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CHAPTER 10
🕑 Added 2025-05-25 18:10:24 +0000 UTC"Alright, you magnificent specimens of teenage angst and athletic potential!" Coach Finstock bellowed, his voice echoing across the lacrosse field. "We're gonna run a scrimmage! Vests versus skins! McCall the First, you're with the skins! McCall the Second," he gestured towards Alex, who was looking remarkably out of place in the bulky lacrosse gear, "you're with Whittemore on the vests! Let's see some fire! Let's see some grit! Let's see if McCall number two actually knows which end of the stick to hold!"
Alex, indeed, looked like he was holding the lacrosse stick as if it were an alien artifact he was reluctantly dissecting. He was positioned somewhere in the midfield, looking more like a bored supermodel forced into a charity sports event than an actual player. Jackson, on the same team, shot Alex a look of pure disdain, clearly unimpressed with his new, highly-touted teammate. Scott, on the opposing "skins" team, gave Alex an encouraging, if slightly worried, nod.
The whistle blew, and the game, or rather, the chaotic ballet of teenage aggression, began.
The ball flew. Players scrambled. Sticks clashed with sharp, percussive cracks. Scott, fueled by a combination of newfound werewolf agility and a desperate desire to impress Allison (who was watching intently from the bleachers with Lydia), was a blur of motion. He dodged, he weaved, he actually looked… good.
Surprisingly, whenever the ball came near Alex, he caught it with an almost lazy, effortless grace. His hand-eye coordination was clearly off the charts. But then, instead of making a play, instead of running or attempting a shot, he’d simply flick his wrist and send the ball sailing with pinpoint accuracy to a nearby teammate, usually one who looked completely surprised to receive such a perfect pass. Then Alex would just… stand there. Observing. As if the game were a mildly interesting sociological experiment.
"McCall!" Jackson snarled after Alex had passed him the ball for the third time instead of taking an open lane. "Move! Do something! This isn't a damn picnic!"
Alex merely offered a serene, unbothered smile.
A few minutes later, Scott, after a brilliant interception, dodged two defenders and fired a rocket of a shot past the Vests' goalie. SWISH! Goal.
The "Skins" team erupted in cheers. Stiles, on the sidelines (Coach Finstock had wisely decided his talents lay more in "enthusiastic commentary" than actual play), was jumping up and down, screaming, "THAT'S MY BOY! SCOTTY MCCALL, THE LEGEND! WOOO!"
Even Alex, still rooted to his spot in midfield, clapped politely, a genuine smile touching his lips. "Nice shot, Scotty!" he called out, his voice carrying easily. His "Vests" teammates, including a fuming Jackson, and Coach Finstock, stared at him. Alex, noticing their collective gaze, coughed awkwardly. "What? We're all… a team… in the broader sense of Beacon Hills High athletic spirit, right? And it was a good shot. Objectively speaking." Coach Finstock just blinked, then let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a choking fit. "Yeah! Yeah, it was a good goal, McCall! A real zinger! Glad to see such… uh… sportsmanship from McCall number two! Even if it's for the wrong damn team!"
Jackson, however, was livid. Scott scoring, and Alex’s bizarre, nonchalant behavior, was clearly grating on his last nerve. His jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed . The whistle blew to restart the game.
The ball was in play again. It ended up in Alex’s crosse. An opposing player from Scott’s team charged towards him, stick raised. Alex, instead of dodging or passing, simply stood his ground, a thoughtful expression on his face as if contemplating the aerodynamic properties of the incoming player. Suddenly, WHAM! Jackson, coming from Alex’s blind side, collided with him with the force of a freight train. It wasn't a legal check; it was a deliberate, shoulder-first ram that sent Alex sprawling to the grass with a grunt. The girls in the stands let out a collective "Ooooh!" of sympathy and outrage.
Alex lay there for a moment, looking up at the grey sky, a surprised expression on his face. Jackson jogged past, a smug, triumphant smirk plastered on his face. "Watch your back, pretty boy," he sneered. Alex slowly sat up, brushing grass from his jersey. He looked at Jackson’s retreating figure, and a slow, dangerous smirk of his own began to spread across his lips. Oh, it was on.
The game restarted. Jackson had the ball, weaving through players, his usual arrogant confidence on full display. He was heading for the goal, a clear shot opening up. Then, like a heat-seeking missile, Alex launched himself. It wasn't a tackle. It wasn't a check. It was a collision. A perfectly timed, brutally efficient impact that sent Jackson flying. The ball scattered. Jackson landed hard, the air whooshing out of him, his expression one of pure, unadulterated shock. TWEEEEEET! Coach Finstock’s whistle shrieked. "MCCALL! WHITTEMORE! WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY AND INVOLVES PROTECTIVE PADDING WAS THAT?!"
He stormed onto the field, his face red. "It's okay, Coach! Happens!" Alex said cheerfully, offering a hand to a still-dazed Jackson, who slapped it away. "Just a little friendly competition! Getting a feel for the physicality of the game!"
"Physicality?!" Finstock shrieked. "That wasn't physicality, McCall, that was attempted homicide with a lacrosse stick as an accessory! And you, Whittemore! That earlier hit wasn't exactly a love tap!"
From that point on, the "scrimmage" devolved into a personal vendetta between Alex and Jackson. Every time one of them got near the ball, or even near each other, there was a collision. Sometimes subtle, a well-placed hip check that just happened to send the other player off balance. Sometimes not so subtle, like when Alex "accidentally" tripped Jackson, sending him face-first into the mud, or when Jackson "lost control" of his stick and it "coincidentally" whacked Alex across the shins.
Coach Finstock was losing his mind. His whistle was a near-constant shriek. His face went from red to purple. He threw his hat on the ground. He picked it up and threw it again. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO PLAYING AT?!" he screamed, his hands on his head, pacing the sidelines. "IS THIS LACROSSE, OR ARE YOU TWO BULLS DUKING IT OUT IN AN ARENA?! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO PASS THE BALL, NOT USE EACH OTHER AS THE BALL! MY GRANDMOTHER, GOD REST HER SOUL, AND SHE WAS HALF BLIND AND USED A WALKER, COULD PLAY A MORE COORDINATED GAME THAN YOU TWO PRIMA DONNAS!"
Stiles, on the sidelines, was having the time of his life. "Oh my god, this is better than pay-per-view!" he cackled, clutching his sides. "It's like a demolition derby, but with more angst and better hair! Ten bucks says Alex takes out Jackson’s other knee!"
Scott, meanwhile, watched the escalating feud with a growing sense of dread and embarrassment. "What are they doing?" he muttered to another teammate, who just shrugged, looking equally bewildered and slightly terrified. "This isn't practice, it's a personal war." He could feel a headache coming on. This was exactly the kind of chaos he’d expected Alex to bring, and it was only day one. Allison, from the bleachers, looked concerned. Lydia, however, looked utterly fascinated, a small, predatory smile playing on her lips. This was drama of the highest caliber.
