Chapter 3: The Lacrosse Tryouts and the First Save
The atmosphere at the lacrosse tryouts was electric, thick with the smell of sweat, fresh-cut grass, and testosterone. Jackson Whittemore, the team captain and a living, breathing ego, was in his element. He was a force of nature, a blur of motion and power on the field.
And then there was Scott.
He was still clumsy, but his reflexes were now a thing of beauty. He was no longer the awkward kid; he was a natural. The coach, Finstock, was shouting his praises, a look of utter disbelief on his face. Scott was a superstar, an overnight sensation, and everyone knew it.
I was there, too, running through the drills with a newfound grace. My Mimic System, still holding onto the werewolf power, was a quiet hum in the background, a low-frequency hum of strength and speed. It wasn't as overwhelming as Scott's power, but it was enough. I was fast. I was strong. I was a player. And Jackson Whittemore was not happy about it.
This is it. The first big moment. The moment I get to make a subtle change. I just hope I don't mess this up too badly.
I watched as the drill started. The goal was to get the ball past Jackson, who was playing goalie. He was a stone wall, a brick house of muscle and competitive fury. But he was also a ticking time bomb of unaddressed rage.
I saw it happen in slow motion. A new guy, a freshman, was running towards the goal. He was a little too fast, a little too reckless. He tripped over his own feet, and he was falling, his head going straight for the goalpost. It was a serious injury waiting to happen, a moment that would have put a black mark on an otherwise perfect day.
Without a second thought, I activated the mimicked werewolf speed. It wasn't the full-throttle, world-blurring speed of a true Alpha, but it was enough. I shot forward, a blur of motion, and I got to the kid just in time. I grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him back just as his head was about to connect with the metal. He fell to the ground, but he was safe. His face was a mask of confusion, but his skull was still intact.
The whole field went silent for a moment. Coach Finstock's jaw was on the floor. Jackson, for once in his life, was speechless.
I helped the kid up, a quick, reassuring smile on my face. "You gotta watch your footing, man. That goalpost is not your friend."
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw her. A flash of fur, a pair of glowing blue eyes in the woods that bordered the field. She was a Werecoyote, a creature of primal instinct and wild beauty. It was Malia. She was watching us. She was watching me.
A wave of emotion hit me. It was a mix of protective instinct, genuine affection, and a healthy dose of fear. She was my motivation. My reason for being here. And I had just gotten my first glimpse of her.
I walked over to Stiles, who was standing on the sidelines, his mouth agape. "Did you... did you just do that?" he stammered. "You moved so fast. It was like... it was like you were a blur."
I shrugged, a nonchalant, sarcastic smile on my face. "I'm just a really fast runner, Stiles. What can I say? Must be all that time I spent running from my problems."
He shook his head, a mix of disbelief and admiration on his face. "You're a real weirdo, Adam. A real, weirdo hero."
I looked back at the woods, but she was gone. Just a memory, a flash of yellow eyes in the dark green. My heart, the new heart in this body, ached with a strange combination of longing and purpose. I was going to save her. I was going to find her. But first, I had to deal with the inevitable drama.
And the drama was walking towards me.
It was Jackson. He was glaring at me, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "Who the hell are you?" he snarled. "And why are you so fast?"
I just gave him a simple smile. "I'm Adam. And I'm fast because I'm not a walking inferiority complex who needs to win at everything to feel good about myself."
Jackson's jaw dropped. He was speechless, a rare sight. The whole team was silent, watching the two of us.
Stiles, ever the comedic genius, broke the tension. "Ouch," he said, a high-pitched, exaggerated sound. "He just got burned so bad, he's going to need a fire extinguisher."
Jackson glared at me for a moment longer, a look of pure hatred on his face. Then, he turned and stormed off the field.
I looked at Stiles and we both broke into a low, conspiratorial chuckle. "That," I said, "was a masterpiece."
"You're a monster," Stiles said, but he was grinning. "A beautiful, sarcastic monster. And you're on my team now, so that's all that matters."