Later that day — Boys' Locker Room
FWEEEEET!
Coach Finstock's whistle practically ruptured everyone's eardrums.
"Alright, guys!" he shouted, hands on hips. "Eyes up here. Listen."
The entire lacrosse team groaned but looked toward him anyway.
"Following the recent epidemic of conjunctivitis—" he began.
Someone silently handed him a clipboard.
"Oh, thanks, Greenberg," Coach said automatically, still never having actually seen Greenberg.
He squinted at the paper. "The players I'm about to name will be starters for a trial period."
Stiles, sitting between Scott and Asher, immediately perked up like a meerkat.
"And I underline the word trial," Coach added dramatically.
He cleared his throat.
"Rodriguez."
A guy behind Coach fist-bumped his buddy with enough hype to fuel a nuclear reactor.
Coach pointed lazily at him. "Welcome to the starters."
He squinted again.
"Taylor."
Another guy cheered.
"And… uh…" Coach frowned. "Hoo boy. I think I'm getting old. I can't read my own handwriting. What is this? Is this an S? Who the hell writes like this?!"
Stiles was already halfway standing, eyes glowing with hope.
"No, not an S…" Coach muttered, turning the clipboard sideways like it was some ancient artifact. "Looks like a… B? Yeah. It's a B."
Stiles' hope died in real time.
"Rodriguez, Taylor, and…" Coach declared loudly, "Bilinski."
Stiles shot upright so fast the bench rattled.
"WOOHOO!" he screamed, doing… something. A victory dance? A seizure? No one knew.
"WAAH-HAU!" He flung his arms around like a malfunctioning helicopter.
The entire team stared, wondering if he needed medical assistance.
"STILINSKI!" Coach barked.
"Yes?" Stiles beamed, absolutely unhinged.
"Shut. Your. Mouth."
Stiles snapped to attention. "Yessir."
Still smiling like he'd just won the lottery.
He plopped back down.
Scott turned to him. "Stiles—"
"Biles. Call me Biles or I swear I'll kill you," Stiles said, dead serious.
Scott blinked.
Coach blew the whistle again.
"And another thing! Starting today, we're playing with two captains," Coach announced.
A murmur rippled through the team.
"Congratulations, McCall."
Stiles whipped toward Scott.
Scott froze.
Jackson combusted.
He stormed toward Coach. "WHAT?!"
"What what?" Coach replied, unimpressed. "This doesn't change anything."
Jackson looked moments away from an aneurysm.
Coach clapped his hands. "Here's the point! Combine your strengths. Your individuality and McCall's."
"Together, you create a strategic advantage. McCall!" The coach gestured. "You're partnered with Jackson now."
He blew the whistle again. "Everyone else—ASSES ON THE FIELD! MOVE!"
Players groaned and filed out.
Asher nudged both Scott and Stiles.
"Congrats, Scott. Congrats, Stiles."
"Yeah!" Stiles said, still buzzing. "I still can't believe I'm—"
[Hey. Didn't you need to ask that puny coach permission to play? I'm bored watching others run around like idiots.]
Asher blinked as the voice drowned out Stiles' babbling.
"Sorry, Stiles. I need to ask Coach something," Asher said, stepping away.
Stiles tilted his head. "Hey, Scott… don't you think Asher is acting strange today?"
Scott didn't respond.
Asher jogged toward Coach, who was checking names off a clipboard with his usual level of enthusiasm—meaning none.
"Coach, I wanted to ask you something," Asher said.
"Sure, go ahead, GQ model," Coach muttered without looking up.
Asher exhaled. "Can I start playing again today?"
Coach froze for a second, then let out a long, soul-tired sigh.
"I'm sorry, Sable… look, you know I don't give a damn about rules," he said, rubbing his forehead. "But I also don't wanna get fired. You need another week. Minimum."
Asher stiffened.
"You nearly died," Coach added bluntly. "So the school's riding my ass. They won't let you play yet."
"…I understand," Asher said, trying not to show the disappointment.
[THIS STUPID PEASANT!]
The voice roared inside his skull.
[How dares he deny us the right to play?!]
'Stop it. It's not his fault,' Asher muttered inwardly, forcing the other presence quiet.
He thanked Coach and walked back toward the field.
'Maybe today… I should go back to my old job,' Asher thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 'Ball gatherer.'
It didn't sound so bad anymore. Back then he did it alone, friendless, ignored by everyone.
Now? He actually had people beside him.
[Gathering balls? Seriously? You pathetic loser! I cannot believe we share the same existence!]
Asher held back a laugh.
Right.
That was the strange part.
He and the voice were the same entity—one being with two minds, two completely different personalities tangled inside the same body. The voice had appeared the moment he woke up after the Alpha fight.
At first, Asher thought he was losing it.
But the voice… was oddly funny. A dramatic, arrogant newborn who knew nothing about the world, nothing about people, nothing about basic decency. When he got to know about kings and royalty, he had gotten intrigued, starting to think he was like that, hence talking exactly like an arrogant prince.
And worst of all—
It was extremely intrusive.
Especially when Asher tried to have intimate moments with Erica. The voice screamed, complained, demanded attention like a spoiled child trapped in a king's ego.
A part of him, yes—
but having anyone, even himself, watching him do 'that' was... weird. So he would always lock him inside his mind, silencing him temporarily.
To be continued...
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