The sun beat down on the field, heat shimmering across the turf.
Whistle! Whistle!
"Come on, come on, everyone!" Coach Finstock bellowed, pacing like a man who lived off pure chaos. "Move it, move it!"
Players scrambled from the sidelines, sticks clattering, helmets bouncing under their arms.
Scott McCall jogged onto the grass, spotting Allison in the stands. His lips tugged into an awkward smile as he gave her a quick wave.
"What, McCall?" Finstock spun, eyes narrowing.
"Huh?" Scott froze mid-wave.
"You raised your hand."
"What? No, I was just—uh—" Scott stammered, cheeks heating. "Nothing. Sorry."
"Okay," Coach muttered suspiciously before turning back to the group. "Listen up! You all know the rules. If you're not up to it—" he jabbed a finger toward the bench— "then you're gonna stay over there for the rest of the season. Which means no crowd, no cheers, and definitely no post-game… rewards."
The players chuckled.
"Play well…" Finstock grabbed one kid by the jersey, shaking him so hard his helmet rattled. "…and your parents will be proud. Your girlfriend will love you. Your dog will respect you!"
He dropped the poor player and clapped his hands. "Everything else is just… cream cheese! Now get out there and show me something!"
The field erupted in motion as the players spread out, adrenaline high.
...
The ball was in play. Asher caught it near midfield, his movements smooth, almost elegant. He sprinted forward but defenders closed in fast. No opening. He scanned, then fired a quick pass toward the nearest teammate—Scott.
Scott snatched it clean—only to be slammed by Jackson Whitmore.
The impact rattled, the two locking eyes for a brief, heated second.
The ball was reset at the center. Scott and Jackson crouched opposite one another, sticks low, eyes locked in a silent challenge.
Whistle!
Scott exploded forward, stick flashing—ball his.
He bolted down the field, speed unnatural, his movements sharp and instinctive.
A defender lunged. Scott spun around him, clean.
Another blocked. Scott whipped the stick behind his back, flipping the ball into his other hand without breaking stride.
Coach Finstock's mouth dropped into a cartoonish "O."
A third closed in. Scott pivoted, sidestepped, gone.
Then three at once. They came hard, surrounding.
Scott didn't slow. He launched forward—front flip—clean over them. Gasps tore through the stands as he landed on both feet, momentum unbroken.
In one smooth motion, he hurled the ball at the net.
The goalie didn't even blink before it slammed into the netting.
"OOOOHHHHHH!" The crowd roared, the sound shaking the bleachers.
The players swarmed him—high-fives, cheers, sticks clashing together in celebration. Scott grinned, chest heaving, glowing in the spotlight. Everyone except Asher. He stood nearby, smiling faintly but keeping back, his natural shyness holding him in place.
Jackson's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed like daggers.
"Scott!" Coach Finstock barked suddenly, his tone sharp, almost angry.
Scott blinked, ripping off his helmet as he jogged over, nerves twisting in his gut.
"Can I know what you just did out there?" Coach demanded, gesturing wildly at the field. "This is a lacrosse field. What—you think it's the Olympics? You wanna do gymnastics?"
Scott's brow furrowed. "No, Coach—"
"Then explain that circus stunt."
"I don't know…" Scott admitted, voice almost sheepish. "I was just… trying to throw."
"You were just trying to throw," Finstock repeated flatly.
Scott swallowed. "Yes, Coach."
A long pause.
Then Coach broke into a huge grin and clapped him hard on the shoulder. "Well guess what, champ? You're in."
Scott blinked. "Wait—what?"
"You're in the first team."
The stands erupted in applause, whistles echoing across the field. Scott's eyes widened, breathless.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't the background. He was the star.
And he loved it.
...
Another round was about to start.
Asher stood at the center of the field, stick pressed tight in his hands. His heart thudded in his chest, but this time it wasn't nerves—it was resolve.
I want to get in the first team too.
He looked at the player opposite him, jaw tight, waiting for the signal.
Whistle!
Asher snatched the ball instantly, sprinting straight toward the goal. His teammates shouted, voices cutting across the field.
"Pass! Pass it, Asher!"
But Asher didn't listen. He wasn't about to let this chance slip away. If Scott could pull off something spectacular, so could he.
The first defender lunged—Asher faked left, then slipped right in a flash, leaving the guy reaching for air.
The second came barreling in.
"Pass! Over here!"
Asher ignored the call. Instead, he hurled the ball high—too high for himself, angled forward over the defender's head.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. What's he doing?
The defender lunged upward, stretching his stick with both hands. His net snagged the ball mid-air, pride flashing across his face—only for a split second. The leap had thrown him off balance, his heels barely clinging to the turf.
Asher was already there. He shoved—not a brutal hit, just a sharp push to the chest. Enough.
The defender toppled backward with a grunt, arms flailing. His stick crashed downward, the pocket tilting—and the ball tumbled loose.
Before it even touched the ground, Asher's stick swept in and scooped it back, smooth as if the whole exchange had been planned.
The crowd roared in surprise, their cheers swelling louder with each step.
Two defenders remained, charging at him together. For a moment, Asher's eyes darted to the sideline, where a gap had opened. Too easy. Too obvious.
A different idea sparked.
He clenched the stick between his teeth, dropped low, and sprinted on all fours.
The crowd exploded in laughter and shock, some cheering, some booing. The defenders blinked, still trying to process what they'd just seen.
But on the bench, Stiles shot up to his feet, his eyes wide. "No way…" he muttered under his breath. His brain was racing — he'd been the last nights researching werewolves ever since Scott's sudden changes. And Asher, on all fours, darting like a predator… it looked way too familiar.
The defenders spread their arms wide—but Asher darted underneath them, weaving through like a dog dodging legs.
In a heartbeat, he was upright again, face-to-face with the goalie. No hesitation—he whipped the ball past him and into the net.
"YEAHHHHHH!" The stands went wild.
Teammates swarmed him, clapping his back and raising their sticks. Not as crazy as Scott's reception, sure—but for Asher, it was more than enough.
"What the hell was that?" one of the defenders gasped, still stunned. "That was insane, dude!"
Asher's cheeks burned, a shy grin tugging at his lips.
"Sable!" Coach Finstock's voice boomed.
Asher hurried over, pulling off his helmet, breathless.
"What was that?" Finstock barked, pacing around him. "Are you a dog?!"
"N-No, Coach," Asher stammered. "I was just trying to get past the defenders and… that seemed like the best option."
"So the best option wasn't passing to your teammates, it was… doing the dog?" Finstock threw his hands up.
Asher's face turned crimson. "Sorry…"
Finstock sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Listen, I know you just saw McCall, but not everyone is like him. A kid like that? Born once in a thousand years. If you want to stay in the first team, you've gotta pass to your teammates, not—"
"Wait—what?" Asher blurted, eyes wide.
Finstock blinked. "What?"
"You said… first team."
"Oh, right. Yeah. You're in the first team starting today."
The stands clapped again, cheers spilling over the field.
At the lowest row of the bleachers, Erica rose to her feet, clapping furiously, her smile brighter than the sun. For her, Asher wasn't just on the first team. He was already a star.
To be continued...
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How was this lacrosse-chapter? Liked it?
Also, I've written myself a guideline for Erica's storyline, I personally think is very good, hope you will like it as well.