In Beacon Hills, Friday night games were more of a social event than a sport.

The bleachers were packed — students, parents, teachers, even toddlers with face paint and foam fingers. The kind of crowd she usually avoided. But for the last few weeks, she hadn’t missed a single one. She sat with her hoodie pulled over her head, pretending she was just there for the school spirit, but her eyes never left the field.

More specifically… they never left number 13.

Derek Hale.

God, she was down bad.

It started slow — after a few shared study sessions and babysitting nights with Stiles, after too many moments where his hand would brush hers and neither of them would move. But now, just being near him made her stomach twist up in ways she didn’t understand. She wasn’t his, and he wasn’t hers, but lately it felt like maybe they were heading that way.

Maybe.

Unless her dad ruined everything first.

Because tonight, of all nights, Sheriff Stilinski decided it was time for a family outing.

“You never go to these games,” he said as they pulled into the lot, parking the cruiser. “Now suddenly you’re all about school spirit?”

“I just thought it’d be fun,” she said, trying to sound casual while texting Derek under the seatbelt.

( You better win. No pressure. )

She didn’t notice the way her dad narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

The game was intense. Beacon Hills pulled ahead late in the third quarter and managed to hold the lead. When the whistle blew, the crowd exploded with cheers.

She stood up, clapping and laughing, her nerves suddenly gone because he did it.

The players rushed the sidelines, all hollering and celebrating — and then, before she could even process what was happening, Derek spotted her in the crowd and ran toward her. Helmet off, cheeks flushed, curls a mess from sweat.

And he didn’t stop to check who was around.

“We won!” he grinned, catching her by the waist and lifting her off the ground for a second, spinning her in a celebratory hug. “I told you we’d crush it!”

She laughed, breathless. “You were amazing.”

His hands lingered at her waist. Their eyes met. And suddenly he went very still.

Because that’s when he saw him.

Standing two feet away. In full uniform. Arms crossed.

Sheriff Stilinski.

And judging by the slow blink and deeply unimpressed expression… he had seen everything.

Derek’s hands immediately dropped from her waist. “Sir.”

Her dad raised an eyebrow. “Son.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her face was burning.

“I, uh,” Derek scratched the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, “we were just celebrating. It was… a team thing. School spirit. Very appropriate. No touching. I mean, barely any. Actually, I hardly know her—”

“Derek,” she hissed.

“Okay, I do know her.”

The Sheriff gave her a long look. “So. This your reason for suddenly supporting Beacon Hills basketball?”