Shiver in the Arena

Leera POV

I clutch my camera, the strap digging into my palm as I weave through the crowded arena. The air hums with the buzz of students, the sharp scent of popcorn, and the faint tang of ice. My heart thumps louder than the cheering crowd, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. This is my first photojournalism assignment, and I’m already late. Zoey, my roommate, had insisted on braiding my silver hair into something “professional but cute,” and now I’m paying for it, dodging elbows to reach the press section.

The rink stretches out below, a gleaming sheet of ice under harsh lights. Hockey players glide across it, sticks clacking, their shouts muffled by helmets. I scan for the team I’m supposed to interview Shawnee State’s Wolves. My professor’s words echo Get candids, Leera. Capture the raw energy. Easier said than done when my hands are shaking, and my grief feels like a stone in my chest. Mom and Dad would’ve loved this chaos, their cameras clicking in sync. I swallow hard, adjusting the moonstone ring on my finger, a gift from Mom. Focus.

I spot an empty seat near the glass and dart for it, nearly tripping over a spilled soda. “Sorry!” I mutter to no one, sliding into the chair. My notebook flops open, and I scribble: *Wolves vs. Vultures. Energy. Motion.* The words feel hollow, but I need this grade. I lift my camera, zooming in on a player with lighter hair and broad shoulders, his jersey marked *Roman, #17*. He’s fast, brutal, slamming an opponent against the boards. The crowd roars. I snap a shot, the shutter’s click grounding me.

“First time at a game?” a voice asks, bright and curious. I glance over to see a girl with a vibrant scarf, her dark curls bouncing. She’s got a notebook too, but hers is covered in stickers.

“Yeah,” I admit, lowering my camera. “Leera.”

“Zoey,” she says, grinning. “You look like you’re about to bolt. Relax. The Wolves are intense, but they’re nice. Well, most of them.” She nods toward the rink. “That’s Roman, their star. Total heartthrob, but don’t tell him I said that.”

I laugh, the sound surprising me. It’s been months since I laughed without forcing it. “Noted. I’m here for an interview, though. Photojournalism class.”

“Fancy,” Zoey teases. “Stick with me. I know the team’s PR guy. He’ll get you backstage.”

“Backstage?” I raise an eyebrow, but my stomach flips. I’m not ready for face-to-face interviews. My therapist’s voice floats in: *One step at a time, Leera.* I nod. “Okay. Thanks.”

The game ends with the Wolves winning 4-2, and Zoey drags me toward the locker room area, chatting about campus gossip. The hallway smells of sweat and industrial cleaner, the walls lined with team posters. My pulse spikes as we reach a door marked Press Only. Zoey winks, knocking sharply.

A guy with a clipboard opens it, his expression bored. “Names?”

“Zoey, campus paper. This is Leera, photojournalism. She’s got an assignment.”

He scans his list, then waves us in. “Five minutes. Roman’s in a mood.”

Inside, the air is thick with steam and the low hum of players unwinding. I clutch my camera like a lifeline, scanning for Roman. He’s at the far end, leaning against a locker, towel around his neck. His golden skin glistens, and his mismatched blue-green eyes lock onto me the second I step closer. My breath catches. It’s not just his looks though, wow it’s something else. A tingling warmth spreads through me, like static electricity. My fingers tighten on my camera.

“You the reporter?” Roman’s voice is low, rough, like he’s holding back a growl. He straightens, towering over me. I’m barely at his chest, my petite frame dwarfed by his presence.

“Photographer,” I correct, my voice shakier than I’d like. “Leera. I’m… I’m with the class. For candids and an interview.”

His gaze sharpens, and I swear I smell something sweet—spun sugar, maybe honeysuckles. It’s disorienting. He steps closer, his eyes flickering over my face, my silver hair, my necklace. “You’re new,” he says, not a question.

“Yeah. Freshman.” I lift my camera, trying to focus. “Can I get a shot? For the assignment?”

He nods, but his jaw tightens, like he’s fighting something. I snap a photo, the flash catching the intensity in his eyes. My skin prickles, and I lower the camera, confused. “So, uh, what’s it like being the team’s star?”

“Work,” he says curtly, then softens. “It’s… a release. Keeps me grounded.” His voice carries a weight I don’t understand, like he’s talking about more than hockey.

Before I can ask another question, he sways, his hand gripping the locker. “You okay?” I ask, stepping forward instinctively.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he drops to his knees, his breath ragged. The other players freeze, staring. My heart races. “Roman? What’s wrong?”

His eyes meet mine, wild, almost glowing. “Your scent,” he mutters, voice barely audible. “It’s… impossible.”

“My what?” I glance at Zoey, who’s wide-eyed, backing away. The other players murmur, their voices tense. I kneel beside him, my hand hovering. “Do you need a medic?”

“No,” he snaps, then softer, “No. Just… stay there.” He inhales deeply, like he’s savoring something, and my cheeks burn. What is happening?

“Roman, get it together,” a sharp voice cuts through. A woman strides in, her green eyes glinting like emeralds. She’s stunning, lean, her designer boots clicking on the floor. “You’re making a scene.”

“India,” Roman growls, standing slowly. His eyes don’t leave me, though. “Not now.”

She scoffs, tossing her hair. “Really? Over a freshman?” Her gaze rakes over me, dismissive. “She’s nobody.”

My face heats, but I stand my ground. “I’m just here for the assignment,” I say, voice steady despite the weird energy in the room.

India laughs, cold. “Sure you are. Stay out of my way, Leera.” She says my name like it’s a curse, then turns to Roman. “We need to talk. Now.”

Roman’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move. “Later,” he says, his voice final. India’s eyes narrow, and she stalks out, her boots echoing.

Zoey grabs my arm. “Okay, that was intense. Are you good?”

“I… don’t know,” I admit, my heart still pounding. Roman’s staring at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. The tingling in my chest hasn’t stopped, and that scent of sugar and flowers lingers in the air.

“Leera,” Roman says, stepping closer. His voice is softer now, almost pleading. “We need to talk. Alone.”

“Alone?” I echo, glancing at Zoey. She nods, but her expression is wary.

“Trust me,” Roman says, and there’s something in his eyes pain, maybe hope that makes me want to. But India’s words echo: She’s nobody. And my own doubts creep in. I’m just a grieving kid with a camera. What could he possibly want with me?

“Okay,” I say finally, my voice barely a whisper. “But not here.”

He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Tonight. I’ll find you.”

As he turns away, the tingling in my chest flares, sharp and burning. I stumble, catching myself on the locker. Zoey’s at my side in an instant. “Leera, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I gasp, my vision blurring. The burning spreads, like something inside me is waking up. Roman freezes, his back to me, and I swear I hear a low growl. Not from him from *me*.

Zoey’s eyes widened. “Did you just… growl?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because as Roman glances back, his eyes glowing faintly, I know something’s changed. Something impossible. And I’m not sure I’m ready for what comes next.