Stiles had never really been sure if he could be considered a jock or not.
Because, yeah sure, he was on the lacrosse team and played baseball in his spare time but he was no star athlete. Hell, he spent most of his time during lacrosse games warming the bench and fetching Coach refills of Gatorade.
He had always been into sports, for as long as he could actually remember, really. He had been a devout Mets fan since long before he could even walk, his mom and his dad joking that he had inherited his preference from both of them. He could still remember his dad teasing his mom about it, claiming she had watched too much baseball while pregnant, Stiles born only a few months before the World Series.
Older now, he never missed a game. Not once. Whenever the Mets played, he would dress in his finest blue and orange gear, baseball cap and all, just to firmly plant his butt on the living room couch with a giant bowl of low-fat popcorn in his lap and a bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups in the freezer for later.
Back in elementary school, he and Scott had played Little League together, baseball both a good hobby and a wonderful way to keep them from getting into too much trouble. Stiles took to it like a pig to mud, one of the best pitchers their local division had ever seen, finding his element out on the mound.
Both of his parents would come to every game, his mom taking a break from her work at home and his dad somehow weaseling his way out of doing paperwork just to catch the opening pitch. Without fail, his dad cheered louder than anyone else in the crowd, jumping to his feet and waving his arms around as he proudly proclaimed, “That’s my son!”
When Scott had eventually grown tired of playing in Little League, in part due to his asthma which was being somewhat exacerbated by all of the physical activity and in part because of the fact that baseball was no longer considered cool, Stiles had decided to quit with him. He just hadn’t seen the point of continuing to play if his best friend wasn’t there with him. And besides, it just wasn’t the same without his mom there.
In high school, he still gravitated towards baseball but he had soon developed an affinity for lacrosse after Scott started showing interest in trying out for the team. He had spent hours researching all aspects of the sport, wanting to know exactly what to expect at tryouts.
With his asthma clearing up a bit and all the confidence of no longer being a virgin thanks to Allison, Scott had managed to snag a highly coveted position on the first line. Meanwhile, Stiles only barely made the team, beating out two other guys who had tried out, owing his victory to pure dumb luck though he barely ever made it onto the field.
It wasn’t that he was bad at lacrosse per se, he was actually pretty good. His leanly muscled body was built for speed and agility, making him a wonderful prospect. He just had a tendency to trip over his own feet. And other people’s feet. And grass and rocks and, at times, even thin air.
So, while he could run suicides and drills with the very best of them, giving the team captain, Jackson, a run for his money, he was usually stuck on the bench during games, just watching his teammates play. His dad still came to all of his games, though he didn’t understand why.
But while there was some question about whether or not he was a jock, there was no dispute whatsoever over the fact that he fell victim to some of the most stereotypical jock tropes. Namely, falling for a nerd.
But not just any nerd. No, that would be too easy. He had fallen for the king of nerds. Derek freaking Hale. The epitome of a high school nerd.