All Chapters of Crossing the line : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Ava’s POV The first thing I notice about Ethan Cole up close is that he doesn’t look tired. He should. He just finished a grueling practice, sweat dripping down his face, jersey clinging to his skin. His teammates collapsed on the bench, gulping down water like they’d been wandering the desert. Shoes squeaked on the hardwood, a whistle shrilled somewhere, and the air smelled faintly of floor polish mixed with the sharp tang of sweat. But Ethan? He’s leaning casually against the bleachers, arms folded like the court is his living room, like he could go another two hours and still win a sprint to the cafeteria. The second thing I notice is that he knows exactly how good he looks. “Ready when you are, Reynolds,” he says, like we’re old pals meeting for coffee instead of me trying to drag an interview out of him. I grip my pen tighter. “It’s Ava. Reynolds is my dad.” He smirks, a quick tilt of his mouth that makes it clear he enjoys poking at me. “Right. I wouldn’t want to mix up my

Ava's POV The newsroom always smells faintly like burnt coffee and printer toner, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes long after you leave.It’s tucked away in the basement of the communications building, half-forgotten by most of the campus. The walls are lined with yellowing clippings of old headlines—football victories from a decade ago, protests on the quad, faculty scandals—and the carpet is threadbare in places. A dozen mismatched chairs squeak every time someone shifts, and the vending machine in the corner groans like it’s dying every time it coughs up a soda.But for me, there’s something electric about this place. Like the hum of deadlines and half-broken computers is alive, pulling you into its current whether you’re ready or not.Tonight, though, that hum feels suffocating.Because my cursor blinks accusingly on a blank document that reads:Ethan Cole FeatureBy Ava ReynoldsIt should be simple. I have pages of notes from the first game, neat columns of stats, a

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. I know that. I wrote them. But now those words have a face. A smirk. A voice. Reckless looks pretty good on me. His words replay like a song I can’t turn off. I drop my bag onto my desk, the paper sliding halfway out, headline glaring up 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 for her psych midterm. She glances up as soon as I walk in. “You’re back late,” she says, voice teasing. “Another intense Chronicle mission?” “Something like that.” I kick off my sneakers, trying to sound casual, like I didn’t just spend the last hour replaying a smirk over and over. Her eyes narrow, sharp in that way only Lila can pull off. She doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t push either. Lila has a sixth sense for when I’m hiding something. She als

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 tha

Ethan’s POV The gym is quieter than usual when I walk in, the echo of my footsteps bouncing off polished hardwood. The faint smell of disinfectant lingers under the sharper tang of sweat and rubber. Most of the guys are already here, running warm-up drills—squeak of sneakers, slap of palms against the ball, short bursts of laughter cutting through the echo. But my focus shifts immediately to the man standing near the baseline. Coach Reynolds. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp behind wire-rim glasses. He isn’t barking orders or pacing like normal. He’s just watching. Waiting. Somehow, that’s worse. I jog to the sideline, drop my duffel, roll my shoulders. My pulse thuds harder than it should. It’s not the workout that rattles me—it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he’s already dissected mistakes I haven’t even made yet. “Cole,” he calls, steady as a hammer to the chest. I swallow and stride toward him. “Coach.” He studies me without speaking, the weight of his gaze pre