One

The worst part about Leo Vance wasn’t that he was the varsity basketball team’s undisputed golden boy, or that he had a smile that somehow convinced teachers to overlook his atrocious attendance record.

The worst part was that he knew exactly how untouchable he was.

"Move, Sinclair," Leo said, not even looking down as he dribbled a worn leather basketball rhythmically against the asphalt. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Avery didn’t budge from the middle of the narrow concrete path leading to the gym storage shed. He adjusted his glasses, clutching his battered black notebook to his chest like a shield. "I need five minutes. You owed me an interview three days ago, Vance. The school paper goes to print on Friday, and my editor is ready to skin me alive."

Leo finally stopped dribbling, catching the ball easily in one hand. He leaned against the chain-link fence, looking Avery up and down with an expression of lazy amusement. He was sweating, his dark hair damp and messy, the scent of expensive deodorant and fresh rain clinging to him.

"I don't owe you anything," Leo said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. "And honestly? The Sentinel is trash. Nobody reads it unless they run out of napkins in the cafeteria."

Avery felt a hot spike of irritation flare in his chest. "People read it when it actually has news. Which is why I'm writing a profile on the captain who mysteriously missed the entire fourth quarter of the championship qualifier last week.

Where were you, Leo? Because the official line was 'mild ankle sprain,' but I saw you walking perfectly fine toward the parking lot ten minutes before the final buzzer."

The lazy smirk on Leo’s face faltered, just for a fraction of a second. His grip on the basketball tightened. The casual, easy-going golden boy persona slipped, revealing something much colder, sharper, and infinitely more interesting underneath.

He took a step closer, crowding Avery’s space. Leo was easily a head taller, broad-shouldered and imposing in his red-and-white varsity jersey. "You're digging in the wrong dirt, Sinclair. Stick to reviewing the school lunches."

"If you have nothing to hide, give me the five minutes," Avery challenged, tilting his chin up. He refused to back down, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. He could smell the heat radiating off Leo, could see the tiny flare of genuine anger in the depths of the other boy's dark eyes.

"No," Leo said flatly.

He stepped right past Avery, his shoulder clipping Avery’s hard enough to spin him slightly.

"I'm going to run the story anyway," Avery called out after him, his voice tight. "And I'll make sure to mention that the golden boy has a habit of running away when things get difficult."

Leo stopped in his tracks. He didn’t turn around immediately. When he did, the expression on his face wasn’t the smirk from before. It was a dark, dangerous look that made Avery’s stomach do a strange, nervous flip.

"Write whatever you want," Leo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. "But write carefully. You don't want to start a war you can't afford to lose, Sinclair."

Before Avery could snap back, the heavy metal door of the gym swung open, and the assistant coach called Leo's name. With one last lingering, threatening look, Leo turned and vanished inside, leaving Avery standing alone on the damp asphalt, his notebook tightly gripped in hands that were slightly shaking.

He had his hook. Now, he just had to survive the fallout.

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