Chapter Text
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The morning of the lacrosse game dawned bright and clear, the kind of perfect California day that made postcards seem understated. Carl had never played lacrosse. He had barely even seen it played. In his world, sports had died along with civilization. But as he walked into the Beacon Hills High School locker room, the energy in the air was electric, almost suffocating.
The team was already gathering, their cleats clattering against the concrete floor, their sticks clacking as they grabbed their gear. The air smelled of sweat, tape, and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline. And at the center of the chaos stood Scott McCall, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, her game jersey already on, her eyes gleaming with a competitive fire that Carl had seen only in the heat of battle.
"You're here," Scott said, her voice bright as she spotted Carl in the doorway. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I said I would," Carl replied, leaning against the doorframe. "I keep my word."
"I know you do." She smiled, and for a moment, the tension in her shoulders eased. "It's just the championship game. No big deal. Just a little pressure. Maybe a few hundred people watching. Possibly a scout from the state college."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Pressure is my middle name. Actually, it's Marie. But pressure is close enough."
Stiles appeared from behind a locker, his jersey untucked, his helmet tucked under his arm. His face was flushed with a mixture of excitement and barely suppressed terror. "Okay, so I've been doing some research on the opposing team. They're from North Hills. They've won the last three championships. Their goalie is a beast. Their attackman is known for cheap shots. And I'm pretty sure their coach is a secret werewolf."
"Stiles," Scott said flatly. "They're not werewolves."
"Are you sure? Because the way that one guy benches two hundred pounds—"
"I'm sure."
"Fine. But if he starts howling at the goal, I'm calling a foul."
Scott laughed, shaking her head. "Just focus on the game. We have a good team. We have a plan. And we have Carl here for moral support."
Carl raised an eyebrow. "I don't do moral support."
"Then do intimidating stares. You're good at those."
The team filed out onto the field, and Carl took a seat in the bleachers near the fifty-yard line. He had chosen the spot carefully—close enough to see everything, but far enough back to have a clear view of the exits. Old habits.
The stadium was packed. Parents, students, and alumni filled the stands, their voices rising in a cacophony of cheers and chants. The North Hills team was already warming up on the far side of the field, their players tall and aggressive, their movements sharp and precise.
The Beacon Hills Wildcats took the field, and Carl's eyes immediately found Scott. She was a blur of motion, her feet light on the grass, her stick moving with practiced ease. She wasn't the tallest player on the field, but she moved like she owned it. Every step was deliberate, every glance calculated. She was a predator, and she was hunting.
Stiles, on the other hand, was a chaotic mess of nervous energy. He was bouncing on his heels, adjusting his helmet for the fifth time, and muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer to the God of Lacrosse.
The whistle blew, and the game began.
---
The first quarter was brutal. North Hills dominated possession, their attack moving like a well-oiled machine. Their goalie was as good as Stiles had warned, blocking shot after shot with an almost supernatural precision. The score was 3-0 before the first quarter even ended, and the Wildcats were already looking winded.
Scott called a huddle during the break. Her face was calm, but her eyes were burning. "We're playing their game. They're controlling the tempo. We need to slow them down. Make them work for every pass. And Stiles—"
"Yes?"
"You're the only one who can break their defense. You're fast. You're unpredictable. And you're too annoying for them to ignore."
Stiles blinked. "That's... actually a compliment. I think."
"It is. Use it. Be annoying. Be unpredictable. And when they come for you, make sure they miss."
The second quarter started, and the Wildcats came out swinging. Scott led the charge, her stick snapping as she intercepted a pass and launched a fast break down the field. She dodged two defenders, her body twisting in midair, and fired a shot that sailed past the goalie's outstretched glove.
The crowd roared. 3-1.
Stiles picked up where Scott left off. He weaved through the defense like a ghost, his movements so erratic that even his own teammates couldn't predict where he was going. He drew two defenders toward him, then flicked a blind pass to Isaac, who was waiting near the crease. Isaac caught it, spun, and fired.
3-2.
The momentum shifted. The Wildcats were no longer playing defense. They were hunting.
By halftime, the score was tied at 4-4, and the energy in the stadium was electric. The team jogged off the field, their chests heaving, their jerseys soaked with sweat. Stiles collapsed onto the bench, his helmet hitting the ground with a loud clatter.
"I'm dying," he gasped. "Tell my dad I loved him."
"Tell him yourself," Scott said, tossing him a water bottle. "You're not dying. You're just exhausted."
"No, I'm definitely dying. I can feel my soul leaving my body."
Carl walked down from the bleachers, carrying a bag of oranges that Melissa had insisted he bring. He set it on the bench, and the players grabbed them greedily.
"You're playing well," Carl said to Scott.
"We're playing well enough. But North Hills is going to adjust in the second half. They're going to target Stiles."
Carl looked at Stiles, who was now lying flat on his back, his arms spread out in a starfish shape. "He'll handle it."
"How do you know?"
"Because he's annoying. And annoying people are hard to kill."
Scott laughed, a bright, genuine sound that made Carl's chest feel tight. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said about him."
"It's the only nice thing I've ever said about him."
Stiles sat up, offended. "I heard that!"
"You were supposed to."
---
The third quarter was a war. North Hills came out with a renewed intensity, their plays sharper, their hits harder. They targeted Stiles relentlessly, double-teaming him every time he touched the ball. But Stiles, true to form, refused to back down. He took the hits, got back up, and kept moving.
With three minutes left in the quarter, the score was 6-6. The Wildcats had possession, and Scott was calling the play.
"Stiles. You're going to draw them in. I'm going to cut to the crease. Carl—" She paused, looking up at the bleachers where he stood. "—you're going to be my good luck charm."
Carl didn't respond. He just nodded, his eyes fixed on the field.
The whistle blew. Stiles took the ball, sprinting down the field with the North Hills defense closing in. He faked left, spun right, and drew three defenders toward him. Then, at the last possible second, he launched a high, arcing pass toward Scott.
Scott caught it midair, her body twisting as she landed. She was in front of the goal, but the goalie was already moving to block her shot. She had half a second to decide.
She didn't shoot. Instead, she passed to Isaac, who was wide open on the backside of the goal. Isaac caught it, turned, and fired.
Goal. 7-6. Wildcats.
The buzzer sounded, ending the quarter. The team erupted in celebration, but Scott was already pulling them together for the final quarter.
"We're not done yet," she said. "They're going to come back. They're going to fight. But we're going to fight harder. We're going to win this game. Not for the trophy. Not for the school. For us".
The team let out a collective roar, and they ran back onto the field.
---
The fourth quarter was a blur of sweat, blood, and raw determination. Both teams traded goals, the lead changing hands four times. With two minutes left, the score was 9-9.
North Hills called a timeout. Their coach was screaming at his players, his face red, his veins bulging. The Wildcats huddled together, their breath coming in ragged gasps.
"We have one chance," Scott said. "We win the faceoff, we hold possession, and we don't let them touch the ball. Stiles, you're taking the faceoff."
Stiles's eyes went wide. "Me? I'm not a faceoff specialist. I'm a chaos agent."
"You're the best player on this field," Scott said, her voice firm. "And I trust you. Do you trust me?"
Stiles was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yeah. I trust you."
The whistle blew, and Stiles stepped up to the faceoff circle. Across from him stood the North Hills captain, a tall, muscular player with a sneer on his face.
"You're going to lose," the captain said.
"We'll see."
The whistle blew, and Stiles's stick snapped forward. He won the faceoff cleanly, his speed catching the captain off guard. He passed to Scott, who sprinted down the field, weaving through defenders like water through fingers.
She reached the goal, the goalie charging toward her. She faked a shot, drew him out of position, and then—
She passed to Stiles, who had sprinted the entire length of the field to be there.
He caught the ball. He turned. He fired.
The ball sailed into the back of the net.
The buzzer sounded. The game was over.
Beacon Hills Wildcats: 10. North Hills: 9.
The stadium erupted. Stiles dropped to his knees, his head in his hands, his chest heaving. Scott ran over and tackled him to the ground, laughing and crying at the same time. The rest of the team piled on, a massive dogpile of sweat, grass stains, and joy.
Carl stood in the bleachers, watching. For a moment, the noise of the crowd faded, and he saw only her—Scott, covered in grass and dirt, laughing with her friends, her eyes bright with victory.
She looked up at him and waved.
He waved back.
---
Later that night, the pack gathered at Scott's house for the victory party. The kitchen was filled with pizza, soda, and the lingering smell of victory. Stiles was holding a trophy above his head like a king, his grin so wide it almost split his face.
"I won the faceoff," he kept repeating. "I won the game. I'm a hero."
"You're a nuisance," Derek said, but there was no malice in his voice.
Scott sat on the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her, a soda in her hand. Carl sat beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers.
"You were amazing out there," he said quietly.
"We were amazing out there," Scott corrected. "All of us."
"That includes you. You led them."
"I'm the Alpha. It's my job."
"It's not just your job. It's who you are." Carl looked at her, his eyes serious. "You're the best leader I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot of leaders."
Scott was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. "Thank you, Carl."
"Don't thank me. I'm just telling the truth."
Stiles plopped down on Scott's other side, his trophy balanced on his lap. "You know what this victory means? It means we're going to the state championship. And the state championship is being held at a stadium that's basically in the middle of a forest. Which means there's going to be supernatural activity. Which means we're going to have to fight a monster while also winning a lacrosse game."
"You're just full of good news," Carl said dryly.
"I like to be prepared."
Scott laughed, leaning her head against Stiles's shoulder. "We'll deal with it when it comes. For now, let's just enjoy the win."
The party continued into the night, the house filled with laughter, music, and the warmth of friendship. Carl sat on the couch, watching his new family celebrate, and he felt something he hadn't felt in years.
Peace.
But in the back of his mind, a small, cold voice whispered that peace never lasted. And he knew, deep down, that the darkness was coming.
But for now, he was happy.
And for now, that was enough.