Mischief on ice

the witch

Stiles laced up his skates in the locker room, feeling the electric energy of the team as they prepared for tonight’s game. Over the past two months, he and his teammates had bonded as tightly as family, and knowing Derek was in the stands gave him an extra boost of confidence. Catching Derek’s eye as he stepped onto the ice, Stiles received a small smile and nod that made him feel grounded, ready to play his best.

Still, something felt off. As the game started, he couldn’t shake an unsettling feeling in his gut, like an instinctive warning. Stiles glanced up into the stands and noticed his pack. Scott and Derek were cheering but watching him closely, clearly sensing his unease.

As the game went on, Stiles, Minho, and Newt played like clockwork, dominating the ice with sharp, fluid movements. Gally was an unbreakable wall at the net, blocking every shot. They scored goal after goal, their synergy pushing them further ahead of the other team. But the strange feeling wouldn’t go away. Then, as he lined up for another shot, Stiles saw something that made his blood run cold.

The star player from the opposing team looked right at him, his eyes a solid, inky black. Stiles quickly scanned the rink and realized that every player on the other team had the same eerie, blackened eyes.

“This can’t be good…” he muttered, adrenaline spiking.

Gally noticed too, and with a quick glance to Stiles, nodded warily. “Definitely not.”

But before they could make sense of what was happening, their coach was yelling for them to stay focused, urging them to keep playing. Stiles took a breath and looked back at Minho and Newt, who were just as confused but seemed ready to follow his lead.

From the stands, Derek and Scott were on high alert, sharing a look of concern as they took in the other team’s bizarre behavior. The pack exchanged uneasy glances, leaning forward as they tried to make sense of what they were seeing.

Gally nudged Stiles, giving him a determined grin. “Let’s show them why they call us champions.”

Stiles grinned back, deciding to put everything into the game despite the creeping sense of danger. He, Minho, and Newt moved like a well-oiled machine, dodging the black-eyed players as they executed play after play. Every time they approached the goal, the other team swarmed them, playing with a strange, almost robotic intensity.

With a final burst of speed, Stiles found an opening. He took a powerful shot, sending the puck straight into the net just as the buzzer went off, signaling their victory.

The cheers erupted, but Stiles didn’t have a chance to celebrate. As soon as the buzzer sounded, the other team’s players stopped moving, their shoulders slumping. One by one, their eyes returned to normal, and they looked around in confusion, clearly disoriented.

“Hey, what’s going on?” one of them muttered, rubbing his head.

The coaches and staff rushed onto the ice, helping the dazed players and trying to make sense of what had just happened. Stiles looked up at his pack, who were already making their way down to him. Derek reached him first, his gaze filled with concern.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, his voice steady but his eyes searching Stiles’ face.

“Yeah… I think so,” Stiles replied, still reeling. “Did you see that?”

Scott joined them, nodding seriously. “Yeah, we all did. Whatever that was… it wasn’t normal.”

The opposing team’s players slowly made their way off the ice, murmuring among themselves, looking more bewildered with each step. The pack stuck close to Stiles, a wall of protection around him in the strange aftermath of the game.