The next day rolled around, and after my sister triumphantly swiped my beloved console, I spent the night hunting for a job. No luck. The only places hiring were fast food joints. Yeah, no thanks. I'm not flipping burgers for minimum wage.
With a groan, Iván shook his head in defeat and got out of bed. His dad's necklace sat quietly in the nightstand, untouched. He threw on some clothes and got ready for the day.
Now here he was—resting his elbows on his knees, sitting on the cold metal bleachers. Down on the field, the juniors and seniors were already running drills.
The sophomores were up next, waiting for their turn to prove themselves.
He glanced down at the borrowed school gear barely clinging to his frame. At six feet tall with a solid, athletic build, it felt like he'd squeezed into a set made for someone half his size. Still, he couldn't help but grin. It was better than nothing.
A sharp blast from Coach Finstock's whistle cut through the air like a warning shot. "Alright, listen up, you little runts!" he barked, clipboard in hand, caffeine likely surging through his veins.
His eyes swept across the group. "I'm looking for strong players—tough, fast, and not complete disappointments."
Then his gaze landed on Stiles, who was fumbling with his helmet like it was trying to escape his head.
"Except for you, Stilinski. You're more fragile than a paper cut."
Coach Finstock turned, pointing his whistle at Iván. "Hey! New kid, right?"
Iván stood, nodding with quiet confidence. "Yes, sir. Name's Iván."
Finstock squinted, "You better not suck."
Then he turned toward Scott. "McCall! You're playing goalkeeper for today's exercise."
Scott looked confused. "Wait—Coach, I've never played goalie before."
"Yeah, well, the season's about to start, and the boys need a confidence boost. You'll survive."
Finstock blew his whistle again. "Alright, listen up! I'll be watching closely today. Now move it!"
Iván got up and followed the rest of the students lining up to take a shot at Scott, who stood awkwardly in goal.
Behind him, he overheard a sharp voice.
"You know you're never gonna cut, Stilinski," a cocky teen said.
Iván turned slightly, recognizing Jackson by the smug grin on his face.
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, at least I'll give it my all."
Jackson smirked. "You should try something you're actually good at. Maybe… a dance class? I'm sure they'd welcome you."
Iván shot a glare over his shoulder, eyeing the kid with growing irritation. He was really starting to hate this guy.
"Hey, you mind backing off?" Iván snapped. "Or do you always walk around with a stick up your ass?"
Jackson turned sharply. "What did you just say to me?"
He stepped forward aggressively while Stiles stood awkwardly in the middle, looking like he was about to cry for help.
Iván didn't flinch. "You wanna end up like yesterday? I'll gladly smash your face into a locker again."
That did it.
Jackson snapped, and the two of them collided—tackling each other to the ground.
Before punches could fly, a crowd of students rushed in. A few managed to pull them apart—well, mostly pull Iván off, since he'd ended up on top.
"Hey! You two jackasses—no fighting on my field!" Coach Finstock barked, pointing two fingers from his eyes to theirs in warning.
He blew his whistle sharply, signaling for the exercise to continue.
Everyone returned to the line. Iván's eyes went back on the field as Scott effortlessly caught each shot the other students took, handling the lacrosse crosse with ease.
Then it was Iván's turn.
He narrowed his eyes and gripped the crosse tightly. With a short burst of speed, his cleats kicked up dust as he charged forward. He swung in a clean arc—sharp and fast. Scott moved to catch it, but the ball curved mid-air and smacked right against the net.
"Damn right!" Finstock barked. "I knew you'd be good!"
"Let's go!" Iván shouted, grinning as he tossed his crosse into the air. "Who knew curving a shot with a stick was that easy?"
Scott stood frozen, stunned by the unexpected move.
Iván tilted his head with a smirk. "Don't look so down. You just didn't expect the ball to curve like that, huh?"
Iván watched each catch Scott made, analyzing every student's throw. They were all clean, straight shots in different directions—predictable. That's why he knew Scott wouldn't expect the ball to curve. Still… with reflexes like his, Scott almost caught it. He'd definitely grab the next one.
But something seemed off with Scott. He was glaring at Iván—eyes narrowed, sharp, almost like he was trying to burn a hole through him.
Seriously? Iván thought, frowning as he headed back to the line. It's just a game. No need to get so worked up.
Iván glanced to the side and spotted Allison watching from the sidelines. She gave him a small wave, standing next to the redhead—both of them cheering for the players.
He gave a slight nod back before turning his focus to the day's drills.
Once tryouts wrapped up, the students made their way into the locker room, completely drenched in sweat—every one of them exhausted and dragging their feet like they'd just run a marathon.
He pulled off his shirt, revealing a well-defined six-pack—his pride and joy. This is what hard work gets you, he thought with a smirk.
Stiles walked up from the side. "Hey, thanks for stepping in back there."
"No big deal," Iván replied, shrugging. "That guy's a jackass."
"I know, right? I've heard that na—" Before Stiles could finish, Jackson walked by, shooting him a sharp glare that made him flinch and stumble back.
Jackson scoffed and kept walking, heading toward the showers without a word.
Iván turned toward his locker and opened his locker and reached for his jeans, something small slipped out and hit the ground with a soft clink.
"What's that?" one of the boys asked, picking it up and handing it over.
Iván frowned as he stared at the familiar pendant. "It belonged to my dad," he muttered.
He turned it over in his hand. "This thing keeps showing up… like it's following me or something."
"Maybe it's trying to tell you to wear it," one of guys jokes, half-dressed and chuckling.
Iván sighed, considering it for a moment. "You know what? Fine." He slipped the pendant over his neck, flinching slightly as the cold metal touched his skin. "There. Happy?"
"Oh, by the way—I'm Iván," he said, looking at the boy who had picked it up for him.
"Danny," the boy replied, then raised an eyebrow. "So… are you gay?"
Iván blinked. "Uh, no. You?"
"You got a problem with that?" Danny asked, pulling his shirt over his head.
"Not at all," Iván said with a casual shrug.
"Good," Danny smirked. "'Cause you're smoking hot."
Iván chuckled, grabbing his shirt and slipping it on. "Thanks for the compliment."
Closing his locker, Iván slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked past Scott and Stiles. Just as he passed them, a strange sensation rippled through his body, sending a chill down his spine.
He shivered. "What the hell was that?" he muttered, brushing it off with a shrug as he kept walking.
As he made his way down the hall, he was stopped in his tracks by the same redhead from yesterday.
"Sorry about my boyfriend," Lydia said, twirling a strand of her strawberry-blonde hair while casually chewing gum. "He's… well, he's Jackson. That kind of says it all."
Iván raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.
"I'm Lydia, by the way," she added, flashing a perfectly rehearsed smile as she handed him a neatly folded piece of paper. "Party at my place tomorrow night. I'm sure the girls will love seeing fresh blood."
He opened the paper—an address in Beacon Hills, complete with her number scrawled in red ink.
He let out a small chuckle, smirking. "Maybe I should go to that party."
Iván looked up and nodded. "I'll definitely check it out. Thanks for the invite."
"Splendid," she said with a playful wink, turning on her heel and strutting off like she owned the hallway.
As Lydia disappeared into the distance, Iván slipped the paper into his back pocket and made his way home.
His house came into view—modest, painted in soft tones, with a small porch out front and a garage to the right. He stepped inside. The place was quiet. His mom was probably out grocery shopping.
He climbed the stairs and turned right into his bedroom. Dropping his bag carelessly on the floor, he flopped onto the bed, exhausted. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through old pictures—his sister, his mom, the three of them smiling together.
They looked happy.
But deep down, Iván knew they were all still hurting.
He reached under his shirt and pulled out the necklace—the same crescent moon pendant that kept finding its way back to him. Gripping it tightly, he tried to crush it in his hand. But it didn't even budge. It was solid, like stone—flawless, without a single scratch.
Unbreakable.
He was angry—furious, even. Why did you leave us? The question burned in his chest, louder than he ever dared to say aloud.
But then… it was as if something answered him.
He closed his eyes.
Memories of his dad came rushing back—his laughter, the way he used to ruffle Iván's hair, the quiet moments they shared. But one memory rose above the rest.
He was eight.
His dad had come home from a long trip, but something was wrong. He looked pale—haunted. Iván remembered watching him from the stairs as he spoke to his mom in hushed, frantic tones. Then the shouting started. Doors slammed. The tension in the house was thick, even to a child.
And in that moment, Iván saw it clearly.
His dad hadn't wanted to leave.
He was afraid.
Iván's eyes snapped open—and what he saw made his heart skip.
The moon pendant around his neck was glowing softly, pulsing with a pale, silvery light.
He stumbled back, slipping off the edge of his bed and hitting the floor with a thud.
"What the hell?!" he gasped, eyes wide as he stared at the pendant. It was glowing… as if awake.