Chapter 5: The Assignment From Hell

ELENA’S POV

The lecture hall smelled like damp notebooks and desperation, a scent that was currently doing nothing to inspire my "fresh start." I slid into a seat halfway up the tiered rows, the wood creaking under my weight as students filtered in around me. Behind me, a guy was arguing with his friend about word count requirements for the first essay, his voice pitched in that frantic, early-semester whine. In front, two girls were whispering about a breakup that sounded like a soap opera drama.

I wrapped my fingers around my lukewarm coffee, letting the heat seep into my palms as I stared at the blank document on my laptop screen. My notes from that rainy night were gone completely wrecked by the rain that had soaked through my bag. I shut my laptop halfway, exhaling softly. This was why I’d come back to Ridgewood. Not to relive old mistakes or to get dragged into the gravitational pull of Noah Hale, and certainly not to drown in unresolved history.

“Alright, settle down.”

Dr. Reyes walked in like she owned the air we breathed. Her heels clicked against the linoleum, a stack of papers tucked under one arm and coffee in the other. Her sharp, predatory gaze swept across the hall, and fifty students straightened their spines simultaneously.

“If you’re here for an easy A,” she began, setting her coffee down with a thud, “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, but Reyes didn't smile.

“Journalism,” she went on, pacing the front of the room, “is not about comfort. It’s not about approval. It’s about truth and the problem with truth—” she paused, glancing up at us with a knowing glint in her eyes, “—is that people rarely agree on what it is.”

She turned to the board, scrawling the word OBJECTIVITY in caps. “Your job is to find the version that holds up under pressure. The one that survives questions, scrutiny, and contradiction. Which means you don’t get to rely on assumptions. You verify. You cross-check and dig deeper, even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.”

I leaned in, my pen flying across the page. This was the gospel I needed. For the next hour, the world was reduced to interview techniques. By the time the lecture ended, my head felt clearer or at least quieter. As everyone spilled out into the hallway, chatting about lunch and weekend plans, I took my time, carefully slipping my laptop back into my bag.

“Miss Voss?”

I looked up. Dr. Reyes was standing a few rows down. “Walk with me.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and made my way down, falling into step beside her as we moved into the crowded hallway.

“You missed a few key points in the seminar discussion yesterday,” she said, not looking at me.

“I know,” I admitted, the heat of embarrassment rising in my neck. “My notes got ruined in the storm.”

She hummed softly, a sound that wasn't entirely sympathetic. “You’re here on a fresh start, Elena. I expect you to act like it, no excuses for the weather.”

“I am, Dr. Reyes. I’m fully committed.”

“Good.” She stopped outside the Journalism building, turning to face me with piercing eyes. “Because I don’t assign students to real coverage unless I think they can handle the heat.”

My stomach tightened. “What kind of coverage?”

Her lips curved into a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk. “You’ll find out at the staff meeting. Don't be late.”

The student media office was pure chaos. Phones were ringing and someone in the back was having a full-blown meltdown over a headline font. I dropped into my seat, pulling out a fresh notebook and trying to steady my breathing.

“Alright, listen up!”

Charles Langley, the senior editor, clapped his hands, drawing the room’s focus to the front. He looked like he hadn't slept since the late nineties. “We’ve got new assignments. 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 a clipboard, “sports coverage is getting a full refresh this semester.”

My heart did a slow painful somersault.

“Dr. Reyes wants more consistent reporting on the Ravens,” Charles continued. “Practices, games, personal player profiles, the whole shebang. We need someone dedicated. Someone who can handle the access, meet the deadlines, and not get intimidated by a bunch of overgrown athletes with god complexes.”

A few people laughed. I stared down at my notebook, my pen hovering over the page as I pretended to be fascinated by a doodle of a spiral.

“Any volunteers?”

The silence was absolute. Nobody wanted the Ravens. They were notoriously difficult and guarded by a coach who hated the press plus a captain who hated everyone.

“Alright,” Charles sighed. “Then we’ll assign it. Let's see...”

Please not me. Please not me.

“Elena Voss.”

The room blurred and the oxygen seemed to leave the office in one giant gasp.

“Voss?” Charles repeated, looking up.

I forced my hand to lift an inch off the desk. “Here.”

“Congrats,” he said. “You’re covering the basketball team this semester.”

A few people murmured behind me. Someone whispered, “Good luck with that suicide mission,” loud enough for me to hear.

I swallowed hard, forcing a professional nod. “Thanks.”

“First practice is this afternoon at four,” Charles added, moving on to the next name. “Be there, Introduce yourself and start building rapport.”

Rapport. The word felt like a joke. Building rapport with Noah Hale was like trying to build a bridge out of gasoline and lit matches.

Lora’s voice cut in suddenly as she dropped into the chair beside. “Why is everyone looking at you like you just got sentenced to life without parole?”

“They assigned me to the basketball team, Lora.”

She double-blinked. “You’re kidding. Tell me you're kidding.”

“I wish I was. It was a direct directive from Dr Reyes.”

“Wait,” her eyes flashed with a mix of horror and excitement. “The Ravens?”

“Yes, Lora. The only Ravens on campus.”

Lora let out a low, shaky breath. “Oh, that’s messy.”

“That’s not even the word I’d use. I have to be at practice in two hours.”

“Well,” Lora said, trying to find a silver lining. “You’re going to be around all those hot jocks all the time. That’s a perk, right?”

I gave her a pointed, dead-eyed stare. “Hot? Really? One of them is my brother, which is gross, and the other is a man who thinks I’m a virus.”

Lora’s brows wriggled. “I think you’re forgetting that Noah Hale is objectively the finest man to ever walk this campus. Toxic? Yes. But fine.”

“You’re in danger then,” I muttered, closing my notebook with a snap. “Cause I’m a professional.”

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

I headed for the door before she could say another word. I didn't need moral support. I needed an exit strategy cause I wasn't just building rapport, I was walking into a war.