Scott McCall's Arc

Chapter 13 of 30

Friday came too fast. Scott pulled into the school lot with Stiles riding shotgun, the sheriff's evidence bag still heavy in his mind. Stiles hadn't said much since the body. He just kept tapping the dashboard in a slow, careful pattern, like he was counting something he wouldn't share. The locker room smelled like tape and sweat. Scott pulled on his jersey and tried not to look at the empty stall across from his. Malik's gear was already laid out on the bench — helmet square, gloves placed palm down, stick angled exactly forty-five degrees. Too neat. Like a trap set with patience. "He's here somewhere," Stiles said, low. "He wanted us to see it first. That's the message." Scott nodded. Coach blew the whistle outside, voice cracking across the field. "McCall! Stilinski! Move your feet, the season's not gonna play itself!" They jogged out onto the green turf. The lights were already on, washing everything white. Scott scanned the bleachers, the tree line, the far end of the field. He found him standing near the goal — Malik, in full uniform, stick resting easy against his shoulder. Gold flickered behind his eyes when he turned. "You came," Malik said. His voice didn't rise. "Good. The town needs to watch you lose control on a field they trust. That's how the frame sets." Scott's claws pressed inside his fists. He kept them there. "I'm not playing your game." Malik tilted his head. "You already are. The whistle hasn't blown yet." Stiles stepped between them before Scott could answer, shoulder to shoulder with him, jaw tight. "He stays on the bench tonight," Stiles told Malik, voice clipped. "I'll tell Coach he's sick. I'll tell him whatever. He's not stepping on this field." Scott opened his mouth, but Stiles didn't look at him. "Trust me. Once. Just tonight." The whistle blew again. Scott walked to the bench and sat down. Malik watched him sit, and smiled like something had clicked into place anyway.