First Clash
948 Words
Ava's POV
The first thing I notice about Ethan Cole up close is that he doesn’t look tired.
He should. He had 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. But Ethan? He’s leaning casually against the bleachers, 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.
I grip my pen tighter. “It’s Ava." Reynolds is my dad.
He smirks. “Right. Wouldn’t want to mix up my coach with the girl writing about me.
His tone makes it sound less like “writing” and more like “spying.”
I force my professional smile—the one I perfected in Intro to Journalism when I had to interview students about campus cafeteria food. “This is for the Crescent Heights Chronicle. A seasonal feature.
“Ah,” he says, dragging the sound out as if it’s a punchline. “So I’m your headline.”
“You’re a source,” I correct, clicking my pen. “And I have a few questions.”
He wipes his forehead with the hem of his jersey. I pointedly look down at my notes instead of at the defined abs staring back at me. Lila would kill me if she knew I looked away.
“Shoot,” Ethan says.
I glance at my list, deciding to start easily. “How do you feel about being team captain this year?”
His smile sharpens. “Feels about right.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
I narrow my eyes. “The Chronicle is looking for more than sound bites. Readers want detail. Insight. Maybe even a little honesty.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s letting me in on a secret. “You really think people pick up the student paper to read about my feelings?”
“Some people do.”
“Like your dad?”
That does it. My professional smile cracks. “My dad is the coach, yes." But I’m not here as his daughter. I’m here as a journalist.
“Sure you are.”
The pen digs into my fingers. “If you can’t take this seriously, I’ll just—”
“Hey, I’m serious.” He straightens, raising his hands like he’s surrendering. “Ask me again.”
I bite back a sigh. “How do you feel about being captain this year?”
He holds my gaze. It feels right. I’ve worked for it. I’ve earned it. And I’m not letting anyone down.
It’s… actually a decent answer. But he delivers it with such confidence—such unshakable certainty—that I almost roll my eyes.
I jot it down. “Fine." Next question: What are your goals for the season?”
“Win.”
I glare. “That’s not a goal, that’s a word.”
“Okay.” He grins, leaning back against the bleachers. “Win big.”
I close my notebook with a snap. “You know what?" Forget it. I’ll just use generic quotes from your press releases. Clearly, you’re not interested in an actual interview.
He looks genuinely amused. “You’re the first reporter to storm off after five minutes.”
“I’m not storming.”
“You’re definitely storming.”
I spin on my heel before I say something unprintable. Behind me, I hear his laugh—low, confident, infuriating.
Maya catches me on the way out. “How’d it go?”
“Fantastic,” I say sweetly. “If the Chronicle is looking for the most arrogant man alive, I’ve found him.”
Maya just grins, because, of course she thinks this is hilarious.
---
By the time I get back to the dorm, Lila is sprawled across my bed, scrolling through her phone. She looks up as soon as I slam the door.
“Oooh. That bad?”
“Worse.” I tossed my bag onto the chair. He gave me one-word answers. And smirks. And then accused me of storming off when I walked away.
Lila presses a hand over her mouth, clearly fighting a laugh.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s kind of funny,” she says. “You stormed away from the campus golden boy. Half the girls here would pay for that privilege.”
I collapsed beside her, groaning onto my pillow. “I can’t believe I'll be stuck covering him all season.”
“Maybe it’ll get better.”
“Or maybe I’ll lose my mind.”
She pats my back like I’m a wounded soldier. “If you do, at least it’ll be entertaining.”
---
Two days later, I’m in the press box for the first home game of the season, notebook ready. The gym is packed, students chanting, the band blasting some overly cheerful fight song.
And down on the court, Ethan Cole is everywhere.
He moves like the game belongs to him, like the ball is just an extension of his hand. Every shot swishes, every pass connects. The crowd eats it up, screaming his name.
And yet—when he lands after a dunk, I catch it. A flicker. A wince. His hand brushes his knee for just a second before he straightens, grinning like nothing’s wrong.
No one else seems to notice. But I do.
I scribble a note in my margins: Reckless.
Maybe I can work with that.
- Writer
