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stiles when you are sat on one of the benches that coach usually sat on, you were his second in command almost, you watch your closest friend get ready to attack. his legs bending as he gets into a crouch, his hands adjusting themselves around the stick in his hands as he turns to you. watching as you cup your hands over your mouth in worry because your friend always had a tendency to get hurt, but all he did was wink at you, and a smile lit up your face — just as a ball collided with his lower regions.
" i've got this y/n. don't you worry your pretty little head. "
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