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Unsurprisingly, Stiles is the first one who notices, staring down at the field with narrowed eyes and an expression of disbelief.
“Dude, take a look out on the field,” Stiles mutters to Scott in a quiet voice, gesturing bodily at the lacrosse pitch. “What do you see?”
And it’s not like Scott wouldn’t have noticed on his own. He’s actually a pretty observant guy. It’s just that, thus far, he hasn’t exactly been paying attention to the game, opting to play footsies with Kira instead, punctuated by high-pitched giggles and pink-tinged cheeks. Which, in and of itself is a little ridiculous, considering they’ve been together for five years at this point and the newlywed stage should be long over, but Stiles supposes that the fact that they’re both the personification of rainbow-beams-of-happiness somehow managed to perpetuate the fluffy, googly-eyed quality of their relationship.
Scott’s face scrunches up and he glances down to the field, eyebrows dashing to his hairline. “Wait, there’s no way,” Scott says, half in awe, half in horror.
Stiles just nods soberly. “I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that one, buddy. Though I can definitely understand your skepticism.”
From her place snuggled in Scott’s arm, Kira glances between them, baffled. “Did I miss something?”
“Just watch,” Stiles tells her, as Beacon Hills scores another point, bringing the current tally to 52, Beacon Hills, 2, Neptune.
Kira blinks. “Wow, they’re really good.”
“They’re more than good,” Stiles comments.
“They’re werewolves,” Scott finishes.
__________
When the game is finally finished – boasting a painful final score of Beacon Hills – 73, Neptune – 3 – the three of them make their way down to the field.
It had been five years since Scott turned Finstock, too blindly moral to let the man die when he’d inadvertently sprung the nogitsune’s trap and had been impaled by that arrow. Back then, things had been pretty dark for all of them, and Finstock hadn’t made it easy on them. As a beta, he was brash and insubordinate. He thought having a teenage alpha was a joke. When he’d finally ditched and decided to be his own pack, it had been a relief.
Now, they’re left to wonder what the hell their former lacrosse coach had gotten up to.
“What did we do?” Stiles hisses as he clambers down the metal landing of the bleachers.
Scott waves his hands helplessly. “This isn’t our fault. We saved his life! We did the right thing.”
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees morosely, “But at what cost?”
A cluster of maroon-garbed players are staring at them as they descend. It’s terribly creepy.
“Do you think they can hear us?”
The staring intensifies.
“What do you think?” Scott shoots back.
The moment they touch down on the grass, they’re greeted by a boisterous, “McCall! Bilisnski!” And there stands Coach Finstock in all his magnificent, coachly glory, looking far healthier and happier than he had back when it was them he was coaching. He’s wearing a thick, black leather jacket that says “COACH” on the back and a glittering gold whistle around his neck. In a few long strides, he closes the distance between them, clapping Scott playfully on the shoulder.
Kira shoots Stiles a look and mouths, “Bilinski?”
Stiles just shakes his head and mouths back, “Don’t ask,” because it’s easier than explaining that Finstock does, in fact, know his name, but that the man probably thinks it’s some kind of inside joke.
Instead, Stiles turns his attention to Finstock. “Coach, you’re looking good. Really digging the leather, I see.”
Finstock beams, clapping him on the shoulder, too. “Things are good, boys, things are good! What’d you think of the game? We really creamed ‘em, huh?”
“Yeah,” Scott says slowly. “Your team definitely made their presence known.”
Stiles decides to rip off the Band-Aid. “Yeah, so, Coach, I couldn’t help but notice, but is your entire team made up of, well, werewolves?”
Finstock doesn’t even blink, his grin never faltering. “Yup.”
The three of them exchange wary glances.
“Right,” Stiles continues. “Yeah, so, besides the obvious problems that come with turning an entire team of teenagers into werewolves, don’t you have to be an alpha to do that?”
Finstock snorts. “Duh. What are you on, Bilinski? And where can I get some?”
Scott stares at him. “But that would mean…?”
The coach’s eyes flash red and he smiles contentedly. “Yup.”
Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the way his mouth is hanging open. “But… how?”
“That, my friends, is a long story,” Finstock tells them dreamily. “But I’ll sum it up with two words: Strip. Poker.”
And, well, that’s a mental image that Stiles most certainly didn’t need. Neither did Scott or Kira, if their unison cringing is anything to go by.
“Wow,” Scott mutters, obviously still reeling in shock. “Just… wow.”
Kira forces a smile, nodding in agreement. “Congrats!”
Stiles is still staring in abject horror. “Wait, let me get this straight,” Stiles sputters. “You – you – are an alpha werewolf. And the first thing you decided to do was turn your entire lacrosse team into werewolves, too.”
“Well, not all of them,” Finstock says impatiently, rolling his eyes. “Just most.”
“Right, yeah, okay,” Stiles says, waving his hand absently. “But… why?”
Finstock eyes him pityingly, like he’s some hapless child. “To win, of course! Why wouldn’t I?”
“Oh, I don’t know, hunters, maybe? Not drawing attention to yourself, maybe? The fact that the bite sometimes kills people?”
The coach scrunches his face, shaking his head. “The hunters are surprisingly competitive. They are also big gamblers. And the rest? Taken care of. I know exactly what I’m doing,” he tells them smugly.
And, well, they can’t really argue with that.
Stiles rubs at his face tiredly. “I need a drink.”
“I’ll buy,” Finstock volunteers cheerfully.
And so it goes.