Beyond the Final Whistle

Wington high.

I'd dreamed of being a journalist who covered major lead games not high school wannabe's who'd only dream of getting there but I guess this is a start.

As I step into the slick shiny hallway with hundreds of freshly polished lockers staring back at me I suddenly remember how much I hate being the "new girl".

Everything at Wington High looks too perfect--the kind of school that smells like money, ambition, and hairspray. Students crowd the halls in clusters that already look impossible to join, their laughter filling my ears like unwanted cries. Like I’ve walked into a movie I wasn’t cast in.

I grip my backpack strap tighter and scan the hallway for the journalism room. It’s my first day as part of The Wington Weekly, and I’m trying to look like I belong--even though my heart’s doing suicides in my chest.

You wanted this, I remind myself. Real stories, real experience.

Still, I can’t ignore the whisper in the back of my mind: What if you mess it up?

“Anastasia Heart?”

A short woman with a coffee cup and a clipboard stops me by the trophy case. “You’re our new reporter, right? I’m Mrs. Callahan-- advisor for the paper.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I try to sound calm.

“Good. You’ll start with sports. Our last writer graduated, and we need coverage for the boys’ soccer team.”

I blink. “Soccer?”

“Wington’s pride and joy,” she says, gesturing toward a row of framed championship photos. “The captain, Ethan Vale, is practically a celebrity around here. Make him look good--or at least, don’t make him quit talking to us again.”

Great. Day one and I’m assigned to cover Mr. Popularity.

The soccer field sits behind the gym, blazing under the late-morning sun. I make my way there after class, notebook in hand, trying to look like I know what I’m doing.

The sound of sneakers squeaking and shouts fills the air. I stop near the bleachers, watching the players sprint drills across the green. And that’s when I see him.

Ethan Vale.

He’s the first thing anyone would notice--confident posture, sleeves pushed up, sweat glinting at the edge of his jawline. Every move he makes looks rehearsed, deliberate, like the world’s watching.

He kicks the ball into the net with a sharp thud, then turns, eyes locking on me like he already knows who I am.

“You lost, rookie?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

I lift my chin. “I’m Anastasia Heart. The new sports journalist.”

“Oh.” His grin grows, equal parts amused and dangerous. “Press girl.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Sure it is,” he says, grabbing a water bottle. “You’ll be writing about me anyway.”

“Actually, I’m writing about the team.”

“Same thing.” He winks.

I roll my eyes as I grip my notebook tighter. "It is not, besides the only thing I need to write about you are lies--which is that your "Good" apparently so no need to worry".

He tilts his head, and slowly drag his eye's down my frame--like he's re drinking his water bottle. "Don't hate the player, hate the game press girl".

And just like that, I know two things for certain:

Ethan Vale is trouble.

And a pain in the ass.