Ethan Vale

Ethan preferred the back left quadrant of lecture halls.

Not the back row — that was Liam’s stage. But two rows up, slightly off-center? That was strategic. Clear view of the board. Clean acoustics. Fewer distractions.

Government 101.

Required. Foundational. Manageable.

Beside him, Liam dropped into the chair like he’d just claimed territory.

“Over/under,” Liam murmured, glancing at his phone. “Two minutes before she clocks us?”

Ethan didn’t look up from his laptop. “You’re assuming she cares.”

“She’ll care.”

Their faces were everywhere. Campus posters. Athletics promo reels. An NCAA feature praising Bastian’s “freshman twin pitchers poised to reclaim championship glory.” Four seasons without a title had turned into a narrative. And thanks to NIL — the NCAA’s Name, Image, and Likeness policy — that narrative now came with contracts.

Athletes could monetize their personal brand. Appearances. Sponsorships. Social media partnerships. It was marketed as empowerment. In practice, it meant media training and curated posts.

Liam loved the attention.

Ethan just wanted to pitch — and graduate.

He pulled up the syllabus.

Instructor: Professor Alessandra Moore

Specialization: Presidential Scandals & Political Reputation

He’d looked her up the night before. Youngest tenured professor in Bastian history. Her upper-level seminar on political scandal had a waitlist every semester.

Government 101, though, was her general education requirement.

The room quieted as she entered.

Professor Moore didn’t command attention by demanding it.

She simply walked in like she expected it.

Dark hair down. Black tailored slacks. A cream blouse that draped cleanly over her frame — professional, fitted, elegant. The fabric skimmed her waist and hips in a way that was subtle but impossible to ignore. Intentional, but not loud.

Ethan adjusted the dial at his hearing aid, calibrating as the room stilled.

How old was she? Thirty? Thirty-two?

Close enough to their world to understand it. Far enough to be untouchable.

She set her bag down and smiled.

Not forced. Not stiff.

Warm.

“Good morning,” she said, and she meant it.

Her voice carried easily.

“This is Government 101. Which means many of you registered because you had to.”

A few students laughed.

“I also have to teach it,” she added lightly. “So we’re even.”

More laughter.

She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t bored. There was an energy to her — quick, sharp, engaged. Like she genuinely liked the sparring of ideas.

“But,” she continued, clicking to the syllabus, “this is not an easy A.”

Her tone stayed light. The message did not.

“I am aware,” she said, smiling faintly, “that some of you contribute to this university in highly visible ways."

Her gaze moved deliberately across the room.

“This classroom does not care what sport you play. Or how many followers you have. Or whether your name is trending on campus.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“You will earn your grades.”

Still smiling.

“And to answer the email I receive every single semester — no, I do not adjust grades for travel schedules. I do not negotiate with coaches. And I will not inflate a GPA because someone’s face is on a banner.”

This time, the laugh that moved through the hall carried tension.

Her eyes passed over Liam.

Then Ethan.

But there was no hostility in it. Just clarity.

“I actually like sports and athletes are often my best students,” she added casually. “They understand discipline. Structure. Repetition.”

She leaned lightly against the podium.

“But discipline applies here too.”

Ethan felt something in his chest shift.

She wasn’t dismissing them.

She was challenging them.

The lecture began. Foundational structures of American government. Separation of powers. Institutional checks.

She smiled when students answered well. Nudged when they were vague. Asked follow-ups that forced them to think rather than recite.

When she turned sideways to write on the board, the fabric of her blouse shifted gently with the motion. Ethan’s focus faltered to her hips and shapely ass in her work slacks. Even the black fabric couldn't obscure the feminity of his professor's body.

Someone sneezed and Ethan flinched. He dragged his attention back to the screen, a blush creeping up his neck. Professor Moore continued explaining the Greek origins of democracy like it was the most interesting topic in the world. 

She loved this.

It was obvious.

She loved havign the room's attention. The exchanges with her students. The way eyes sharpened when something clicked.  Her energy and passion were infectious. Ethan noticed how the whole lecture hall was caught in her trance. Like she was a siren and her song was politics. 

“Mr. Vale.”

Liam started to stand automatically.

“Not you,” she said, grinning. “The other one.”

Laughter rolled through the lecture hall.

Ethan stood slowly.

Her eyes met his directly. They were deep brown and radiating warmth. Encouragement.

“Define executive authority.”

He focused on her mouth, the clean shape of the words.

His answer came steady. Precise. Structured.

When he finished, she smiled — genuine approval.

“Good,” she said. “Exactly.”

He sat, pulse slightly elevated.

Liam elbowed him. “She definitely likes you.”

Ethan ignored him.

Near the end of class, she closed her laptop.

“One final thought,” she said, folding her hands lightly.

The room quieted.

“My specialty is political scandal. Which means I study reputation — how it’s built, how it collapses.”

She smiled slightly.

“In politics, it’s rarely the act itself that destroys someone.”

A pause.

“It’s the footage.”

A few students shifted.

“And before you assume that only matters in Washington,” she continued, tone warm but serious, “let me assure you — I have watched promising careers implode right here on this campus.”

The room went still.

“College is the first time many of you experience independence. Social media amplifies that independence. Parties become content. Jokes become screenshots. Private moments become public narrative.”

Her gaze moved deliberately across the room.

“I have seen internships disappear. Scholarships revoked. Graduate school offers rescinded.”

She wasn’t scolding.

She was warning.

“You are building your reputations right now. Not when you graduate. Not when you turn twenty-five.”

Her smile softened slightly.

“I want you to succeed. That is not sarcasm. I genuinely enjoy watching my students win.”

A few students smiled back.

“But understand this: context matters. Perception matters. Narrative matters.”

Her eyes flicked toward the twins — not accusing.

Knowing.

“You are responsible for all of it.”

Silence lingered.

“Read Chapter One,” she said lightly. “Quiz next week.”

Class dismissed.

Chairs scraped. Conversations swelled.

Liam stretched. “She’s actually good.”

Ethan stayed seated for a moment, watching her pack up.

She laughed softly at something a student said. Leaned in slightly when another asked a question. Engaged. Present.

She wasn’t distant.

She was invested.

That was almost worse.

Someone stepped into their row.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Effortlessly composed.

Maddox Reyes.

President of Theta Rho.

And not just that.

Maddox was campus royalty in his own right — Bastian’s record-breaking freestyle swimmer, projected to qualify for at upcoming Olympic Trials. His name floated through sports media almost as often as theirs did. Sponsors were already circling. Rumor had it he deferred pro contracts to stay eligible one more year.

Disciplined. Polished. Untouchable.

He carried himself like someone who understood cameras were always watching — even when they weren’t.

“Vale twins.”

His voice was calm. Even. Not loud — he didn’t need to be.

Liam grinned immediately. “Maddox.”

Maddox’s gaze shifted between them, measured and cool.

Theta Rho didn’t recruit the way other fraternities did. No open rush week circus. No public bidding wars. They selected. Athletes with national potential. Student government presidents. Heirs to political families. Future CEOs.

It wasn’t about parties.

It was about proximity to power.

“We’re hosting something this weekend,” Maddox said. “Invite only.”

Ethan felt the shift immediately.

Maddox didn’t waste time. Not in the pool. Not socially.

“Pre-initiation.”

The word landed heavier than it should have.

If Theta Rho wanted them, it wasn’t because they needed more athletes.

It was because athletes with NIL contracts came with reach. Influence. Public narrative control.

Maddox produced a small white card between his fingers. Minimal. Elegant. The Theta Rho crest embossed in silver.

Saturday. 10:30 PM.

No address.

“If you’re interested,” Maddox added, his eyes settling briefly on Ethan this time, “consider this your invitation.”

Liam took the card instantly, flashing a grin.

Maddox gave a small nod.

“Don’t be late.”

Then he stepped away — swallowed by the movement of the lecture hall, composed as ever.

Ethan’s gaze drifted toward the front of the room.

Professor Moore was watching them.

Not obviously.

But her eyes were in their direction.

Assessing.

The faintest tilt of her head.

Not disapproval.

Recognition.

She knew exactly what Theta Rho represented.

Power. Optics. Risk.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Her expression didn’t harden.

It deepened.

Like she was wondering which narrative they would choose to write for themselves.

Then she smiled — small, knowing — and turned away.

Saturday night.

Theta Rho.

And suddenly, her lecture about reputation didn’t feel theoretical at all.