The bell for first period shrieked, signaling the official start of Alex McCall's reluctant academic career at Beacon Hills High. He, Scott, and Stiles found themselves in Chemistry, a subject Alex had probably mastered conceptually before he'd learned to tie his own shoelaces. The classroom buzzed with the low hum of chatter, but it wasn't about covalent bonds or titration. It was about him.
Alex, lounging in a seat at the back beside Scott (Stiles was on Scott's other side, practically vibrating with second-hand excitement), could feel the weight of dozens of curious, speculative, and frankly, adoring, gazes. Girls whispered behind their hands, occasionally giggling and darting glances his way. Guys sized him up with a mixture of envy and suspicion. He, of course, appeared utterly unfazed, idly flipping through the textbook as if it contained the secrets of the universe, which, in his opinion, it decidedly did not.
The teacher, a man with thinning hair, a perpetually harassed expression, and a nameplate that read "Mr. Harris," finally clapped his hands for attention. "Alright, settle down, settle down, people! We have Bunsen burners to not explode today, hopefully." His gaze landed on Alex. "And it seems we have a new student joining our little scientific circus. Mr. McCall, I presume?"
Alex looked up, a picture of polite interest. "The one and only," he said, his voice smooth and carrying easily across the room. "Though I prefer 'Alex,' if we're going to be informal. Or 'Your Highness,' if we're not."
A ripple of laughter went through the class. Mr. Harris, however, looked less than amused. "Just 'Alex' will suffice, Mr. McCall. Perhaps you'd like to tell the class a little something about yourself? Where you're from, your favorite element, your hopes and dreams for a future in advanced chemical engineering?" His tone was dry as bone dust.
Alex stood up slowly, a roguish grin playing on his lips. He leaned casually against his desk. "Well, Mr. Harris, and esteemed future Nobel laureates," he began, his eyes sweeping the room, making brief, charming contact with several of the more captivated female students. "I hail from the sun-drenched, morally ambiguous land of Los Angeles. My favorite element is probably Unobtainium, because it sounds cool and implies a certain level of exclusivity. And my hopes and dreams mostly involve finding a decent espresso within a five-mile radius of this town and perhaps, just perhaps, not accidentally causing an international incident before lunch." He punctuated the last statement with a disarming wink that sent another wave of giggles through the room. Even Mr. Harris cracked a reluctant half-smile.
"Right," Mr. Harris said, clearing his throat. "Thank you for that… illuminating introduction, Alex. Please take your seat." He turned to the whiteboard, launching into a lecture about stoichiometry that Alex could have recited in his sleep.
As the teacher droned on, Alex leaned closer to Scott, his voice a low whisper that still managed to sound like it belonged on a movie soundtrack. "So, Scotty. About your rather abrupt departure in the hallway. You ditched your adoring public, not to mention your incredibly charming and world-famous brother, for a girl. Spill. Who is she?"
Scott, who had been trying to focus on Mr. Harris's lecture (and failing miserably, his mind still replaying Allison's smile), jumped slightly. "What? No! I wasn't… I was just saying hi to someone."
Alex raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his smirk evident even in profile. "Really? 'Just saying hi'? With that look on your face? You looked like a golden retriever puppy who'd just been promised a lifetime supply of bacon. Come on, seriously, is she your girlfriend?"
"No!" Scott hissed back, his cheeks flushing. "We're just… friends."
"Friends," Alex repeated, drawing the word out. "Dude, you're being serious? I can practically see the cartoon hearts floating around your head when you look at her. Don't tell me you haven't even asked her out yet. For shame, little brother. I taught you better than that. Or at least, I tried to teach you better than that between your naps."
Scott scowled. "Stop it! And I have asked her out, okay? We're going to a party. Tonight."
Alex's eyes lit up. "A party? Tonight? And no one thought to extend an invitation to moi, the life and soul of any respectable (and most disreputable) gatherings?" His voice carried a theatrical note of injury.
Suddenly, a smooth, feminine voice cut in from their right. "You can come. It's my party." Lydia Martin, seated one row over and one seat forward, turned slightly, offering Alex a dazzling, calculated smile. Her strawberry-blonde hair was perfect, her makeup flawless. "Glad to finally meet you, Alex. I'm Lydia Martin."
Alex raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over Lydia with open appreciation. He returned her smile with one of his own, equally dazzling and twice as dangerous. "Lydia Martin," he purred. "The pleasure is all mine, gorgeous. A party hosted by someone with such impeccable taste? How could I possibly resist?"
"Mr. McCall!" Mr. Harris's sharp voice cut through their flirtatious exchange like a scalpel. "While I'm sure your social calendar is fascinating, and Ms. Martin's party will be the event of the season, I would appreciate it if you'd both refrain from planning it during my lecture on molar mass! This is a chemistry class, not a matchmaking service!" He glared at them over the top of his glasses. "I know you're very smart, Alex, or so your file suggests, but it would be a good thing to at least pretend to revise some of these concepts. And to be quiet in my class. Or you will have a detention. Since it's your first day, I'm letting this slide. Lydia, you too. First warning. Next time, detention for both of you."
Lydia merely offered a sweet, innocent smile, while Alex gave a mock salute. "Understood, Professor. My lips are sealed. Mostly."
Mr. Harris sighed, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and Alex? The lacrosse coach, Coach Finstock, wants to see you after class. In his office."
Alex's eyebrows shot up, a genuine question mark appearing on his face. "The lacrosse coach? Wants to see me?" He glanced at Scott, then at Stiles, who both looked equally bewildered. "Okay then," he said, shrugging. This day was getting weirder by the minute.
The bell finally rang, releasing them from the chemical bonds of Mr. Harris's lecture. As Alex, Scott, and Stiles moved out into the crowded hallway, Alex was still puzzling over the coach's summons. "Alright, spill," Alex said, slinging his ridiculously expensive leather backpack over one shoulder. "Why in the name of all that is holy and involves a ball and a stick does your lacrosse coach want to see me? I haven't touched a lacrosse stick in my life. I think I might be allergic to them. And the shorts are a crime against fashion."
Stiles, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, chimed in. "Dude, maybe he saw your car! Maybe he thinks anyone who drives a car that awesome must be, like, a secret lacrosse god! Or maybe he wants to recruit you for some super-secret, off-the-books mission involving your car and, I don't know, fighting rogue Canadian geese!"
Scott rolled his eyes. "Stiles, be serious." He turned to Alex. "Honestly, I have no idea. Coach Finstock is… eccentric. Maybe he just wants to meet the new celebrity in town. Or maybe he thinks because I'm on the team, you must have some hidden athletic talent."
"Hidden is the operative word," Alex muttered. "My talents usually involve outsmarting venture capitalists or charming my way out of diplomatic incidents, not running around a field with a net on a stick." He sighed. "Alright, where is this den of athletic inquisition?"
"It's down by the gym," Scott said. "I can show you. I'm heading that way anyway, gotta change for practice."
The Beacon Hills High locker room smelled exactly as one would expect: a potent combination of old sweat, mildew, and desperation. Scott was by his locker, pulling on his lacrosse pads, the familiar clatter and scrape of equipment echoing around him. He was trying to focus, to get his head in the game, but his mind was still buzzing from the morning's events: Alex's arrival, Lydia's party, Allison saying yes…
SLAM!
Scott jumped as his locker door was violently slammed shut, inches from his face. Jackson Whittemore stood there, his handsome features contorted into an ugly sneer, effectively cornering Scott against the bank of metal lockers. "Alright, McCall," Jackson growled, his voice low and menacing. "Spill it. Where are you getting your juice?"
Scott blinked, genuinely confused. "My juice? What are you talking about, Jackson? My mom usually does all the grocery shopping. We get orange, sometimes apple…"
Jackson's eyes narrowed. He slammed a hand against the locker next to Scott's head, making the metal rattle. "Don't play dumb with me, McCall! You know exactly what I'm talking about! That little 'performance' on the field the other day? The sudden athletic prowess? There's no way you're playing like that without some kind of chemical boost. So you're gonna tell me, right now, what exactly it is, and who you're buying it from!"
Scott's stomach clenched. "You mean… steroids? Are you on steroids, Jackson?" The accusation, though born of panic, hit a nerve.
Jackson's face flushed with anger. He grabbed the front of Scott's lacrosse jersey, yanking him forward. "You little—"
Before Jackson could finish his threat, or Scott could react (other than to yelp internally), a hand shot out, seemingly from nowhere, and clamped onto Jackson's wrist with a grip like iron. Another hand grabbed Jackson's collar, and in a blur of motion, Jackson found himself wrenched away from Scott and slammed hard against the opposite bank of lockers with a resounding CRASH!
Alex McCall stood there, his expression dangerously calm, his eyes like chips of ice. He had one hand gripping Jackson's throat, pressing him against the metal, his knuckles white. The casual, charming playboy was gone, replaced by something cold and predatory. "Who the fuck," Alex said, his voice a low, lethal purr that was somehow more terrifying than a shout, "do you think you are, putting your hands on my brother?"
Jackson clawed at Alex's hand, his face turning a dusky red, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fury. He was strong, but Alex's grip was like a vise. He made a choking, gurgling sound.
"Alex! Stop!" Scott cried, rushing forward. He grabbed Alex's arm, trying to pull him back. "Alex, it's okay! We were just talking! We don't need to make it a big deal!"
Alex didn't even look at Scott, his icy gaze still fixed on Jackson. "He put his hands on you, Scotty. That makes it a big deal."
"No, really, it's fine!" Scott insisted, tugging harder. "Let him go! Please!"
Alex held Jackson's gaze for another tense second, then, with a final, contemptuous shove, he released his grip. Jackson stumbled back, gasping for air, rubbing his throat, his eyes blazing with humiliated fury.
"You think you're tough, pretty boy?" Jackson snarled, his voice hoarse. "You think just because you're rich—"
"Hey! What's all the commotion in here? You boys having a pillow fight?" A loud, booming voice cut through the tension. Coach Finstock stood in the doorway, a whistle around his neck, his usual expression of bewildered enthusiasm firmly in place.
Scott practically sagged with relief. "Nothing, Coach! We were just… getting ready for practice! Yeah! Team spirit!" He offered a weak, overly enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Alex and Jackson, however, were still locked in a silent, furious staring contest. Jackson looked like he wanted to rip Alex's head off. Alex looked like he was calmly calculating how many bones he could break before anyone could intervene.
Coach Finstock ambled closer, peering at the two of them, his head tilted. "Well, now. That's some intense eye contact you got going on there. You two… into each other or something?" He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Not that I'm against it, you know. Love is love. Though, maybe save the smoldering glances for after practice, eh? We got drills to run, people! Drills!"
The sudden, unexpected absurdity of the Coach's comment seemed to suck all the air out of the room. The tension didn't just melt; it evaporated in a puff of sheer bewilderment.
Both Jackson and Alex simultaneously blurted out, "WHAT?!"
Jackson, his face a mask of outrage and disgust, sputtered, "I am NOT into him! Or any other guy! That's… that's ridiculous!" He shot one last venomous glare at Alex, then grabbed his lacrosse stick and stormed out of the locker room, muttering curses under his breath.
Alex just stared at Coach Finstock, his mouth slightly agape, his earlier icy rage replaced by an expression of utter, dumbfounded disbelief. He looked from the retreating figure of Jackson to the cheerfully oblivious Coach, then back again. How, he wondered, could one man be such a monumental, world-class airhead? This town was going to be the death of him. Or at least, the death of his sanity.