Mischief on ice

chapter 1

Stiles Stilinski had always been a whirlwind of energy, the kind of guy who seemed to be in a million places at once. To his pack, he was the quick-witted, fiercely loyal, and sometimes reckless human who somehow always got them out of trouble. What they didn't know was that Stiles had a secret life—a life on the ice. Since he was old enough to walk, he had skated. His father, Noah, had been the only one to support him from day one, showing up to every game no matter how small. From peewee hockey to high school leagues, Noah was always there, sitting in the stands, quietly cheering his son on.

By the time Stiles was 18, he had become the best player on the team, so good that a major league recruited him to help get him seen by legendary recruits . The pack had no idea. His life on the ice was something he kept separate, something sacred. He was known to his fans and teammates by the nickname "Mischief," a name that stuck due to his unpredictable plays and his ability to weave through defense lines with almost supernatural agility. His jersey bore the number 24, a number that had become iconic among his followers.

But that other life came with its risks. Hockey wasn't gentle, and Stiles often showed up to pack meetings with bruises or the occasional black eye. When asked, he always shrugged it off, weaving some story about a clumsy mishap or an accidental fall. Scott, Derek, and the others were suspicious, but Stiles was so convincing, and he'd never given them any reason not to trust him. They figured he was just being Stiles—accident-prone and always getting into something.

One evening, as the pack gathered for a meeting in Derek's loft, Stiles walked in with his latest injury: a swollen, bruised wrist and a scrape along his jaw. Derek raised an eyebrow as Stiles tried to hide it with his sleeve, but not before Lydia caught sight of it.

"Stiles, what happened?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

He waved her off with a dismissive laugh. "Oh, nothing. You know, just me being my usual klutzy self. Tripped down the stairs. No big deal."

Derek wasn't convinced. He could smell the faint metallic scent of blood under the fresh scab and the distinct musk of adrenaline. Something wasn't adding up. But for now, he let it go.

A week passed, and Stiles became more elusive. He missed pack meetings or showed up late with a hasty excuse. Derek had enough. One night, he followed Stiles, his curiosity and concern overriding his respect for Stiles' privacy. He tailed him through Beacon Hills until Stiles parked at the rink. Derek watched from the shadows as Stiles grabbed a large duffle bag from his Jeep and disappeared into the building.

Inside, the atmosphere was electric. Derek slipped in unnoticed, making his way to the stands, surprised to see the place packed with people. He watched as players skated onto the ice, the crowd roaring as the announcer introduced the teams. And then, he saw him—Stiles, fully suited up in his hockey gear, wearing the number 24. The name "Mischief" was emblazoned across his jersey, and Derek's sharp eyes narrowed in disbelief. That was Stiles.

He watched as the game began, and Stiles instantly became the center of attention. His movements were fluid, fast—like he was born to skate. Stiles dodged between players, controlling the puck with expert precision. His stick handling was flawless as he maneuvered past defenders with ease, his eyes locked on the goal. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the puck shot toward the net, slipping past the goalie with lightning speed. The crowd exploded into cheers as the horn blared, signaling another goal for Mischief.

Derek was stunned. This was a side of Stiles he had never seen before, and it was incredible. Stiles glided across the ice, accepting high-fives from his teammates, but there was something else in his expression—peace. On the ice, he was free. There were no supernatural threats, no pack responsibilities. It was just him and the game.