This stadium puts me on edge. For human reasons and other reasons...

When it comes to crowds, I'm out of practice. I may look human, but I've never felt like more of an animal. The shift is harder to control. To stay human takes concentration that I don't have.

I've also picked out the scent of every malevolent creature known to haunt this town. An actual demon is lurking beneath the stands. There's no mistaking its scent—like rotten eggs being fried by a blow torch—and its clicking, guttural snarl.

Great. It likes me.

It must know that I know, and it knows me and may even know why I'm here. It also knows that I won't do anything about it, and that's part of the "fun."

They're bored and restless creatures in this earthly realm. They love games they win. They hurt or kill people if they're inclined to, but they prefer fucking with them. Although they can and do eat people in the classic sense sometimes, they can usually sustain themselves on human emotion.

What's their favorite "food"? It depends on the demon. And size matters. The small ones are the most common and are just nuisances. Still, they love fear and know how to provoke it. The dark is their playground. They have perfect night vision and hearty appetites.

For my purposes with Sam, a demon is not even the worst of my problems. The girls around me reek of jealousy. They have nothing good to say about any of the cheerleaders. And like you'd expect, the boys are fueled with booze and lust, and Sam is in their direct line of sight.

And Sam called it. I don't like football. I lied so she'd let me tag along. With the task I've been given, I wouldn't want her to be here without me.

Because a bunch of dickheads are beating each other senseless "for sport," it's giving everyone else a degree of social leniency. Some take that to more of an extreme than others, but no one is immune, not even the nerds in front of me.

They are comically unthreatening. I was fine ignoring them, until Sam's name came up.

She's either tumbling, or at the top of a pyramid, or showing off her insane flexibility right to the bikini bottoms. She's got a petite six-pack and a hint of cleavage that don't usually go together. If you like the small ones, she'd be . . . tempting. And a badass little ninja if anyone ever took the time to train her...

"She's good. Better than I thought," says the skinny kid with the glasses. He's wearing a Winchester U beanie that looks ridiculous. If he's a day over 18, I'd be surprised.

"I have no complaints," the second nerd comments, drool practically dripping from his open mouth. "Wait. Do you know her?" He's overweight with a baby face. It's hard to believe that anyone in college could look younger than the first guy, but he manages to pull it off.

I hope the first kid says yes. Though not for a lack of trying, I still don't know Sam that well and knowing too much is mandatory. I'm not sure what the deadline is, but there's always one looming with an assignment like this.

Sam's social media accounts showcase the cheerleading. They're so cookie-cutter neat and clean. It's like she's a marketing rep for the athletic department. She gets thousands of likes and doesn't even reply to any of the comments. Small talk on the ride over was short and strained, more my fault than hers, I admit. The only thing I got out of it was an ego boost. She called me "brave and selfless" for my actions last night. Neither of which are true, but still, it was nice to hear. I needed that, but I can't say it was great progress in any other regard.

On the sidelines, Sam is thrown and released. About ten feet off the ground, she does this crazy-hard twisty thing.

The do-you-know-her question hangs in the air, unanswered.

I don't know about the losers in front of me, but I couldn't breathe until she was safely in "the basket." Isn't that what they call the catch? I'm no expert. What I know about cheerleading, I learned from a few hours of snooping. 

"Yeah..." he finally utters, like he's surprised and proud, as if he's awesome by association. "She sits in front of me in Intro to Psych."

"You lucky bastard!" the swinish one blurts. "Does she actually have a brain in her head? On second thought, who cares?"

The hat-kid chuckles. "She's average, by my estimation. She failed that first quiz, but almost everyone else did, too."

These two are testing my ability to keep the wolf in the cage. They'd probably have kinder things to say if they were talking about the steak in the school cafeteria.

I think the demon laughs at me. Or it's feeding on sleaze and immaturity.

"Not you, though," Nerd2 suggests.

"No, not me," Nerd1 confirms.

"Shocking." The fat kid nudges his companion, not shocked at all. "You could offer to tutor her. Isn't that the only way a guy like you could snag a hot cheerleader?"

"Sorry. You won't get to live vicariously through me." The kid in her class corrects the position of his glasses and plants his focus on Sam's torso somewhere. "It only works like that in the movies. Doesn't she have a boyfriend, anyway? Some football player who'd kick my ass if I so much as look at her the wrong way?"

"Have you been living under a rock, my friend? She broke up with the guy. Ted Moeller, number 13." He tosses an upward nod at the field. "In the parking lot after she threw out the flowers he gave her."

Well, that's good news. There's one less penis to worry about, and his was the most worrisome. It still is, but at least it sounds like a hard pass on her end. Not that that means a whole lot. He could probably bench-press three of her, and he's violent and irrational.

"Oh..." The skinny one lets that sink in. "I could have sworn she had a black eye, but I didn't say anything."

"You should have. This could be your chance! She's vulnerable and probably rebounding hard. You better move quick. A little tap tap on her shoulder and a wanna study later?"

No, don't. Please...

You would be an inconvenience for her. I can tell just by looking at you. And I think you're douchey as hell, and that would make you an inconvenience for me, and that's far worse.

I should do the kid a favor and say it out loud. It would shut him up and help me avoid making a scene.

"Sure. I'll get right on that," the kid replies dryly, seemingly aware of his own chances.

Luckily for everyone involved, they change the subject after that, and I'm left alone with my burden. Although, watching Sam perform, it's starting to feel like less of one.

Why wouldn't I protect her from these assholes? She could use a strong alpha-male in her life who doesn't want to bang her. I can't say I'm the best candidate, but I'm as close as she's probably gonna get in this place.

As the game goes on, the energy shifts. The Ravens start losing. It makes even the cheerleaders more frantic, like it's their fault.

Everything seems more unstable, like we're all in a pot, about to boil over. 

Sam, at half-time, is my only respite. When the cheerleaders take a break, she scans through the crowd and waves once she finds me.

My natural reaction is neutralized by shock, unease, and the idiots in front of me, who swivel around when they realize they're not at the receiving end of that wave.

They take a hard look at me, and then turn around, face-forward. They don't even look at each other. And they're quiet until they think I'm no longer listening.  

"Who is that guy?"

"No idea. Never saw him before in my life..."

They do their human-best to whisper, but I hear them anyway. It's a wolf thing. My senses improve when I shift, but they're still well above the human average. My eyes are my only weakness. Night vision is better than theirs. My regular vision is about the same.

In any other contest, they'd lose. And Sam's "admirers" seem aware of that. She doesn't come up again. In fact, they're speechless, probably replaying everything they've said, wondering how much will get back to her and how bad the fallout will be. I'm sure they're on the low end of the pecking order as it is. 

The game goes on and on, just like Sam warned. I didn't think she was lying or anything, but I left some room for exaggeration, and I shouldn't have, because there wasn't any.

The Ravens make a comeback in the third quarter and even pull ahead. The useless quarterback finally starts completing a few passes. In a row, no less! But, with one embarrassing interception, they lose their lead. They're now three points behind with three minutes left. And that means there's a time out, like, every ten seconds. I'm starting to think we'll be here all damn night!

I wouldn't care as much if I didn't have to be at work in less than an hour. As usual, I can't be in two places at once. It's not one of my superpowers.

There will be consequences if I'm late, and yes, I should be very afraid.

As the game clock empties and the pressure mounts, the cheerleaders keep cheering. They must honestly think they can turn the tide.

They've picked up the pace and volume, jacking up the level of difficulty, throwing the stuff they were attempting in the first hour, when they weren't as tired. Sam keeps getting popped into the air. Her performance is clean as far as I can tell, but the bases are looking ragged and red-faced. And sure enough...

The crowd gasps. And I'm on my feet.

Sam's foot was wobbling while she was standing in a split. She slid off a hand and tilted in a direction no one was prepared for. There was no hope they could save the stunt. They couldn't even save her.

They fucking dropped her! She twisted in time to land on her ass, but it was so hard that I felt it.

It's complete chaos after that. The other side of the routine tries to go on, but they stop and stare once the athletic trainer is called over.

I make my way through the aisle, moving past the irritable fans who actually want to watch the final minute of the game. Scrambling down the stairs, I arrive at the barrier and call to her, but she can't hear me. The band is now playing, and she's surrounded by too many people.

In between bodies, I watch her respond to their questions. She wipes her eyes dry with her bare arm. After a minute of shaking, someone finally drapes a damn blanket over her shoulders. Her eyes are still damp and swollen. They're wide, innocent, and a purplish blue in her state of distress. It's just heart-wrenching. I never realized I was such a sucker for that sort of thing.

Two officials carry her off, her arms around their necks. They bring her to the athletic building. I traipse after them, but I'm just her roommate and ride home. It's probably for the best that I wait outside. I wouldn't want to go crazy on anyone.

The game lets out. Cheerleaders, fans, football players . . . it's a revolving door of chatter, chaos, faces that all look the same after a while.

I check my phone for the umpteenth time. I am a dead wolf. But I won't leave. I can't.

I'm expecting an ambulance to arrive. Is this not enough of an emergency for them?

My shock is genuine when I see Sam totter out instead.

"Are you all right? Do you need help?" I offer her my arm.

She sets a light hand on top of it. "They wanted to call an ambulance, but I talked them out of it. I think it's just a bruise. If anything was broken, I'd know, right?"

"I suppose," I say, unconvinced. "That was some fall."

I'd carry her if she asked, but I doubt she will, even if she needs it. My truck is probably half a mile away.    

"Yeah," she agrees flatly. "I've had worse. I think I can walk this one off. But I have to admit, walking is torture."

"Piggyback ride?" I offer anyway.

"I'm good," she claims through a wince.

Turning down the thoroughfare that leads to the parking lot, we go beneath a long red tent. It was a school marketplace and a club fair of sorts. Most of it is packed up at this point. There are just a couple of stragglers, loading boxes, folding tables and chairs.

"Hey Sam!"

We both turn toward the male voice. Before I even see the dude, I suppress a growl. And when I do see his temptingly strikable face, my claws are about to pop out.  

Fucking Ian Tierney, the quarterback. Doesn't he have girls his own age to take advantage of, a few at a time?

He jogs to catch up to us. "Are you all right? I heard about your accident."

Sam freezes and her "uh..." drags on for an uncomfortable bit. "It's nothing," she eventually blurts. "No worse than what you guys have been through, I'm sure." She gives him a sweet, subdued, nervous smile, which is more than he deserves.

She's hurt. If he had any shred of concern for that, he'd let the poor girl go home.

"Sorry about the loss. Better luck next time," I chime in as caustically as possible.

I try to lead Sam away. She attempts to follow me. Ian takes a long stride sideways, though. It's not quite a "blocked path," but it's close enough to irritate me.

"Hey, do you have a minute?" he asks Sam, and then he shoots me a glare like I'm the one who should take a hint.

Sam and I exchange glances. She nods, and I shove my hands in my pocket and shrug. I'm not her boyfriend. I don't have the grounds to intervene that she would understand.

I linger back, lean against a pole, and let them walk ahead. I may look like I'm out of hearing range, but good news. I'm not!

Ian's eyes flick to me. The distance assures him that he can ask about me. "Is that your . . . are you two..." He simulates "together" with hand gestures.

She smiles and waves to me. "We're just friends. He's my roommate."

"That sounds . . . interesting. I thought you lived on campus. You'll have to tell me all about it..." Ian runs a hand through his sweaty auburn hair. Then he puts an arm around her as they stroll forward. At least he has the decency to use the other hand. "Maybe at the party later? My place. It'll be a lick-our-wounds-and-try-to-forget-about-it soiree. Are you in?"

I dart to the next pole and check the time. It does not help my mood.

"Oh, wow, uh..." Sam's eyes are on the ground and then they flutter up and up and up. "I'd love to, but I'm really looking forward to some Advil and a full night of sleep. Maybe some other time." I like how she makes that a statement rather than a question. It's very non-committal, like she's just being polite.

"Yeah, we should hang out sometime!" Ian, of course, is undeterred. He doesn't speak rejection. It's not a language he knows. "Preferably not at a party, if you know what I mean. Or whatever," he backpedals. "I'm game for anything. Is there a time that works for you?"

"It's been kind of crazy. When I'm not here, I'm either studying or working."

"Oh, nice. Where do you work?"

C'mon, Sam. Don't answer that.

"At the Old Town Drafthouse Cinema." Maybe she is considering a "date" with him, one I would no doubt have to crash. "I'm a waitress now. I was just promoted." 

"Cool." At the end of the tent, they stop and face each other. "I haven't been there in ages. Maybe I'll stop by sometime."

"Sounds good. Wait!" She calls him back just as he's about to gallop like a stud to the next filly. "On second thought, it's probably not such a good idea. With the whole Ted ordeal..."

"Ted Moeller?" He says that like he doesn't know his own teammate or the gossip that's linked to him. "Oh, right, you two were a thing for a little while."

"Yes, and that thing..." she goes on. "If you could even call it that . . . only ended this afternoon."

"Don't worry. I get it. And I'll handle it. You have nothing to worry about."

I find that very hard to believe.

At that, I've heard enough and return to Sam's side.

"You ready?" My words are for Sam. My glare is for Ian and there's no way he could miss the warning. Back off or you're dead.

If he was some nobody, I wouldn't hesitate. But this guy would actually be missed, and justice would be pursued to the full extent of the law and his parents' fat bank account. That's probably why he thinks he's invincible and can have whatever he wants on a moment's notice.

"Have a nice night," Ian says to me in a tone of go fuck yourself. "You too, Sam," he then croons, like he's suddenly Jekyll and not Hyde. "I'll see you soon."