Chapter Text
It’s no surprise to anyone when Stiles gets drafted. He’s unbelievably good, with the best save percentage in Juniors. He pulls more shutouts than some of the best goalies in history. What is surprising, though, is that at only 19, he’s being thrown into the starting goalie position. The Beacon Hills Wolves lost their starter to a severe concussion, one bad enough to lead to retirement. Worse, their backup’s contract ended, and he left them high and dry. So, Stiles gets to live the dream. While anyone else would feel nervous, pressured, he just feels good.
Stiles’ agent takes him to meet Derek a few days after the draft. Victoria painted the picture that his new captain was terrifying, an emotionless wall of muscle and hate. Stiles tried to take it in stride, though, since Victoria was the scariest person he’d ever met anyway.
Derek lives at the owners house, Alan Deaton. Deaton was a brilliant center before he retired, and led the Wolves to three Stanley Cups. Stiles hears Derek is on the path to living up to him. To be honest, Stiles has heard a lot about Derek. He’s watched a lot of Derek, too. He may just be obsessed with the man’s playing. He’s unstoppable.
When Victoria ushers Stiles up to the door, Stiles has to take a minute before he knocks. He wants to impress his captain. If Derek’s really such a hardass, being such a young player isn't going to be easy if Stiles is on his bad side. But when the door swings open and Stiles sees Derek scowling behind a friendly Deaton, he grins. The guy looks like a puppy. A puppy who’s gotten his favorite toy taken away, but a puppy none the less.
“Stiles,” Deaton claps him on the shoulder, “good to see you again!” He steps to the side, and waves a hand at Derek. “This is Derek Hale, your captain.” Stiles steps forward, his goofiest grin plastered on his face, and holds out his hand. Derek looks at his hand like it’s dirty, before grudgingly taking it in his.
“I’m Stiles,” he says, trying not to wince at the death grip Derek delivers. “Stiles Stilinski,” he adds. Derek looks him up and down, his face screwed up a little bit, as if he smells something foul.
“Who names their kid Stiles?” he asks, dropping Stiles hand. Stiles smile falters a bit, but only for a second.
“My real name was too hard to pronounce. I changed it.” Derek just grunts. Deaton grabs Stiles’ shoulder again, leading him inside.
“Come on then, I look rude letting you stand out here,” he insists. Stiles elbows Derek playfully as he slides past him into the house.
“Smile,” he says under his breath. Derek just scowls and closes the door after Victoria.
~
Derek excuses himself to the guest house within minutes, forcing out a “nice to meet you” without actually looking at Stiles.
“Lovely guy,” Stiles chirps to Deaton and Victoria once Derek’s out of earshot. He sips on the water Deaton gave him, wishing it were soda. He can’t afford the sugar high though, he’s already naturally jittery. Deaton smiles at him, though it looks a little forced.
“It takes him awhile to... warm up to people,” he explains. Victoria lets out a sharp and short laugh.
“What Alan means is that he doesn’t warm up to people at all.” Deaton - Alan - sighs.
“Don’t scare the boy, Victoria,” he starts, but Stiles puts a hand up in protest.
“I don’t scare easily,” Stiles says with a smirk.
Alan gives Stiles the details of the team dinner that Derek failed to mention. He insists that Stiles goes, and briefs him a bit about what he’s walking into. “They’re a good group of guys,” he tells Stiles. Some PR agents and statistics specialists are going to be at the dinner too, and Victoria sternly tells Stiles not to get involved with any women in the organization. Stiles guarantees them that it won’t be an issue - and really, it won’t be - before leaving with a heartfelt thank you for the hospitality.
~
Meeting the rest of the team is a lot less intimidating. Plus, Stiles gets food out of the deal, so he’s all for it. He’s greeted by a full table, most of whom raise their glasses in hello. Danny Mahealani, the old starting goalie, stands up and walks over to him, shaking his hand eagerly. “My replacement, everyone,” he says with a smile, waving his hand around Stiles. “Treat him better than you treated me, will you?” The table laughs, and Danny throws his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and leads him to his chair.
Stiles recognizes the guy next to him him as Scott McCall, a center. He leans across over and asks under his breath, “Is everyone already drunk?” Scott grins at him, dopey and lopsided.
“Not everyone, don’t worry,” he answers, twisting in his chair to shake Stiles’ hand. “Nice to meet you, man.” Scott taps his glass with a spoon and starts up a round of slurred introductions. Everyone seems happy to meet him.
The woman next to him - Lydia - turns to him after he gets everyone’s name. “Wine?” she asks, her accent heavy with Russian. He declines, and she laughs. “Don’t blame you. Nothing beats vodka.” Stiles leans in, intrigued.
“Could you repeat that in Russian?” Her eyes brighten and she nods, repeating herself. Stiles beams. “Fascinating.”
“Man of languages?”
“I’d like to be!”
“Heard is very fulfilling. My girlfriend speaks many languages,” she says, nodding down the table to Allison, a PR agent.
The rest of the night goes smoothly. Stiles learns everyones nicknames and the stories behind them. Everyone chirps about other teams draft picks, and Stiles joins in with a grin. In around an hour, he’s had a few glasses of wine and is smiling consistently, laughing as if he belongs there.
On the way to the bathroom, Stiles passes Derek, who’s arguing with Coach Finstock. Something about third and fourth lines. Stiles lands a light hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up, Sourwolf,” he insists before going on his way. Derek glares after him, lips pressed into a tight line and nostrils flared. The entire table has gone silent, waiting for Derek to react. But Stiles moves out of sight, and Derek eventually looks back at Finstock and grunts, picking up the conversation where it left off.
The rest of the table returns to excited chatter, except for a handful. Isaac turns to Scott, wide eyed. “Why didn’t he kill him?” Scott shrugs, clearly puzzled.
“No idea, but he’s lucky.”
At the end of the night, Stiles gets a lot of handshakes, and some hugs goodbye. Lydia says something to him in hurried Russian, earning a giggle from Allison. He cocks his head to the side and starts to ask, but she laughs sharply and walks away with a wink.
Jackson Whittemore punches his shoulder a little too hard, and offers, “better learn Russian, she was probably insulting you,” before leaving himself. Stiles goes to say goodbye to Derek, but he’s already gone, avoiding human contact. Seems to be his thing.