The Sicilian Defence [Derek Hale]

Chapter Three

Staring up at the ceiling in front of me, I tried to map out every move he'd taken. How did I lose? How could I have possibly have lost. The plays seemed to be completely erratic and out of control - the ones that I could remember anyway. The pieces moved above me, but it didn't seem to make a difference.

Pushing myself up to my feet, I slid to my desk moving the pieces to where they were when I resigned. I resented myself for doing so but I was taught to resign on a high then back yourself into a corner and lose in a weak and desperate way. I would not be weak or desperate. I was supposed to see something, I was supposed to be able to figure it out with one look. That's what had named me champion of several chess clubs. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Grabbing onto one of my dads old t-shirts, I pulled it over my head along with grabbing on some running shorts. I worked out long ago that wearing my parents clothes had helped me get past the grieving stage, if you ever truly did get over that stage, and helped me bring comfort in what was gone. I will stop your wandering now and tell you that I would absolutely not go running. I hated it with the sweating and the struggling of breath. But I shouldn't wander around the house only dressed in underwear.

Taking one last look at the chess board I walked out of the room intent on getting a drink.

Dragging myself up the stairs, I cradled the cup of tea close to my chest praying that it wouldn't spill over. I wasn't in the mood to get burnt.

"So what'd you find out?" Scott's voice sounded from Stiles' room.

"Well, it's bad. Jackson's got a separated shoulder," Stiles admitted. That was vaguely interesting enough to give me reason for me to interrupt. Taking the temptation, I made my way into his room.

"Because of me?" Scott asked.

"Because he's a tool," Stiles scoffed.

"But, is he gonna play?"

I managed to stand behind Stiles seeing both Scott and Stiles in the video, although I could faintly see a little version of myself on the screen to. Perhaps i needed to get my eyes tested. "Well, they don't know yet. Now, they're just counting on you for Saturday," Stiles explained.

"Is this all due to the... doggy problem?" I questioned and they both looked at me in disbelief.

"The doggy problem?" Stiles scoffed, "it's a wolf problem, not a dog problem."

I rolled my eyes, placing the cup on his desk so I could lean on it as well, "actually, wolves, dogs, coyotes... they're all ancestors of each other and all three can interbreed and produce viable, fertile offspring. Let's not forget that the DNA analysis proves that the wolf is the ancestor of the dog and thus it is just as much of a doggy problem as it is a wolf problem," I countered.

"When the hell did you learn that?"

"Last night when I was making sure that I could use a bunch of dog jokes without looking like a moron."

"Well can you take your dog jokes somewhere else. And put some pants on," he scoffed referring to the fact that I was in my usual pyjamas.

"I do have pants on," I drawled stepping back enough so that I had room before I lifted the edge of my t-shirt up enough so that they could see my shorts. "See," I pointed out lifting my leg out to emphasise the material, "shorts. I'm not weird enough to walk around with no pants on, jeez what kinda lassie do you think I am?"

"Lassie? You know sometimes I forget how Scottish you are," Scott joked. How the hell did he forget that?

Stepping closer to the camera, I opened my mouth to say something when I noticed something in the corner of the screen. It looked like someone was stood behind Scott. Narrowing my eyes, I lent in closer ignoring Stiles who was batting my hair away from his face in hopes of seeing it.