Stiles sat down hard on the wooden bench in the locker room, still visibly pouting from Scott's attitude about the whole werewolf thing. And he was going to keep on pouting until his best friend pulled his head out of his butt.

But that didn't look like it was happening anytime soon.

"Why am I here again?" he said, letting his irritation seep into his voice. "Can't you find someone, I don't know, good to play against?"

"Because, Stilinski," Coach yelled, coming out of his office, "you and McCall are some weirdo package deal, and I need someone he and Jackson can practice against while we get them working as one seamless unit. I'd like to, ya know, win some games this year."

He ended his rant like he always did: with a scoff. And then headed out the door. As soon as it swung closed they could hear him yelling, "Five minutes!" as he continued down the hallway.

When they were alone again, neither of them talked. Neither of them, it seemed, wanted to deal with the fifty ton elephant in the room.

"You are good, Stiles," Scott responded after another excruciatingly quiet moment. "You just get nervous."

Stiles rolled his eyes, lacing up his shoes. "Too bad I can't be more like you," he maintained. "What I wouldn't give to be suddenly faster and stronger and all that."

A locker further into the cavernous room slammed shut and both Scott and Stiles jumped at the noise. It didn't take long for Jackson to appear, with Stiles still clutching his chest when he came around the corner.

"Jackson, you scared us," Scott laughed uneasily.

"Yeah, well, I apologize, but I'm not fucking sorry," he spat at them.

Scott blinked rapidly and took a step back toward the bench. "Huh?'

Stiles finally took in Jackson's demeanor and was a little taken aback himself. He hadn't seen Jackson that angry before. He looked downright pissed.

Something was wrong, but Stiles couldn't think of what that might be, or how they could have caused it. It's not like they had been talking shit about him or something.

"Look, I played nice this weekend, all right? I know Lydia didn't want me to bring any of this up and cause a fuss, but I can't do this anymore," he started. "I was so ready to have someone on the team on my level, no offense, Stilinski, and I kinda hoped we could work together, but I fucking knew it. I knew you were on something. What is it? Steroids?"

"I, uh... practiced a lot over the summer," Scott stammered.

God, he was bad at lying. But Stiles nodded along behind him, frozen on the bench where Jackson had found him.

"Yeah," Stiles piped up. "All day everyday, dude. He was like a machine."

Jackson snorted derisively. "Please. I just heard you say it, Stilinski. You wish you could be like him. Suddenly faster and stronger. Three months isn't sudden."

But at once, Jackson's attitude shifted. He seemed softer somehow. More gentle. Which was just as confusing as how this whole thing started.

"Look, I get it," he continued. "You wanna be good. Like me. Who wouldn't want that?" Stiles raised his hand to try and diffuse some of the tension, but no one was looking his way so he put it down. "But this isn't the way to do it, dude," Jackson said forcefully. "That shit is bad for you, and it'll ruin any chance you have of going pro. If that's what you want."

"You're... you're mad because you think I'm doing steroids and you... you're worried about me?" Scott asked, trying to work it out in real time.

Jackson shook his head in disbelief. "Of course, McCall. Why else would I be upset?" He threw his hands up in frustration. "You're not better than me, and even if you were, it won't last because it's drugs. Just... get your shit together, all right? I'll even give you a chance. I'll help with detox. Whatever you need. I can pay for it, if you wanna hide it from your mom. But if I even think you're still on this shit next week, I'm gonna tell Hale. And you know he's way stricter about that shit than Coach. So... figure it out."

Scott and Stiles watched as Jackson headed out to the field behind Coach, unsure of what to say or if they should even respond as he retreated. He had come to the complete wrong conclusion, but it was kind of sweet of him to offer to help like that.

"Uh, well that was... nice of him. I guess," Stiles said, chuckling low. "Good luck with that, by the way. Since you're a werewolf and not experiencing a bout of 'roid rage and all. That'll be real easy to explain, I'm sure."

Scott shook his head again, still not ready to deal with it. And while Stiles knew it shouldn't shock him, it did. He wasn't sure how much more proof he could show Scott before he caved to the inevitable.

Because it was going to happen.

"Let's just get this over with, dude," Scott insisted. "Before Coach kills us all."

Stiles knew he was being dismissed, along with the conversation, and he knew it was for the better too. Scott would get there. One way or another.

Thankfully, practice didn't last all that long, and Coach seemed positively giddy by the time they finished. His plan to make them work as one team was going perfectly, since they had ganged up on Stiles pretty well.

So much so that when he dragged himself toward his car later, it didn't even register that someone was leaning against his Jeep. He was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and saving his last remaining brainpower for making it home in one piece.

Which was why when Derek Hale seemed to pop up out of the concrete in front of them, he almost yelped in surprise. But it caught in his throat when he told them why he was there.

"You two idiots have got to stop talking about werewolves so loud," he said casually, as if he was discussing the weather. "Someone's gonna overhear you. Someone other than me."

After the initial shock wore off, a new kind of adrenaline started to course through his veins. One he knew well. The one caused by being right.

And boy was he right this time.

"Why don't you seem shocked?" Stiles asked, matching his tone.

Derek shoved off the Jeep, his eyes flashing a bright blue color that Stiles had never seen before. It was one that completely encompassed his normal, human color.

Just. Like. Scott.

"I'm a werewolf too," Derek replied. "So the three of us need to fucking talk."