Four

"Handling it?" Maya’s voice hit a pitch that Avery was fairly certain only dogs and highly sensitive recording equipment could register. She threw her hands up, the stack of Sentinel flyers fluttering dangerously close to a puddle. "Avery, you don’t handle Leo Vance. The guy has a pristine public relations shield and a father who practically owns the school board. Yesterday you were ready to impale him with a fountain pen, and today you're strolling into the courtyard holding hands like a pair of star-crossed library assistants!"

Avery adjusted his glasses, forcing his face into an expression of cool, unbothered calm. Inside, his stomach was performing a series of highly unpleasant gymnastics.

"It’s not a joke, Maya," Avery said, leaning back against the metal bike rack and folding his arms. He had to make this sound plausible. If Maya didn't buy it, the whole school would smell a rat by third period. "We’ve... been talking. Off the record. It started when I was trying to get the scoop on the fourth quarter. It turned into something else."

Maya stared at him, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of a tell. Avery kept his breathing shallow, his expression perfectly blank.

"You're telling me," Maya said slowly, "that the cynical, jock-hating Avery Sinclair fell for the poster boy of toxic athletic privilege?"

"He's... different when he's not surrounded by his team," Avery lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "He's under a lot of pressure. From his dad. We found some common ground. That's all."

Maya’s gaze softened, just a fraction, but the sharp editor-in-chief glare was still lurking underneath. "If this is a scheme to get that fourth-quarter exclusive, Avery, you need to tell me. Because if his dad finds out you're manipulating his golden boy for a headline, he will bury this paper so deep we'll be printing the morning announcements on toilet paper."

"It's not a scheme," Avery said quietly, hating himself a little bit more. "I'm careful, Maya. You know that. Just... let it play out. Okay?"

Maya let out a long, dramatic sigh, shaking her head. "Fine. But if he breaks your heart, I’m running a front-page exposé on his terrible free-throw percentage and his embarrassing freshman-year yearbook photo. I still have the archives, Sinclair. Don't think I won't use them."

Avery managed a weak, genuine smile. "I'd expect nothing less."

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the varsity locker room was significantly less cooperative.

The air was thick with the scent of pine-scented floor cleaner, body spray, and the humid dampness of the communal showers. The rest of the team was loud, throwing damp towels and shouting over the blast of a hip-hop playlist, but in the far corner, the vibe was freezing cold.

Leo was sitting on the wooden bench, slowly wrapping white athletic tape around his wrist. He didn't look up when Marcus threw his duffel bag onto the bench beside him with a heavy, deliberate thud.

"You want to tell me what that was out there?" Marcus asked, his voice low enough to stay under the noise of the locker room.

Leo didn't miss a beat, his fingers pulling the tape tight. "Just walking to class, Teague."

"With Sinclair?" Marcus scoffed, sitting down and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The kid who’s been sniffing around your business for three weeks? The kid who almost caught you leaving the sports complex before the qualifier ended?"

"He's not sniffing around anymore," Leo said smoothly, tearing the tape with his teeth and pressing the edge down. He finally looked up, his dark eyes cool and steady. "He's occupied."

Marcus’s jaw tightened. He knew Leo. He’d known him since middle school, long before Richard Vance started treating his son like a corporate investment. He knew the look Leo got when he was playing a dangerous hand.

"This is about your old man, isn't it?" Marcus muttered, his voice dropping even lower. "He’s still riding you about the qualifier. He wanted you associated with someone 'respectable' to clean up the rumors."

Leo’s expression hardened, the easygoing athlete facade completely vanishing. "My dad wants a distraction. He wants the board to stop asking questions about my commitment to the D1 scouts. Sinclair is the top academic student in our year. He’s quiet, he’s harmless, and his reputation is spotless."

"Sinclair isn't harmless, Leo," Marcus warned, pointing a finger at him. "The kid is a reporter. He’s sharp. He’s not one of the girls from the cheer squad who’ll just nod and look pretty on your arm. You play games with a guy like that, and he'll write an obituary for your basketball career before you even sign a letter of intent."

Leo stood up, tower-tall in the cramped locker room space. He grabbed his jersey from the hook, sliding it over his broad shoulders. A slow, dark smirk touched his lips, the kind of look that usually meant trouble on the court.

"Let him try," Leo murmured, grabbing his ball. "But right now, he’s playing by my rules."

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