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    Summary

    It’s still preseason, sure, but he needs to be practicing. He led the team to the State semifinals last year, and he’s determined to not only make it to the finals this year, but to win the title. He should be on the field right now, practicing his play calls and prepping for next week’s season opener against Saint Pius.

    And he can’t do that if he’s wasting his time in detention with these losers. There are a couple of burnouts lazing over some seats by the window, one kid with his face on a desk, hood over his head, and a few Goth kids are sitting in the back corner, looking surly and morose. Maybe you wouldn’t be so miserable if you didn’t listen to such shitty music, he thinks, turning towards his usual seat in the back of the room.

    He pauses for the briefest of moments when he sees who’s already sitting there, in the second-to-last row, black-clad limbs spread out, acoustic guitar in his lap, long fingers casually plucking at the strings.

    Stiles Stilinski.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    3,407
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