The tension in the locker room remained thick enough to cut with a knife even after Jackson had stormed out and Coach Finstock had ambled off, whistling cheerfully, completely oblivious to the near-brawl he'd interrupted. Scott turned to Alex, his jaw tight, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a frustration that had clearly been simmering for a long time.
"Did you really have to do that?" Scott demanded, his voice low but charged with emotion. He gestured vaguely towards the door Jackson had disappeared through.
Alex, who had been watching Jackson's retreat with a look of lingering, cold disdain, finally turned his attention to his brother. He raised an eyebrow. "Do what? Defend my little brother from an overgrown Neanderthal who was clearly about to use your face to redecorate the lockers? Yeah, Scotty, I kinda did. He was grabbing your collar. That's generally where I draw the line."
"Yeah, I got it, you're my brother, you want to take my back," Scott shot back, his voice rising slightly. The antsy, irritable energy that had been plaguing him since the bite was making it hard to keep his emotions in check. "But first of all, you don't need to be that aggressive! I know him. He's all bark, no bite. He doesn't have the balls to fight a real fight!" He took a breath, the words tumbling out now, fueled by years of unspoken feelings. "And second, if you cared so much, if you really wanted to have my back, you would have been here! With me! Always! Not just swooping in from LA for a cameo appearance when Dad finally gets sick of your scandals! You just come back sometimes, that's it! And even now, you didn't come back for me, Dad sent you!"
Alex looked genuinely taken aback, his usual smirk faltering. The accusation hit him harder than Jackson's attempted intimidation. "Whoa, Scotty, hold on. Is this… is this really how you feel? If it bothered you so much, why didn't you ever tell me? I may have been in LA, but I was always in contact with you. A phone call away. A text. A ridiculously expensive private jet flight if it was really important."
Scott scoffed, turning away, running a hand through his damp hair. The raw emotion, amplified by his werewolf senses, was overwhelming. "Leave it. It doesn't matter. Let's just go."
"No," Alex said, his voice firm but quieter now. He reached out, grabbing Scott's arm gently, stopping him. "No, we're not leaving it. Tell me, Scott. Why didn't you say anything?"
Scott's control snapped. He whirled back, his eyes flashing with a depth of hurt Alex hadn't seen in him since they were kids. "Because you were living the dream, Alex! That's why! Do you have any idea how I felt, growing up here, when you'd call? 'Oh, Scotty, guess what? I'm at a party on a yacht in Monaco.' 'Hey, bro, can't talk long, I'm backstage at a concert with rock stars whose posters I used to have on my wall!' 'Sorry, little brother, gotta run, I'm launching a new app that's going to make us another billion!' I always felt left out! Stuck in this town, alone! The only one who was ever really here for me, when Mom wasn't home, was Stiles!" His chest was heaving, his fists clenched.
Just then, the locker room door creaked open and Stiles poked his head in, his expression bright and oblivious. "Hey guys, everything okay in here? Sounded like someone was sacrificing a small goat to the gods of angst. Or maybe just Jackson having a tantrum. Hard to tell the difference sometimes."
Scott visibly deflated, the sudden intrusion breaking the intensity of the moment. He sagged against the lockers, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had come, replaced by a wave of shame and regret. He looked at Alex, his expression miserable. "I… I'm sorry," he mumbled, staring at the floor. "I shouldn't have said all that. It's not… it's not your fault." He pushed himself off the lockers, wanting to escape. "I gotta go."
As Scott started to move past him, Alex reached out again, his hand landing gently on Scott's shoulder, stopping him. Both twins froze for a beat. Alex's voice was soft, devoid of its usual sarcasm. "Hey." He waited until Scott reluctantly met his gaze. "I didn't know, Scott. I genuinely didn't know you felt that way." He sighed, a rare look of vulnerability crossing his features. "Okay? And don't… don't keep things bottled up like that. I'm your brother. If you don't tell me this stuff, how am I supposed to know?" He gave Scott's shoulder a light squeeze. "And never forget, no matter where I am, or what stupid party I'm at, we are brothers. Always."
Scott nodded mutely, a lump in his throat. He couldn't quite meet Alex's eyes, but the tension between them had eased, replaced by a fragile understanding. He mumbled a quick, "Yeah, okay," then slipped out of the locker room, needing some air.
Stiles, who had witnessed the tail end of the exchange with wide, observant eyes, sidled up to Alex. "Dude," he said quietly, "don't feel too bad about what he said. He might have gotten a little… extra angry. He's been having some, uh, let's call them 'anger management challenges' lately. Mood swings. You know teenagers." He winked, though his eyes were concerned.
Alex shook his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It's okay, Stiles. If he hadn't said those things, I wouldn't have known what was going on in his heart." He shrugged, a wry smile touching his lips. "At least now I know the problem. Just have to figure out how to make it right."
Stiles grinned. "I knew you would, man. You're Alex McCall. You can probably invent an app for that. 'Bro-Bond Repairer 2.0'."
Alex chuckled, the sound a little strained. "Maybe. By the way," he said, glancing around the locker room, "I apparently have to change into a lacrosse suit. Or whatever you call these padded monstrosities."
Stiles's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you're playing lacrosse? Seriously?"
Alex sighed dramatically. "Apparently, that old man of mine has gone completely senile. He told the principal to add me to the team. I have no idea what's going on in his mind. Probably thinks it'll 'build character' or some other archaic nonsense. Or maybe he just wants to see me publicly humiliated in unflattering athletic wear."
Outside, Scott leaned against the cool brick wall of the school, taking deep breaths, trying to calm the turmoil inside him. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy. He knew he shouldn't have blown up at Alex like that, but the words had just… come out. He felt a pang of guilt. Alex had looked genuinely hurt.
He looked up as he heard familiar laughter. Allison was walking across the damp grass towards the bleachers with Lydia, both of them looking effortlessly stylish even in their regular school clothes. Just the sight of Allison, her dark hair shining, her smile easy and bright, seemed to soothe the ragged edges of his emotions. The anger, the frustration, it all just… quieted.
"McCall! Stilinski! McCall the Second! Get your butts out here!" Coach Finstock's booming voice echoed across the lacrosse field. "Practice is starting! Chop chop! Unless you want to run laps until your eyeballs sweat!"
Scott pushed himself off the wall and headed towards the field, a new resolve settling in.
When Alex finally emerged from the locker room, dressed in a spare set of Beacon Hills High lacrosse gear that looked surprisingly good on him (though he wore it with an air of someone forced into a particularly uncomfortable costume), Stiles was by his side, chattering excitedly. As they walked towards the assembled team, a sudden eruption of cheers and squeals came from the bleachers. A group of girls, clearly alerted to Alex's presence on the field, were waving and calling his name.
Allison, sitting on the bleachers with Lydia, looked surprised. "Wow. Why are they cheering for him already? Is he, like, secretly amazing at lacrosse?"
Lydia, who was observing Alex with the focused intensity of a predator sizing up its prey, shook her head, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "No, sweetie." She turned to Allison, her expression one of worldly wisdom. "You really don't know anything about Alex McCall, do you?"
Allison shrugged. "Should I? Other than he's Scott's twin and apparently just moved here?"
Lydia let out a delicate sigh. "Honey, Alex McCall isn't just 'Scott's twin.' He's a celebrity in LA. A legitimate, paparazzi-hounded, teenage billionaire. His every move is chronicled by gossip sites. Every girl he's even rumored to have dated – and the list is long and impressive – has seen her career skyrocket. Actresses, models, pop stars… He's like a one-man ticket to stardom and fame. And," she added, her eyes glinting, "he's ridiculously, unfairly handsome."
Allison looked from Lydia to Alex, who was now standing in the circle of players, looking both out of place and completely in command. "So… what should I think? Is he bad news? Or good news?"
Lydia smirked. "That, my dear Allison, entirely depends on what you're looking for. But one thing's for sure," her gaze lingered on Alex again, "he is undeniably interesting. And very, very handsome."
Allison offered a small, half-cracked smile and nodded slowly. "Okay then."
Down on the field, Coach Finstock was addressing the team. "Alright, listen up, you hormonal time-bombs! We got a new face today! This here is McCall! Alex McCall!" He clapped Alex on the shoulder. "Yeah, I know, we got two McCalls now! Double the trouble, or double the points, eh? He just landed in our humble abode, but we're gonna give him a tryout. Be good if we had some kind of 'Twin McCall Attack Technique' to score some goals, eh? Synergy, people! Synergy!"
He then launched into his usual pre-practice motivational speech. "Now, you all know the drill! Tryouts are ongoing! If you don't make the cut, you will most likely be riding the pine pony for most of the season! Your parents will be disappointed! Your dog will be ashamed! The girls… well, the girls won't even know your name!" He puffed out his chest. "But! If you make the cut! If you prove you've got the grit, the skill, the unadulterated animal magnetism to wear the Cyclones jersey with pride! Then your parents will be happy! The girls will flock to you like seagulls to a dropped french fry! Your girlfriend – if you're lucky enough to have one – will be ecstatic! You will be the cream of the crop! The top banana! The alpha dog of this high school food chain!"
Alex, who had been listening with an expression of bemused tolerance, slowly raised his hand. Coach Finstock paused, looking surprised. "Yeah, McCall the Second? You got a question? Or are you already so inspired you need a moment to compose a victory sonnet?"
Alex lowered his hand, a polite, almost innocent smile on his face. "Actually, Coach, I was just wondering… what if you already have all those things? You know, the happy (debatable, in my case) parents, the flocking girls, the ecstatic (and usually temporary) girlfriend equivalent? Does that mean I can skip the tryout and go straight to being the cream of the crop? Just curious about the established protocols here."
Coach Finstock stared at Alex for a long, silent moment, his mouth slightly agape. The entire team held its breath. Then, the Coach blinked, shook his head as if clearing water from his ears, and completely, utterly ignored Alex's question. "ALRIGHT, YOU MAGGOTS!" he roared, turning back to the rest of the team. "You heard the man! Well, you heard me! If you got it, start showing me! Line up for drills! Let's see some hustle! Hustle, hustle, hustle!"