All Chapters of Crossing the line : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Ethan’s POVPressure was nothing new. It was stitched into my skin like the scars on my knees, baked into my lungs with every drill, every sprint, every whistle that echoed in the gym.But that night, when Coach’s voice cut sharper than usual and Ava wouldn’t meet my eyes, pressure turned into something else.It turned personal.Practice had ended hours ago, but I was still in the weight room, benching in silence. Every rep felt heavier than the last, not because the bar had changed but because my head wouldn’t stop replaying the moment.“You’re distracted. Leave whatever this is off my court.”He didn’t have to say her name. He didn’t even have to look at her. I knew. He knew.And the way Ava had frozen when his gaze landed on her—that was the nail in the coffin.I racked the weights with a grunt and sat up, sweat dripping down my temples. My chest heaved, my body screaming at me to stop, but I couldn’t. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant admitting the truth.That he was rig

Ethan’s POV Pain was nothing new. It came with the territory—the bruises, the sore muscles, the mornings when my body felt twenty years older than I was. But tonight’s pain was different. Sharper. Meaner. A reminder I didn’t want. It hit during the third quarter. I cut left, planted, and rose for a mid-range jumper. The shot was clean, but when I landed, fire tore through my knee. For a split second, I thought it would buckle. I forced it to hold. Forced my face to stay blank as the ball dropped through the net. The crowd roared. Nobody noticed me limping back on defense. Not even Ava. She was courtside, laptop open, hair falling into her face as she typed. Eyes locked on the game, hungry for the story. She didn’t see me stumble. Thank God. When the buzzer sounded, though, my knee screamed with every step. --- The locker room buzzed like always—music, trash talk, water bottles spraying. I pushed through, masking the limp with adrenaline, but Jordan’s sharp eyes caught me. “Y

Ava’s POV Secrets have weight. The longer you carry them, the heavier they get. Every glance, every touch, every stolen moment with Ethan pressed on me like lead. And Maya wasn’t stupid. She could smell weight in the air. The newsroom hummed with the usual chaos—phones ringing, printers spitting, keyboards clattering—but all I heard was the pounding in my head. Ethan’s last game replayed in flashes: his stumble, the way he favored his knee, the heat in my father’s glare. I’d tried to bury myself in the work. Type, delete, rewrite. But every word bent toward him. Toward us. And Maya noticed. She always noticed. “Ava.” Her voice cut through the din. I looked up to find her standing by my desk, arms folded, expression unreadable. “Coffee. Now.” It wasn’t a suggestion. We walked two blocks to the café near campus. The one with the flickering neon sign and baristas who had memorized our orders after too many late nights on deadline. I ordered a latte. My hands trembled just e

Ethan’s POVThe silence was the worst part.After I told her it was over, after I forced the words past my throat like shards of glass, Ava didn’t fight me. She didn’t argue. She just stood there, notebook clutched to her chest, eyes wide and wounded, like I’d pulled the floor out from under her. Then she walked away.No slammed doors. No screaming. Just silence.And silence follows you. It creeps into the locker room, the weight room, the hardwood. It crawls into bed with you at night. I thought breaking things off would make the pressure easier to bear, but instead it left me raw, every nerve exposed, every moment feeling like a mistake I couldn’t undo.Tyler noticed first.“You’re quiet,” he said over breakfast, crunching into his cereal while I stared at my untouched eggs.“I’m tired.”“You’re always tired.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me like he could see past the walls I was trying to build. “It’s about her, isn’t it?”I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.Tyler shook his

Ava’s POV The basketball offices were quiet that afternoon, the kind of hush that came after the storm of practice had settled. Hallways that usually rang with shouts, squeaking shoes, and Coach Reynolds’ booming commands now sat still, only the faint buzz of fluorescent lights breaking the silence. My footsteps echoed as I walked past framed jerseys and glossy photographs of championships — my father’s world, his shrine, his throne. And today, I was walking straight into the lion’s den. When I reached his office door, my hand hesitated on the brass handle. A chill crept up my arm despite the September heat clinging to my skin. My father’s name was etched on a plaque: Coach Daniel Reynolds. Head Coach. Program Builder. Institution. To the world, he was untouchable authority. To me, he was the man who could still cut me down with one raised brow. I knocked lightly. “Come in.” The voice was clipped, commanding. No warmth. I pushed the door open. His office looked as it always did