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The late afternoon sun blazed down over the green turf of the Beacon Hills field, casting golden light across the barely-organized chaos that could loosely be called lacrosse practice. Whistles shrieked. Balls flew in dangerous, misdirected arcs. The air still smelled faintly of chlorinated water and mischief, a sure sign that the spontaneous water balloon fight had only just ended.
Coach Bobby Finstock stood in the center of it all, unfazed and unsweaty, as always, in his inexplicable combination of windbreaker and shorts. He held a whiteboard in one hand—covered in haphazard scribbles that might have been tactical plays, or maybe just a poorly thought-out sandwich order. Either way, no one could decipher it but him, and even that seemed debatable.
Scott, co-coach, was doing his earnest best to herd players like feral cats into something resembling formation. Meanwhile, Stiles barked orders from the sideline, wildly waving his clipboard in one hand and yelling something about “hydration or decapitation.” Isaac, looking exasperated, was muttering under his breath as he tried—and failed—to wedge a lacrosse ball out of the net using a cracked stick.
The bleachers held a mismatched gallery of spectators, all of them watching the madness with various flavors of amusement, judgment, and disinterest. Peter Hale leaned forward slightly, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and vaguely predatory. Next to him, Isabelle Stilinski sat with one leg curled under her, chewing on a red licorice stick like it had insulted her flannels. Malia watched the field with narrowed eyes, the kind that said she was moments away from storming the turf and showing everyone how it was done.
Liam was fidgety—though to be fair, he was always fidgety. Allison sat beside him, looking both bemused and charmed by the unfolding scene. On the other end, Kira enthusiastically waved a tiny Beacon Hills flag she’d brought along “for moral support,” her grin wide and unstoppable.
A whistle blast sharp enough to startle birds from the trees sliced through the air, courtesy of Coach Finstock. Somewhere nearby, a squirrel lost its grip and thudded to the ground with an indignant chirp.
“Alright, listen up, you magnificent hormonal disasters!” Coach Finstock boomed, arms wide like a preacher on game day. “Today is about unity! Teamwork! Pride! And I don’t mean the kind where you flex in the mirror like idiots—actual Pride.”
A few players blinked. One raised a tentative hand.
“Lacrosse?” came the uncertain group answer.
“Yes! And more!” the coach roared. He spun dramatically and, with a flourish that defied reason or reality, pulled a full-sized Progress Pride Flag out of seemingly nowhere. The fabric fluttered in the breeze like something out of a sports movie with a slightly gayer budget.
“This, my sweaty young warriors, is not just a rainbow. It is an extra rainbow. A rainbow with geometry. That triangle?” He jabbed at the flag. “That means evolution. Growth. Like my cholesterol numbers after I quit mayo!”
On the bleachers, Peter raised an unimpressed brow. “I thought this was a scrimmage,” he said, deadpan. “Not a TED Talk.”
Isabelle smirked, still chewing her licorice. “Let him cook.”
Coach Finstock whirled toward them, jabbing a finger in Peter’s direction. “That right there is why you got benched in emotional intelligence, Hale! Zip it. This moment isn’t about you. For once.”
Then he began to pace across the turf with dramatic flair, like he was halfway through a one-man Shakespeare production performed in front of a confused JV team.
“I may be a straight man,” he declared, clutching the flag with both hands. “As straight as a measuring tape, as basic as a black coffee, as classic as a white crew sock. But I stand here today with this flag and this questionable outfit because I believe in something greater than myself!”
He turned suddenly, meeting the gaze of everyone assembled.
“Think of me as the pole. I may not be part of the flag, but damn it—I’m what holds it up.”
Stiles choked on his water and doubled over, hacking. Isaac collapsed into the grass beside him, wheezing.
“Did—did he just—he did,” Stiles gasped, wide-eyed. “He actually said that out loud.”
Scott, ever the peacemaker, folded his arms and offered a resigned smile. “He means well.”
“I do mean well!” Finstock affirmed, raising a hand dramatically. “That’s the only thing I’ve ever meant! I went to a drag brunch last Sunday. She sang Whitney. I wept. I tipped my entire rent check. Worth it.”
Down by the bleachers, Liam leaned closer to Allison, voice low. “Is it weird that I feel kind of... inspired?”
Allison nodded slowly. “Yeah. But also? Same.”
Coach Finstock raised the flag above his head, his voice swelling with sudden emotion. “This flag stands for love. For acceptance. For progress. And for coordinated plays. If you can support your team on the field, you can damn well support them off it too.”
He looked around the field, nodding solemnly.
“So I say it loud, and I say it proud: GO GAYS!”
A beat passed. Then—
“And also go Beacon Hills Cyclones! But like—mainly the gays today.”
Kira clapped like she was at a concert. “Coach, that was... actually amazing.”
Isabelle wiped at the corner of one eye, grinning. “And so weirdly chaotic. I loved it.”
Peter leaned closer to her. “Are we sure he’s not on something?”
She whispered back, “Just love. And probably a lot of espresso.”
Just as the moment threatened to turn sentimental, Finstock clapped his hands and shifted gears with dizzying speed.
“NOW DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY BECAUSE EQUALITY MEANS EVERYBODY DOES BURPEES!”
Stiles shrieked. Isaac groaned. Scott sighed and started counting. Peter didn’t move a muscle. The rest of the team hit the ground with groans and muttered curses.
Above it all, Coach Finstock waved the Progress Pride Flag like a battlefield general.
“I love this team!”