ARIANA'S POV
The roar of the crowd hit me like a tidal wave, so loud I flinched, my sneakers squeaking against the pavilion's weathered concrete. Hundreds of students packed the bleachers overlooking Ravenswood University's hockey field, their cheers echoing through the crisp September air.
Down below, the Wolves in their crimson jerseys moved like a pack—swift, brutal, unstoppable. Sticks cracked against the puck, bodies slammed into boards, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. This was why Ravenswood had clawed its way into the championship qualifiers, why Yule College bowed to us every season. Pride swelled in my chest. I'd only been a freshman here for three weeks, but damn, it felt good to belong.
A blur of red darted past me, close enough that the scent of sweat and pine hit my nose. I stumbled back, clutching my water bottle, and looked up—straight into a pair of golden eyes that stopped my heart. He was one of them, a player, his blonde hair shaggy and damp, clinging to his forehead. High cheekbones caught the late afternoon sun, and his jawline—sharp enough to cut glass—tightened as he flashed a grin that was half smirk, half challenge.
My breath hitched. He was gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that made you forget your own name, and for a split second, I swore those eyes pinned me in place like prey.
"It wants you as much as I want you" he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel under boots. It carried a weight I couldn't decipher, an edge that sent a shiver skittering down my spine.
Before I could blink, let alone ask what the hell that meant, he bent down, scooped up a stray puck with a flick of his stick, and sprinted back to the field. My pulse thudded in my ears. I stood there, rooted, replaying his words. Ominous? Flirty? A warning? I shook my head, forcing a shaky laugh. Deep breaths, Ariana. He's just some cocky jock. Get it together.
I turned toward the open-air callisthenics area, where the cheer team was warming up. Tryouts were today, open to freshmen, and I'd spent all week psyching myself up for this. My red hair bounced in its high ponytail as I jogged over, smoothing my tank top over my shorts. The girls clustered near the mats were a mix of nervous giggles and sharp-eyes glances, sizing each other up.
Coach Templeton stood at the edge, her red tracksuit a stark contrast to the gray sky rolling in. She adjusted her glasses, peering at her phone with a frown that said she'd rather be anywhere else.
"Um, hi," I said, stepping closer, my voice barely above the wind. "I'm here for the tryouts?"
She didn't look up right away. "You're late. Name?"
"Ariana Grandoles," I mumbled, heat creeping up my freckled cheeks. "Sorry, I—"
"Coach Templeton," she cut in, finally meeting my eyes. Her gaze was steel, and I swallowed hard. "And I don't tolerate tardiness. You see those cheerleaders out there?" She jerked her head toward the field, where a few upperclassmen in crisp uniforms tossed pom-poms with effortless grace. "Seniors, mostly. Too busy with final projects to carry the team. That's on you freshmen now, so I need someone who shows up. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, nodding fast, my stomach twisting.
"Good." She snapped her fingers at the mat. "Get on it. Show me what you've got. Music!"
The command hit me like a slap, and my knees wobbled as I stepped onto the mat. Eyes burned into me—judgemental, curious—from the other girls waiting their turn. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. I'd done flips and tumbles in high school, but this? This was Ravenswood. This was big.
The speakers blared a familiar beat—some pop remix I'd blasted in my dorm room a hundred times—and my nerves softened. I hummed along, letting the rhythm steady me. A sharp clap to my left signaled the start, and I launched into it: a high V, arms snapping up, then a quick backflip, my toes kissing the mat with a soft thud.
Gasps rippled through the group, and a grin tugged at my lips. The cheers fueled me—I tucked low, rolling into a forward tumble, my hair whipping around me. Mid-spin, something caught my eye: a shadow, dark and hulking, looming at the gym entrance across the field. Yellow eyes glowed like twin embers, watching me. My stomach lurched, but when I landed and spun to look, it was gone. Just the double doors swinging in the breeze, empty.
"Smile, Ariana. You're on display." I plastered a grin over the dread coiling in my gut and powered through the routine, every leap and twist was a fight to ignore that eerie feeling. Something—or someone—was out there watching me, and it wasn't my imagination. That hockey guy's cryptic whisper echoed in my head: It wants you as much as I want you. Was he messing with me, or did he know something I didn't?
The music cut off as I stuck my final backflip, landing with a flourish. The girls erupted in cheers, but Coach Templeton's face stayed blank, her arms crossed. My heart sank. Had I bombed? She stared at me for so long I wanted to melt into the mat, then cracked a tight, reluctant smile. She fished a small purse from her back pocket, unzipping it to reveal a pile of shredded paper slips.
"Ariana, right?" she said, holding it out. "Pick one."
I nodded, my fingers trembling as I plucked a slip and stepped back. She moved to the other girls, offering the purse like it was some sacred ritual. I fumbled with the paper, my damp palms making it stick. "Did I—did I do okay?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"You're in," she said, turning back to me with a scowl that softened the others' protests. "The tryout's faux—just a formality. Now listen up. If your paper says 'M,' you're a member. If it's—"
"C?" I cut in, unfolding mine. A bold, black "C" stared back at me. "I got a C."
"Then you're captain."
My jaw dropped. "W-wait, what? But I'm just a freshman—"
"Shouldn't it be a senior or junior?" another girl piped up, her tone sharp.
"Yes and no," Coach snapped. "Seniors don't have time—projects, jobs, life. Freshmen do. I need a captain who's here, not half out the door. That's you, Ariana." She pointed to the now-empty hockey field. "Two squads: one for upperclassmen, one for you. Different games, same grit."
I blinked, dazed, as grumbles rose around me. Captain? Me? Before I could process it, the sky darkened, fat clouds swallowing the sun. Raindrops pelted down, hard and sudden, and the girls squealed, scattering like startled birds. Coach shoved a key into my chest, the cold metal biting through my tank top.
"You're captain now," she said over the downpour. "Take the mats and speaker to the gym equipment room. Lock up."
"But—" I started, but she was already jogging off, leaving me in the chaos.
"Great," I muttered, rain soaking my hair, plastering it to my face. I rolled the mats as fast as I could, the leather slippery under my fingers, and tucked the speaker under my arm. My sneakers splashed through puddles as I bolted for the gym, its open doors a black maw ahead.
I crossed the threshold, and a chill sliced through me, sharp and sudden. A growl—low, guttural—rumbled from somewhere inside. I froze, water dripping off my nose, my breath digging in the dimness. "Who's there?" I called, my voice thin, swallowed by the echo.
Silence. Just the drumming rain and my own heartbeat. I took a step, then another, clutching the speaker tighter. A screech of metal on metal shrieked from the shadows—nails on a chalkboard times ten—and I whipped around, eyes wide. Nothing but rows of lockers and the faint gleam of wet floor. The growl came again, closer, vibrating through my bones. Cold sweat prickled my skin, mixing with the rain.
"Told you," a voice whispered, hot and sudden against my ear.