The classroom door opened, and a teacher stepped in, a girl following close behind him.
She had long, dark brown hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders, framing a face that seemed both elegant and approachable. Her eyes, warm and inquisitive, scanned the room with a hint of nervous curiosity. She clutched her books against her chest, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she tried to appear confident.
Crystal clear skin, subtle makeup, and a simple outfit — jeans and a jacket layered over a top — made her stand out in a way that was understated yet impossible to ignore. She had that new girl aura, mysterious but inviting.
"This is your new classmate, Allison Argent. Try to make her feel at home—"
The teacher was interrupted by someone else entering the classroom.
"Sorry for being late," he said, stepping in.
Just as he made the first step, the teacher who had been explaining the lesson frowned.
"I think you came into the wrong class," he said.
Every girl in the room turned toward him, mouths slightly agape. This guy… he was simply perfect. Not even Jackson Whitmore, captain of the lacrosse team, came close to this kind of presence.
"I'm… Asher. Asher Sable," the guy said, and the classroom fell silent in utter shock.
"Ah…" The teacher blinked, clearly awkward. "You've changed so much, Asher… sorry if I didn't recognize you. Take your seat." He scratched the back of his neck nervously.
"Thanks, Mr. Hargrove," Asher said politely, moving toward a seat in the second row.
The whispers started immediately. Everyone was still in complete shock. This… was the nerdy, overweight, awkward Asher Sable of last year? What had he done over the summer to change this much?
"Argent…" Mr. Hargrove turned to Allison, still slightly flustered, "you can take a seat too."
Allison nodded and made her way to the back row, slipping quietly into her seat.
The teacher who had brought her left, and Mr. Hargrove awkwardly resumed the lesson.
...
The lacrosse field buzzed with noise as the first match of the season began. Students filled the stands, some cheering, some bored, but all of them waiting for Beacon Hills' team to make their grand start.
Asher Sable walked onto the pitch, his gear looking brand new. It wasn't hard to see why. Last year, he hadn't played a single second. His lacrosse stick had been more decoration than tool. Back then, his only job was chasing loose balls after practice or matches.
"Hey, hey, hey—hold up there, GQ model!" the coach called, immediately halting him.
Coach Bobby Finstock — tall, wiry, and always looking one stress away from losing his sanity — blew his whistle for emphasis. His style was somewhere between drill sergeant and failed comedian, his sarcasm always sharp enough to sting.
"I mean, I get it. A guy who looks like you probably thinks lacrosse is his birthright. But usually, you have to sign up first before you try out for varsity!"
The players chuckled. All eyes were on Asher.
"I'm Asher Sable," he said plainly.
Coach blinked. "…Asher? Nope. Never heard of him."
"The short, overweight guy. The ball gatherer."
The field went silent.
"What?!" Coach's voice cracked as he squinted at him, like his brain was short-circuiting. Even the players — Jackson Whitmore at the front, stick dangling from his fingers — looked floored.
Up in the stands, Lydia Martin leaned toward Allison Argent, who sat beside her. Her tone was sweet but laced with superiority. "There's no way he changed that much…" She tilted her head, eyes narrowing in sharp appraisal. "He's even more handsome than Jackson now. But, with that attitude… Jackson's still superior."
Allison arched a brow, glancing between Lydia and the field, clearly curious but too polite to comment.
Back on the pitch, Coach Finstock had walked right up to Asher, pressing a hand to his shoulder, then his chest, then his arm. His expression shifted from disbelief to awe.
"…Holy crap, it's like someone carved you out of a freaking boulder. What the hell did you do this summer, kid?!"
Asher didn't answer, just smirked faintly.
Coach cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. "Right. Okay. You're playing today."
The players exchanged baffled looks.
Coach snatched the goalie stick and helmet from the team's actual goalkeeper, shoving them into the hands of a boy with dark brown eyes and a messy mop of hair: Scott McCall.
Scott, lean but not yet muscular, had that mix of awkwardness and puppy-like earnestness written all over him.
"But I've never played goalie—" Scott began.
"McCall," Coach cut him off, pointing at the net, "our guys need to score some points today. We need to raise spirit."
The team snickered. Scott's jaw dropped in frustration. He looked like he wanted to argue, but the whistle had already blown.
...
Scott stood awkwardly in front of the net, gripping the oversized goalie stick Coach had shoved at him. His helmet was slightly crooked, his palms sweaty.
The whistle blew.
He tried to focus, but then—
Voices.
Somehow, over the chaos of the field, he could hear perfectly from the stands. His ears twitched as Allison's soft voice carried across the distance.
"Who's that?" she asked.
Scott's heart skipped. She was talking about him. She had to be.
"That? I'm not sure who that is," Lydia answered, her tone dripping with superiority. "Why?"
"Nothing, he's just in my English course—"
WHAM!
The ball smacked Scott right in the helmet. He toppled backwards onto the grass, legs flailing.
The stands erupted in laughter. Coach Finstock doubled over, clutching his stomach. "Hahahaha! Right in the face! That's my goalie!"
Scott groaned, rolling onto his knees. Heat crept into his cheeks beneath the helmet. Embarrassment burned… but then something shifted.
His eyes narrowed. His breathing slowed. His senses sharpened.
Focus.
The next player ran up and launched the ball. Scott moved without thinking — snap! — the ball landed in his net.
The field went silent. Coach blinked, mouth falling open.
On the sidelines, Stiles Stilinski leapt to his feet. A mop of messy brown hair framed his sharp, mischievous face, his wide brown eyes brimming with disbelief.
"Yes! That's my boy! That's my freaking boy!" Stiles shouted, flailing his arms like he'd just won the lottery.
Scott allowed himself the smallest grin.
Another player fired. Snap! Caught.
Another. Snap! Caught again.
And another. Snap! Perfect save.
With each catch, the team's disbelief grew, the crowd's energy rising. Coach Finstock's jaw worked uselessly as if he'd lost the ability to form words. Stiles bounced around the sidelines like an excited child on too much caffeine.
"He's really good," Allison commented from the stands, a smile tugging at her lips.
"Yes, I see," Lydia replied flatly, though her eyes lingered on Scott longer than she'd admit.
Scott was grinning now, adrenaline rushing, chest swelling with confidence. For the first time, he wasn't invisible. He was shining.
Then Jackson Whitmore shoved past the line, cutting in front of his teammates. His blond hair gleamed in the sun, his expression a mask of irritation and arrogance. Captain, star player, golden boy — and he was not about to be outshone.
Scott's heart lurched as Jackson sprinted toward him. Jackson leapt, twisting midair with practiced grace, launching the ball with brutal force.
Scott panicked for a split second… then something primal clicked.
Flip.
The net swung up. Snap! He caught it clean.
The crowd exploded. Stiles went feral with excitement, jumping and yelling like a maniac. Coach Finstock's face was priceless — somewhere between shock, pride, and total confusion.
Jackson landed, glaring daggers, his frustration radiating off him in waves.
Through the noise and cheering, a hand quietly rose.
"Sorry…" Asher's voice came soft, almost embarrassed. Every head turned.
His dark eyes met Coach's, his expression humble despite the attention. "…Could I… try as well?"
To be continued...
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How was this first chapter? Liked it?
I just want to inform you, I've last watched Teen Wolf like five years ago, I'm now doing the rewatch (currently on season 2), and I'll keep watching as I write.