Caught in the Downpour

ARIANA'S POV

I spun, a scream lodged in my throat, and there he was—the hockey guy, inches away. His golden eyes glinted with something wild, his damp jersey clinging to a chest that looked carved from stone. Water dripped from his shaggy hair, tracing a slow path down his jaw, and that smirk was back, teasing, knowing. My pulse skyrocketed, fear and something else—something reckless—tangling in my chest.

"What the hell—" I choked out, stepping back, but my heel caught the mat, and I stumbled. He caught my elbow, his grip firm, electric, and for a second, I couldn't breathe. His touch burned through the wet fabric, and I hated how my body leaned into it, how his scent—pine and sweat and danger—flooded my senses.

"Careful," he said, his voice a low purr, his thumb brushing my arm before he let go. "You're jumping at shadows already."

I yanked away, cheeks flaming despite the cold. "What's that supposed to mean? And who are you?"

"Logan," he said, stepping closer, towering over me at 5'11" to my 5'7". "Captain of the Wolves. And you—" His gaze raked me, slow and deliberate, lingering on my soaked tank top. "You're the new cheer captain, right? Saw your flips. Not bad."

My mouth went dry. Captain? He was the Logan Donovan? The senior everyone whispered about—hockey star, campus legend? And he'd seen me? I crossed my arms, suddenly hyper-aware of how the rain had turned my clothes into a second skin.

"Thanks, I guess. But why'd you sneak up on me like that?"

"Didn't sneak," he said, smirking again. "You just weren't paying attention, uh…?" He tilted his head, waiting, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the damp air.

"Ariana," I croaked, my throat dry despite the rain. "Ariana Grandiose." The words tumbled out as he lifted the speaker from my hands, his fingers brushing mine again–deliberate, I swore it. My pulse roared in my ears.

"Nice to meet you, Red," he said, straightening with a casual grace that made my stomach flip.

I blinked, caught off guard by the nickname. It felt like a scene from one of those cheesy rom-coms Mom used to watch—dashing guy swoops in, helps the flustered girl, cue the violins. Except this wasn't a movie, and I wasn't about to swoon. Was I? His red lips parted slightly, and for a dumb, dizzy second, I wondered what they'd feel like—what he'd feel like. I shook my head, snapping myself out of it. Focus, Ariana.

"You okay?" he asked, snapping his fingers in front of my face. The sharp sound yanked me back, and I jolted, nearly dropping the mat again. "You zoned out."

"Yeah, I'm fine," I lied, standing as he hefted the mat and speaker like they weighed nothing. My eyes snagged on the way his jersey clung to his chest, outlining every ridge of muscle, and I forced them away. "Just… startled."

"Where do these go?" he asked, nodding at the gear. "Equipment room?"

"Uh, yeah." I pointed toward the corner of the gym, where a shadowed hallway led to the lockers and storage. He slid past me, his arm brushing mine, and I followed, my sneakers squeaking on the slick floor. The air grew heavier as we walked, the earlier growl still echoing in my mind. I couldn't shake it—that feeling of being watched, hunted.

Logan's words from the field—It wants you as much as I want you—twisted in my head. Had he staged that noise, or was something else lurking? My gut churned, torn between suspicion and the stupid pill I felt toward him.

He pushed open the equipment room door, revealing a dusty cave of high shelves stacked with first-aid kits, weight plates, and tangled piles of pads. The air smelled of mildew and old sweat, and a single flickering bulb cast jagged shadows. Logan propped the mat against the wall, set the speaker on a shelf, and stepped out, pulling the door shut with a clang.

"All done, Miss Ariana," he said, dipping into a mock bow that was so over-the-top I couldn't help but laugh. "Consider it my apology."

The knot in my chest loosened, but questions gnawed at me. I locked the door, the key cold in my palm, and turned to him as we headed back toward the exit. "Logan, wait. What you said earlier—about not something or someone wanting me as much as you do—what was that about?"

He stopped mid-step, his broad frame blocking the doorway. "Oh?" His brow furrowed, then smoothed into a grin. "You haven't heard about the boogeyman?"

I snorted, half-expecting a punchline. "Boogeyman? What, like a ghost story?"

His face stayed dead serious, golden eyes locking onto mine. "There's a legend here. Every fall, when the newbies show up, it stirs. Takes souls, they say." A beat passed, then his grin broke through, sharp and teasing. "Nah, I'm messing with you. It's just a dumb tale—started maybe five years back. I was here when it kicked off."

"Five years?" I gasped, doing the math. "You should've graduated by now. What are you, 30?"

Logan's laugh was softer this time, but his eyes darted away, scanning the rain beyond the doors. "Don't believe everything you think," he said again, dodging the question. "Come on, my car's out there. I'll drive you."

The shift in his tone—tight, evasive—piqued my curiosity, but I let it drop. He stepped into the storm, rain pelting his shoulders, and took off running. I bolted after him, the downpour soaking me anew, my tank top sticking to my skin like glue. Thunder growled overhead as we reached the car park, and Logan fumbled with his keys. Headlamps flashed on a sleek black convertible, its curves gleaming wetly in the dark. He yanked the passenger door open, and I dove in, him sliding into the driver's seat a second later.

We sat there, panting, water dripping off us onto the leather seats. Logan turned the key, but the engine sputtered—a weak cough that faded into silence. "Dammit," he growled, slamming a fist against the wheel. His jaw tightened, then softened as he glanced at me. "Sorry. Engine's dead."

"It's fine," I said, brushing wet hair from my eyes. "I'm in the dorms. I can walk."

"In this?" He scoffed, gesturing at the windshield. Rain hammered down, blurring the world into a gray smear, the lighting cracked the sky open. Wind howled, rattling the car, and I shivered, goosebumps prickling my arms. He was right—walking was suicide.

"So… we're stuck?" I murmured, hugging myself against the chill.

"Looks like it," he said, leaning back with a chuckle that warmed the air between us. His hoodie was soaked, outlining the hard planes of his chest, and that pine-and-sweat scent of his filled the car, dizzying me.

I shifted, my bare thigh brushing the gearshift—and his hand, resting there. Neither of us moved. Heat sparked where our skin touched, and my breath caught, loud in the quiet.