Tethered // Teen Wolf // Isaac Lahey

EIGHTY-TWO

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KOREY

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"Come on, Liam, come on!" I ran on the outskirts of the lacrosse pitch, keeping pace with the boy in question as he whipped around the pitch. "Pass the ball! Don't hog it! Stilinski is open! Lahey is open! Greenberg is—unfortunately— also open... and probably shouldn't even be here anymore." I turned to Coach Finstock, pointing at Greenberg, "How many times has he repeated senior year?"

"Senior?" Coach scoffed, raising his sunglasses off his face, "More like sophomore, on repeat for the last ten odd years, least that's what if feels like."

I pulled a face in agreement, turning back to the pitch in time to see Liam score a goal.

"You want me to take this, or will you?" Coach asked.

"Dunbar!" I roared, sticking my whistle into my mouth and blowing it loudly before I stormed across the pitch. "What the hell was that?"

Liam scrambled to pull his helmet off, staring at me wide-eyed, "I had a clean shot."

"Yeah, because you weren't playing another team," I groaned. "This is practise! Team practise! Emphasis on the word 'team', you're supposed to be working together."

"I scored the goal though," Liam's shoulders slumped, and his face fell.

"And it was a wonderful goal, immaculate even," I ignored his sudden grin, "but you're in team practise, so for the love of God, play with your team."

Liam brightened up, nodding quickly as he raised his helmet over his head again, "Yes, Coach."

"Co-coach," I corrected him, walking backwards off the pitch, "now, work together— all of you— or you're going to be doing quad stretches until you're thirty!"

"Hey, Co-coach,"

"Yep?" I turned my head to Isaac as he called out to me.

He tilted his head to the side, and even through his helmet, I could see his grin, "Love you."

"I feel like that breaks a few ethical regulations," I joked, "but also, love you too and," I looked him up and down before winking, "come find me after practise."

"Guys, really?!" Stiles spluttered, "Right in front of us?!"

"It's the uniform," I protested, laughing lightly, "girls love a guy in uniform." I brought the whistle back up to my lips, "Back to face-off, start the game from the top!"

A number of groans sounded across the pitch, and I smiled in satisfaction as Finstock threw a thumbs up, standing from his spot on the bleachers.

"That was excellent," he gushed, "you kicked him in the ass, brought him back up, explained thoroughly why what he did was wrong, and then, you tortured everyone for his mistake! Perfect!"

I waved my hand out, "I'm only doing what I was taught."

"If you think blatant flattery is going to earn you more favour with me," Finstock paused, waving his finger up and down, "you are absolutely right. Sit down, Dawson. Welcome to the bench. You want something to drink? I've got a whole ice cooler under here."

I snorted, plopping down on the bench beside him as he dug through the ice cooler in question, "I'm good, thanks. I was actually going to pick your brain about something. You see the way certain players on the pitch always play defensive or others always play offensive? I was thinking we do a drill where everyone has to switch their style for a ga—"