It was a routine play, really.
Stiles had worked his way into the starting lineup after his sudden prowess revealed itself at that fateful game back when Jackson was the kanima and Allison's grandfather was trying to kill them. He wasn't as good as Scott, of course, and Danny and some of the other more experienced players still had a leg up on him, but he had impressed Coach enough to give him a chance this next season. Stiles needed lacrosse. It provided a brief respite from his overactive brain, and more than anything, it was so refreshingly normal. For a moment, Stiles could forget about werewolves and banshees and all the other weird creatures they'd encountered over the past few years.
So when he was knocked off his feet by an opposing player's rather enthusiastic hit, he was just happy to be hit by something that wasn't supernaturally powerful for a change. Stiles shook it off and was about to get back up when he realized that the crowd's cheers had gone quiet.
He might not have been particularly upset by the check, but Stiles quickly realized that his opinion was not shared by all of the spectators. Specifically, it was most definitely not shared by an angry werecoyote, who was currently lifting the offending player up by his jersey about two feet above the ground.
"No! Malia!" Stiles scrambled (slightly inelegantly) to his feet. "Malia! It's part of the game!"
She tilted her head at him, a puzzled look on her face, as the petrified player in her arms began struggling. "But he hurt you," she said. "Should I not hurt him back?" At this, her captive redoubled his efforts. "Stop that," she ordered absentmindedly, as if he was a child reaching for a cookie jar, not a well-muscled athlete violently thrashing his arms around.
Stiles glanced apologetically at his opponent, who had given in to the inevitable and stopped moving. "I'm fine." Malia looked over him with a quizzical eye, and he held out his arms to show her the lack of injury. "I'm fine, okay? Just a bit of grass. People get hit all the time in lacrosse."
Malia considered what he said. "Fine," she agreed, and Stiles let out a sigh of relief.
"Now would you please put him down? People are starting to stare."
The werecoyote looked around, taking in for the first time the lacrosse players who had gathered in a circle around her, most of whom were terrified and one who was just terribly embarrassed (Scott), the coaches who were running onto the field, and the referees who were not quite sure what to do. She shrugged, unconcerned. "Fine," she repeated.
Her next move, however, was not to drop the player but to bring him in closer to her. "If you ever touch my Stiles again, I will cause you intense, incomprehensible, unimaginable pain." Stiles groaned inwardly, regretting not for the first time his decision to buy her a pocket thesaurus to help her catch up with the rest of the world verbally. She shook the player, still suspended in the air. "Understand?"
Stiles couldn't hear him respond, but he must have said something, because Malia dropped him to the ground, satisfied. Finally. The werecoyote calmly parted the crown of uniforms that had gathered around her and walked back to her seat like nothing happened.
One of the referees blew his whistle. "Um... red ball!" The players hesitantly took their positions, and the game resumed, albeit slowly. Scott met Stiles eyes and Stiles shrugged.
"Progress, right?"
A/N the-candy-van:
CAN YOU IMAGINE STILES GETTING TACKLED IN LACROSSE
AND MALIA IMMEDIATELY RUNNING ON THE FIELD TO HURT THE OTHER PLAYER