Crossing The Line

's

coffee and printer toner, the kind of scent th

ngs of old headlines-football victories from a decade ago, protests on the quad, faculty scandals-and the carpet is threadbare in places. A doze

ike the hum of deadlines and half-broken computers is aliv

h, that hum fe

ks accusingly on a bla

Cole F

a Rey

s, arrows pointing to moments worth describing. I can still hear the crowd's roar in

y fingers hover over the keys-

liant, and maybe a little to

fter that dunk, when his hand brushed his knee before he straightened and

my job to write it down-o

yno

arly dropp

n. She's tall, sleek ponytail, blazer that screams future media mogul. Maya doesn't walk so much a

me sentence for ten minutes,"

y. "It's a first d

ue in a

ell under

or this assignment. Sports isn't even your beat-y

l," I

already moving toward the

ms with life: the clatter of keyboards, the buzz of printers spitting out proofs, th

uels me. Tonight,

r, clear as a bell, i

about

n

me want to thr

ly and start

-

The hallway smells like stale pizza and cheap perfume-someone down

my bed with a bowl of popcorn balanced

you know how rare it is for the basketball team to actually

the chair with a th

me you at least mentioned his arms.

il

Those arms are basica

irst onto my bed. "I wr

ribs until I roll ov

m n

e. You

il

letting it go. "All I'm saying is, if I got stuck writing about E

at her head. She

d myself staring at the ceiling. "

lift. "Comp

ime. He's cocky, sure. But there's something e

ething gentler. "Be careful, Ava. Journalist

m n

k cuts

st want to te

hat," she

-

piled outside classrooms, tossed onto benches in the quad. Students flip

grab a copy and flip

y byline, staring back a

ckless: Ethan Col

a Rey

owd, for setting the tone of the season. But I didn't shy away from the cracks I saw-t

. Balance

e "Nice job" on the proo

like I've swallowe

-

when I slip inside, notebook in hand. The team is winding d

lder, hair damp. He looks freshly showered but still carries t

ts me, his

he says, v

I answer

headline visible in sharp black print. Tapping the page wi

elf. "Didn'

or a long beat. Then-

slowly and is infuriatingly conf

"You're

to his bag. "You didn't sugarcoat it. You sa

is tone knocks t

n anger. But respect? That wasn't i

arcus, calling something about grabbing food. His laughter e

clutched to my chest, h

n the page and the way Ethan Cole j

sure who's telli