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So many thoughts flooded my mind. I had always been persuasive, and there was no way my nerves would make me fail at that today. I just needed to calm down enough to tap into my charm so I could convince Penny not to do this to me.

I leaned forward, trying to suppress the frustration that was sharpening my tone. “There has to be something else.”

“There isn’t.” Penny met my gaze without wavering. “The Highlanders are the biggest story on campus this semester. If you want in, that’s the assignment.”

“I was hoping for something more aligned with my regular work.”

“You mean something more serious?” Penny asked, pinning me with a killer look.

I didn’t answer, and I didn’t need to either. She knew exactly what I meant, but that wasn’t the worst part. This played into Adler’s hands completely, making me more sure he had gotten to her before I could. Which sucked because there was absolutely no way I could manipulate her now. The best I could hope for was that the sport wasn’t as bad as I knew it was.

“All the other beats are taken,” Penny continued, sounding as serious as she possibly could. “You can take Highlanders coverage, or you can take the fail.”

I thought about my grade and about Professor Adler’s expectations. Walking away wasn’t an option, so I could either try my best or fail my major. The decision was a no-brainer.

“I’ll take it,” I muttered.

Penny studied me for a moment, then nodded in amusement. “You’re on them for the entire season. I want to know everything about their practices and games, and all interviews should be ours. I want actual stories, not just summaries or highlights of the games. So I expect you to find every angle and spin it as needed.”

I nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

“Good,” Penny said and extended a hand. “Welcome to the Havenport Herald.”

*

By the time I reached the field, the late afternoon sun hung low enough to cast long shadows across the grass. The blowing of whistles, shouted calls, and the rhythmic impact of drills running in quick succession hit me first.

The controlled chaos was loud and constant. So much so that I had to resist the urge to step back and walk out.

Instead, I moved to the edge of the sideline. The pages of my notebook fluttered in my hand as I scanned the field with a critical eye. If I had to do this horrendous task, I would do it properly.

A group of players reset for another drill. Their movements were quicker and far more efficient than I’d expected. It was so good that my attention settled on one player without a conscious decision.

He was the kind of guy who stood out immediately. Not the tallest player on the field, but his presence cut through the motion around him. His build was compact and powerful, shoulders broad, and his legs were defined in a way that made his purpose obvious.

Everything about him suggested speed and control rather than brute force. When he moved, it was precise and deliberate, like every step was placed with clear intent.

His hair was short and damp-dark with sweat, and when he turned, the light caught the hazel of his searching gaze as he tracked the field. I knew little about football, but I could tell he was anticipating what came next.

A shrill whistle cut through the air, throwing the line into motion. The ball was snapped, and he took it cleanly, pivoting in one smooth movement before accelerating forward. The shift in his speed was immediate.

His body dropped lower as he slipped past the first defender. Another player closed in with his arms extended, but he twisted out of reach, changing direction without losing momentum.

My pen hovered just above the agitated page, and my focus narrowed as I followed the play with more interest than I thought I would have. Perhaps a season-long study on the impact of gender on fitness and approach to physical power. I could include research on the women’s soccer tea—

“Get out of the way!”

I jumped out of the way without taking my eyes off the guy running with the ball, and found myself deeper onto the field.

He’d broken through the line again, cutting sharply toward the sideline. It took me a good minute to realize he was coming straight for me. I froze, gauging the distance, but the speed at which he covered ground left no margin for error.

“Are you crazy? Move!” he shouted.

My foot caught on some uneven grass, and my balance tipped. Arms flailing in slow motion, I braced for the impact of gravel against my skull.

But it never came.

Instead, a firm hand closed around my arm and pulled me sideways just as he tore past the spot where I had been standing. My notebook slipped from my grip, and the pages scattered as it hit the ground.