Season Of The Witch (Stiles Stilinski)

The Olympic Sport of Cellphone Throwing

"Is that Carrie Hudson?" I asked, glancing down at the crime scene photos Stiles slid out of a tan folder.

"Yep," He stated, arranging the pictures so they fanned out across his desk.

"Did you steal that file from your dad, then?"

"Nope, I just made a copy of it."

"Isn't that illegal?"

He peered up at me, "It's smarter."

I nodded before turning around. "Why I agreed to date you is beyond me."

"Wait, what?"

"Economic disparity," I grinned as Coach started his lecture. He gripped a lacrosse stick tightly in his hands as he began to walk up and down the aisles, "Exists in all forms. We'll take sports for example. Some teams have better training facilities, some have better equipment," I looked at him in alarm as he slowly made his way down the row of desks Stiles and I were seated in. I frantically reached my hand around and started urgently tapping on his desk. I looked back and dropped my jaw when Stiles waved me off in lieu of looking at the crime scene photos.

Deciding to let whatever was about to happen unfold, I picked up my pencil and started copying down what was on the board (Supply vs. Demand). "Unlike Beacon Hills," Coach continued, "That can barely afford the duct tape to keep our equipment together." Finstock finally noticed Stiles, and harshly tapped the lacrosse stick he was holding against his desk. Stiles leapt back in surprise.

"You know, Stilinski," He bent over Stiles' desk and picked up a picture to look at, "If I could grade you on how profoundly you disturb me, you'd be an A-plus student." I grinned at Stiles' semi-offended stare.

"Thanks, Coach."

"Put those pictures away," Coach asked him before tapping the lacrosse stick on his desk again. Before the coach could move on, however, Stiles gripped the end of the lacrosse stick and uncapped it.

"Stilinski," Coach Finstock chastised before tugging on the stick. Stiles tugged back, holding up a photo to compare the lacrosse stick with what I assumed was Carrie's unique stab wounds. Finstock finally gained the upper hand in the odd game of tug-of-war.

"What the hell is wrong with you? No, don't answer that. I don't wanna know." Coach walked back up to the board and made some room for more notes. I turned back to Stiles, who was glancing at Scott seated next to him.

"It's a lacrosse player," He stated, shoving the pictures back into the folder and into his backpack.

Scott's eyebrows shot up, "The killer's on the team."

*****

"Can't this wait?" I whined as Stiles tugged on my hand.

"No, we need to figure out who the killer is, and the first place to start would be school equipment."

"But I'm starving, Stiles, starving. I mean, what use am I if I'm famished? I'll just be thinking of food the whole time."

"I'll buy you lunch after school."

"But you'll be practicing after school. Oh, speaking of lacrosse, is it too weird if I wear one of your jerseys to the scrimmage? Since we just started dating and all-"

"It's not weird," I noticed Stiles had a funny look on his face, and I scrunched my eyebrows.

"Why do you look like that, then?"

He shook his head and continued to lead me to Coach's office, "Sorry, I was just picturing you wearing my jersey."

I was mildly offended, "Well if you look like that at the thought of me wearing your jersey, then I just won't-"