The locker room smelled like old sweat, disinfectant, and rubber.
I was sitting on the bench, staring at the pile of gear Stiles had handed me: helmet, shoulder pads, gloves, lacrosse stick. All used, a little worn, but functional.
"Finally!" Stiles appeared beside me, already dressed in his own uniform. "I thought you were going to bail."
"I almost did," I admitted, picking up the shoulder pads and trying to figure out how to put them on.
"Here, let me show you." He took the pads from my hands. "Arms go here, tighten these straps, and done. Easy."
I followed his instructions, adjusting the gear. It felt strange—restrictive, heavy. But also oddly comforting. One more layer between me and the world.
"You really never played lacrosse?" Stiles asked, handing me the stick.
"Never."
"Okay, quick basics." He grabbed his own stick. "You hold it like this, see? Dominant hand up here, the other down here. To catch the ball, you kind of… scoop it with the net."
He demonstrated with practiced movements.
I copied him, feeling the weight of the stick, the balance.
My Lupaztlán instincts were already analyzing—angles, required force, trajectories. Like a weapon. Everything was a potential weapon.
Stop, I ordered my instincts. It's just a game.
"You're picking it up fast," Stiles commented. "That's good. Because Finstock has zero patience for newbies."
The locker room door opened and Scott walked in, already half-dressed. He waved at us.
"What's up, Daniel. Ready to suffer?"
"Definitely not," I replied honestly.
Scott laughed, but there was something different about him. His movements were more fluid, more confident. The way he moved through the locker room, weaving between other players, had a grace that shouldn't have been there.
Transformation.
Day by day, the bite changing him. Muscles growing denser, reflexes sharpening, senses expanding.
And he had no idea.
Scott still doesn't know. Not fully.
But the transformation is happening. Slow but inevitable.
And the full moon is coming. Less than two weeks.
"Come on, guys!" Finstock shouted from outside. "Move your asses! The field isn't going anywhere, but my patience IS!"
The lacrosse field was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon.
The whole team was gathered—maybe twenty players total, a mix of veterans and rookies. Coach Finstock stood in the center, whistle around his neck, clipboard in hand.
"Freshmen! Rookies! Get ready to suffer!" he announced cheerfully. "Lacrosse isn't for the weak! It's for warriors! Gladiators! People who—" He stopped, looking at his clipboard. "Greenberg, why are you wearing running shoes? THIS IS LACROSSE, NOT BALLET!"
Some players laughed. A blond, awkward-looking kid—Greenberg, presumably—looked down at his feet in confusion.
"Two laps!" Finstock pointed. "Around the field! NOW!"
"But coach—"
"NOW!"
Greenberg took off running.
Finstock turned back to the rest of us.
"The rest of you! Warm-up! Two laps, steady pace! MOVE!"
We started running.
I stayed in the middle of the pack, consciously matching everyone else's pace. Not too fast, not too slow.
But it was torture.
Every step, every breath—my body screamed that it could go faster. Much faster. I could easily outrun all of them, run circles around them.
But I couldn't.
Slow. Look human. SLOW.
Constant control. Every second.
Beside me, Scott ran easily, not even slightly out of breath. He glanced at me and smiled.
"Good pace!"
"Thanks," I managed, pretending to be more tired than I was.
After two laps, we regrouped in the center. Some players were bent over, breathing hard. I pretended to be one of them.
"Basic drills!" Finstock announced. "Catching drills! If you can't CATCH the ball, you're useless!"
He set up lines—one player throwing, others catching.
"Moreno! You're first! Let's see what you've got!"
Great.
I took position, stick ready. A veteran—not Jackson, but the same arrogant type—grabbed a ball.
"Ready, rookie?"
He threw.
The ball flew toward me in a perfect arc. My eyes tracked it—speed, spin, trajectory. My instincts already knew exactly where and when it would be.
I moved my stick, scooping the ball out of the air.
Caught.
"Good!" Finstock looked surprised. "Again!"
Second ball. Caught.
Third—
Too easy. This is way too easy.
I let it pass on purpose.
"AH!" Finstock yelled. "You were doing fine! What happened?!"
"Sorry, coach. Lost the timing."
"Timing is EVERYTHING! Again!"
On the next attempts, I alternated. Caught some, missed others. Looked average. Normal.
But it was agonizing. My instincts screamed every time I missed on purpose.
You SAW it! You KNEW where it was! Why did you miss?!
Because humans missed. Humans were imperfect.
And I had to look human.
Stiles was on the sidelines, not playing—eternal substitute, as he'd said. But he was yelling encouragement.
"That's it, Daniel! You'll get the hang of it!"
He had a clipboard, jotting something down. Assistant coach? Or investigating?
With Stiles, it could be both.
A tall player wearing number 37 walked up to me while we waited our turn.
"You're the guy who passed out in chemistry, right?" He smiled, but it wasn't friendly.
Jackson Whittemore. Team captain. I recognized him from lunch.
"And you're the guy who compensates," I replied automatically.
The smile faltered.
"Funny. We'll see who lasts on the field."
He walked away, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
The drills continued. Passing, catching, running with the ball.
I kept my performance consistently mediocre. Not bad enough for Finstock to kick me out, but not good enough to raise questions.
Then came the defense drill.
"Attacker versus goalie!" Finstock announced. "Let's see who's got what it takes!"
Jackson went first, of course. He charged the goal with exaggerated confidence and shot.
Scored easily.
"Good, Whittemore! That's how it's done!"
Other players went, mixed results. Some scored, some were blocked by the goalie.
"McCall! You're next!"
Scott grabbed his stick and went to the goalie position. He looked nervous.
The first attacker ran and shot.
Scott caught the ball. Easily.
"Beginner's luck," Finstock muttered.
Second attacker. Scott caught it again.
Third. Caught.
Fourth, fifth, sixth—ALL of them.
Coach Finstock stared, mouth open.
"McCall… where the hell have you been hiding this talent?!"
Scott looked at his stick, then at his hands, completely confused.
"I… I don't know?"
"YOU DON'T KNOW?!" Finstock yelled, but he was smiling. "Who cares?! You're PHENOMENAL!"
On the other side of the field, Stiles was jumping and cheering.
"THAT'S MY BEST FRIEND! WOOO!"
Jackson, meanwhile, was red with rage.
"This is ridiculous! Fluke! Just luck!"
But it wasn't luck. And I knew it.
It's not talent, Scott. It's werewolf powers.
Superhuman reflexes. Heightened senses. Increased strength.
And you don't even realize it.
"Moreno! You're next in goal!"
Shit.
I moved into position, stick ready.
The first attacker ran. Shot.
My instincts told me exactly where the ball would be. The angle, the speed, the precise moment.
I moved my stick and caught it.
Way too easy.
"Good! Again!"
Second attacker. This time, I let it pass on purpose.
"Moreno! DID YOU FALL ASLEEP?!"
"Sorry, coach!"
Third attacker. I caught it, but awkwardly, almost dropping it.
"You're THINKING too much! Just REACT!"
If I reacted for real, no one would ever score.
But I couldn't. So I alternated—some good saves, some bad ones.
Mediocre. Safe. Human.
Jackson passed by me as I left the goal.
"Pathetic," he muttered, low enough that only I could hear.
I tightened my grip on the stick but said nothing.
That's when I noticed movement in the bleachers.
Allison Argent.
She had shown up, sitting alone on the metal bleachers. Wearing a denim jacket, hair loose, watching practice with casual interest.
And Scott saw her.
His focus shifted instantly. He became completely distracted, staring at her.
The next ball hit him straight in the mask.
THUNK
The team burst into laughter. Scott turned red with embarrassment, pulling off his helmet.
But Allison was smiling. Not laughing at him—smiling genuinely, finding it cute.
Scott smiled back, still flustered.
And something tightened in my chest.
Allison Argent. Hunter-in-training who doesn't know yet.
And Scott is falling for her. Werewolf and hunter.
This will complicate EVERYTHING.
I forced myself to look away, back to practice.
But Stiles had seen it too. He walked up to me, nudging me with his elbow.
"Cute, huh?"
"Hm."
"Scott is DEAD. Look at his face."
I glanced over. Scott was still looking at Allison, even with Finstock yelling at him to pay attention.
"He looks like he just took a ball to the head," I commented.
Stiles laughed loudly.
"Okay, ENOUGH drills!" Finstock announced. "Scrimmage time! Let's play for real!"
He started dividing the teams.
"First lines versus second lines plus rookies! Whittemore, you're offense. McCall…" He paused. "McCall, you're goalie for the first line."
Surprised murmurs.
"Coach, he's never—" Jackson started.
"You saw what I saw, Whittemore! The kid's a natural! McCall, first line! Moreno, midfield on team two."
Jackson was seething. Scott was shocked.
I was just trying to survive.
The scrimmage started fast and physical.
Lacrosse, I discovered, was basically a contact sport disguised as something more civilized. Lots of shoving, lots of sticks clashing, lots of running.
And I had to pretend to struggle.
I got the ball a few times, made some decent passes. But nothing spectacular. I ran at the right pace—fast enough to participate, slow enough to look normal.
Every second was conscious control.
Don't run too fast. Don't hit too hard. Don't react too quickly.
Jackson tested limits constantly.
During one play, he "accidentally" slammed his stick into my arm. Hard.
"Oops. My bad."
I took a deep breath, ignoring the pain that was already fading.
"No problem."
He smiled, predatory.
"You're soft, rookie."
If you only knew, I thought, but stayed quiet.
Scott, meanwhile, was making impossible saves.
Ball after ball, he blocked them. Reflexes that shouldn't exist, perfect timing, movements that seemed almost precognitive.
Because, in a sense, they were. His werewolf senses were reading every motion, every intention.
Jackson was absolutely furious.
"HOW are you catching that?!" he yelled after his fourth blocked shot.
Scott, genuinely confused: "I… don't know?"
"YOU DON'T KNOW?!"
The rest of Scott's team was celebrating. Stiles was having a full-blown joy meltdown on the sidelines.
And I watched, knowing the truth no one else did.
I caught the ball at midfield, two defenders closing in.
My instincts mapped everything—their positions, speeds, the open space between them. I could easily slip past both, reach the goal, make a perfect shot.
But I couldn't.
I ran straight into the nearest one, letting myself be blocked. The ball fell.
"MORENO!" Finstock yelled. "You had space! WHY didn't you pass?!"
"Sorry, coach! Didn't see it!"
"DIDN'T SEE IT?! Are you blind?!"
Jackson picked up the loose ball, laughing.
"Pathetic."
I got the ball again a few minutes later.
This time, I ran along the side, avoiding the main defender. I got close to the goal—Scott in front, ready to block.
My instincts told me exactly where to shoot. Top right corner, precise trajectory. Guaranteed goal.
No. Too suspicious.
I shot wide.
The ball flew far from the goal.
"MORENO! THE GOAL IS THERE!" Finstock pointed. "That big thing with the net! SHOOT TOWARD IT!"
Jackson passed me.
"You're so useless it hurts."
It was on the next play that everything almost fell apart.
I was running with the ball, two defenders flanking me. One of them—a big player wearing number 23—accelerated and slammed his shoulder into me.
Violent impact.
And then—
CLANG
The sound echoed across the field. Loud, resonant, metallic.
That shouldn't have sounded like that.
I fell, more surprised than hurt. But the sound…
The bone armor had reacted. Instinctively, under the shoulder pads. It solidified at the moment of impact, protecting me.
And it made noise.
Finstock blew the whistle.
"STOP! Moreno, you hurt?"
I jumped up. Too fast.
"I'm fine!"
But several players were staring.
"What was that noise?" Scott asked, confused.
"It sounded like… metal?" Stiles said from the sidelines, equally confused.
The player who had hit me was rubbing his shoulder.
"What the hell are you wearing under that?"
Murmurs spread.
"Sounded like pots banging."
Jackson, of course, laughed.
"Rookie needs extra armor? Pathetic."
I thought fast.
I lifted my shirt slightly, showing the normal shoulder pads. Then I touched my ribs, faking discomfort.
"Orthopedic protector. Under the pads. Rib injury."
Finstock walked over.
"Protector? Prescribed?"
"Yes, sir. From the bike accident. Doctor said to wear it while my ribs heal." I grimaced. "Reinforced metal. That's why it sounded like that."
Finstock studied me for a long moment.
"Fine. But bring a medical note next time. Monday. I need it documented."
"No problem, coach."
Shit. How am I supposed to get a fake medical note by Monday?
"Alright, continue!" Finstock whistled.
The game resumed.
But some players were still looking at me strangely. Scott especially looked thoughtful.
And Stiles… Stiles was writing something down on his clipboard.
Eventually, Finstock blew the whistle to end practice.
"Good work today! Some of you surprised me—looking at you, McCall! First line, tomorrow we review: McCall in goal, Whittemore offense, Greenberg on defense—"
"Greenberg makes me cry, coach," Jackson interrupted.
"Whittemore, if you think you can do better, feel free to become the coach yourself!"
The team laughed.
"First line, be ready for next week's game. Second line, keep working. Rookies…" He looked straight at me. "…medical notes. Monday. Don't forget."
"Yes, sir."
The team began dispersing toward the locker rooms.
Scott was glowing, still processing being on the first line after one practice.
Jackson was furious, his face a mask of barely contained rage.
And I was just trying to leave before anyone asked more questions.
In the locker room, I stripped the gear off quickly.
Shoulder pads first, then gloves, helmet. Other players chatted around me, laughing, complaining about soreness.
I changed as fast as possible, aware that there was no "orthopedic protector" visible. Just the smaller bandages still covering nearly healed wounds.
If anyone looked closely…
But no one did. Everyone was busy with their own stuff.
I left first, escaping into the fresh air.
Outside the locker room, Allison was still there.
She smiled when Scott came out, Stiles beside him.
"Hey. Good performance out there."
Scott, completely awkward: "You… you watched?"
"A little. You're really good."
"I… thanks. I'm Scott. McCall. Scott McCall." He winced. "You already know that."
She laughed softly.
"Allison. Argent."
"I know. I mean, I heard. At school. Not that I was like following you or—"
Stiles elbowed Scott, clearly trying to save his friend from himself.
I walked out at that moment, backpack over my shoulder.
"Hi, Daniel!" Allison waved.
I stopped.
"Hi, Allison."
"You played well too."
"Thanks. Still learning."
A brief, polite moment. Then I stepped away, giving Scott and Allison space.
I glanced back once.
Scott was clearly interested, talking animatedly. Allison smiling, leaning a little closer.
Werewolf and hunter.
This will end badly. I know how it ends.
But they don't. Neither of them knows.
Something tightened in my chest. Envy? Sadness?
They can still have normalcy. For now.
They can flirt, laugh, have normal teenage moments.
I only have secrets.
I turned and started walking home.
The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink.
My body ached—real impacts from a physical sport. But it was already healing. The shoulder where the player had hit me? No pain anymore.
Lupaztlán regeneration. Too efficient.
Another near-disaster, I thought as I walked.
The sound. Will someone investigate?
Stiles was already suspicious. Now this.
And the medical note. How do I explain this to my parents? "Hey, my bone armor made a metallic noise when someone hit me, can someone forge medical documents?"
I reached home twenty minutes later.
My parents still weren't back from work.
But Marcus was sitting on the porch, like he was waiting.
Of course he was.
"How was practice?" he asked as I climbed the steps.
"You already know, right? You always do."
Marcus didn't deny it.
"I was watching. From a distance."
Of course you were.
I sat beside him on the porch, dropping my backpack.
"There was an incident."
"I saw."
Of course he did.
I told him anyway—the impact, the metallic sound, the improvised explanation about an orthopedic protector.
"You recovered well," Marcus said when I finished. "Convincing story. Creative."
"But now I need a fake medical note by Monday."
"Your parents have contacts. Doctors who understand… our situation." He looked at me. "They'll get the documentation."
Relief washed over me, followed by frustration.
"How many times am I going to almost get exposed?"
"As many as it takes," Marcus replied bluntly. "Until you achieve perfect control."
"And how long does that take?"
"Years. Maybe decades."
I slumped against the wall.
"Great. No pressure."
Marcus was silent for a moment.
"The armor reacted instinctively. That's good—it means your body is protecting you."
"But it made noise."
"Because you didn't expect the impact. You didn't suppress the reaction." He turned to face me. "That's the next phase of training. Not just controlling transformation. Controlling reflexes. Suppressing instinctive responses."
"Is that even possible?"
"With training, yes. But it takes time."
"How long did it take you?"
"Years," Marcus admitted. "And I wasn't going to school every day, surrounded by humans, getting hit in contact sports."
"So basically, I'm screwed."
"Basically, you're learning on fast-forward." He almost smiled. "But you're doing well. Better than I expected."
I didn't feel like I was doing well. I felt like I was balancing on a tightrope, and every day the wind got stronger.
That night, after my parents came home and assured me they'd get the medical note, I went to my room.
I looked out the window at the night sky.
The moon was there—three-quarters full. Almost round. Almost complete.
A knock on the door.
"Come in."
My parents entered together, expressions serious but calm.
"Marcus told us about practice," my mother said, sitting on the edge of my bed.
"We'll get the note," my father added. "Dr. Rodriguez. He's Lupaztlán too, lives in Sacramento. He'll provide the documentation."
"Wait." I sat up. "There's another Lupaztlán in Sacramento?"
"There are more of us than you think," my mother said softly. "Scattered, hidden, but we exist. Family cells, like ours."
That was… a lot to process.
"Daniel," my father said, his voice growing more serious. "This is becoming a pattern. The near-disasters."
"I AM being careful!"
"We know," my mother said quickly. "But—"
"Do you think this is easy?" I snapped. "Pretending to be weak when I'm not? Pretending to be slow? Clumsy? Missing on purpose when every instinct is screaming to succeed?"
Silence.
My parents exchanged looks.
My father sat beside me.
"Did you see McCall play today?"
The subject change caught me off guard.
"Yes. He was… incredible."
"New werewolf," my father said. "No control. Pure instinct. He doesn't even realize he's using supernatural abilities."
"I know."
"He's going to get hurt," my father continued. "Or hurt someone. Especially when—"
"The full moon," I finished. "I know. It's coming."
Marcus appeared in the doorway. No one had heard him come upstairs.
"Ten days."
We all looked at him.
"Ten days until the full moon," Marcus repeated. "And McCall has no idea what's about to happen to him."
"Someone needs to warn him," I said, even though I knew the answer.
"It can't be you," Marcus replied. "Not without exposing yourself. How would you explain how you know?"
Heavy silence.
"He has to figure it out on his own," my mother said quietly. "Like we all did."
"But he has friends," I added. "Stiles. They'll figure it out together."
"And you?" Marcus asked. "Do you have anyone?"
The question hurt more than it should have.
"I have you," I said finally.
"Yes," my mother agreed, pulling me into a hug. "You do."
But it wasn't the same. And all of us knew it.
After they left—my mother to the kitchen, my father to his office work, Marcus to his nightly patrol—I was alone again.
I went back to the window, staring at the moon.
Three-quarters full.
Ten days until Scott completely loses control.
Ten days until he finds out he's a monster.
I touched my chest, where the armor had reacted today. Where bone plates hid just beneath the surface, waiting.
And me? What am I?
At least Scott has an excuse. He was bitten against his will.
I was born this way.
I closed the curtain, blocking out the moon.
But I couldn't block the truth.
Ten days. And then everything changes.
For Scott. For Beacon Hills.
For all of us.
I lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
Tomorrow there would be more training with Marcus. More school. More pretending.
More control.
Always more control.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
I dreamed of full moons and transformations and secrets that couldn't be kept forever.