I dropped into my own seat, pulling out my notebook and got ready for the meeting.

“Alright, listen up!”

One of the senior editors clapped his hands, drawing attention to the front. Conversations died down slowly as people turned toward him.

“We’ve got a few new assignments coming in, so if you’ve been coasting, this is where that ends.”

“Campus features are still open, lifestyle pieces are due by Friday, and—” he glanced down at the paper in his hand, “—sports coverage is getting a full refresh this semester.”

That got my attention and not in a good way.

“Dr. Reyes wants more consistent reporting on the Ravens,” he continued. “Practices, games, personal player interviews—the whole shebang.”

Murmurs spread through the room. I stared down at my notebook, my pen hovering over the page pretending to write something.

“We need someone dedicated to covering them,” he added, scanning the room. “Someone who can handle access, deadlines, and not get intimidated by a bunch of overgrown athletes.”

A few people laughed.

“Any volunteers?”

No one moved.

“Alright,” he said after a second. “Then we’ll assign it.”

My stomach dropped as Charles Langley looked down at his list.

Please not me.

Please not—

“Elena Voss.”

The room blurred for a second and I couldn’t breathe.

“Voss?” he repeated, looking up now.

I forced my hand to lift slightly. “Yeah.”

“Congrats,” he said, like he was doing me a favor. “You’re covering the Ravens this semester.”

A few people murmured and someone behind me whispered, “Good luck with that.”

I swallowed, forcing a small nod. “Okay.”

“First practice is this afternoon,” he added. “Be there. Introduce yourself and start building rapport.”

Rapport? With Noah and every person who probably already knew exactly who I was. This was totally fine. It’s like having ice cream, I told myself, just without a spoon though.

“Any questions?” he asked.

Yeah, a thousand but none I could say out loud so I shook my head.

“Good,” he said, already moving on. “Meeting adjourned.”

Chairs scraped again as the media students stood and started filing out for their different work.

“Okay,” Lora’s voice cut in suddenly as she dropped into the chair beside me, breathless and late as usual. “Why does everyone look like you just got sentenced to something?”

I turned my head slowly. “They assigned me to the basketball team.”

She double blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

“Wait,” she said, sitting up straighter now. “The Ravens Ravens?”

“Yes, Lora. The only Ravens on campus.” I rolled my eyes.

Her hand came up to her forehead. “Oh, that’s messy.”

“That’s not even the word I’d use.”

“You’re going to be around those hot jocks all the time.”

I gave her a pointed stare. “Hot? Really?”

She just wriggled her brows and shot me a duh look.

“I think you're forgetting Noah.” I reminded her.

Lora let out a low breath. “Okay. So we’re in danger.”

I huffed a quiet laugh despite myself. “We?”

“Yes, we. Because when you spiral, I get dragged into it.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You got that assignment two minutes ago,” she said. “Give it time.”

I shook my head, closing my notebook. “It’s just an assignment.”

“Right,” she said slowly. “And Noah is just a guy.”

I stood before she could say anything else. “I have to go.”

“Already?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want moral support? I can come and pretend I care about basketball.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Text me if anything happens or if you need me to fake an emergency and pull you out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind but hey, it’s my grades we’re talking about.”

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door before I could overthink it and let this feel bigger than it already did.