Alone With My Memories
Pointless post-Ducks Adam fic with a twist in the end. Revel in the angst.
A knock on the door shatters the silence. He opens it, revealing a blonde in a short skirt and halter top with a handbag over her shoulder and a bored expression. Her face snaps into a practised smile. 'Hi,' she says brightly.
'Evening,' he says tonelessly, stepping back to let her in. Her eyes flick over the dingy walls of the cramped apartment, the empty bottles lined up in ordered ranks next to the trash can, the framed number 99 Mighty Ducks hockey jersey in the wall, and finally over him. She recognises him instantly, but says nothing, correctly assuming that he's not really in the mood for signing autographs.
He shuts the door. She stands uneasily in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. Eventually she sits on a creaking chair and scans the room, locating the clock as she's been taught. He walks across to the bed. It doesn't look like it's been made for days. As he walks, she notices the limp he's trying to hide.
They sit for a moment in silence. She's already figured out what he's after, and knows she's going to disappoint. You can't cure loneliness in a few hours. He's not certain what happens next, and it shows.
After a few seconds she moves across and sits next to him on the bed. He doesn't move. She puts a gentle hand on his thigh and he flinches, so she removes it.
More silence. 'I'm sorry,' he says softly.
'Why?' she asks.
'I'm wasting your time,' he says apologetically. 'I don't… I've never…'
'I can tell,' she whispers. 'Don't worry. Just relax.'
Slowly she removes his clothes.
They lie side by side in silence. 'Can I give you some advice?' she asks gently.
He doesn't speak. She takes this as a yes.
'Don't do this again. It isn't going to help, you know that.'
Pain flickers in the cold, empty blue of his eyes. 'What do you mean,' he says in a dull monotone.
'Most girls in my line of work don't do this,' she says, leaning on her elbow. 'But you've got to realise that hockey's not everything.'
His eyebrows flew up in shock. 'How did you know?'
'The jersey's something of a giveaway. But your injury isn't permanent. You know that. You shouldn't be doing this to yourself.'
'Doing what?' he mumbles. Guiltily he looks away.
'The drinking. The god-awful mess in this place. Me,' she smiles wryly. 'You know can go back to the NHL in three months, when your leg's healed.'
'How do you know so much about me?' he asks, sitting up.
'Hockey magazines,' she says quickly, sliding out of the bed. 'I'm a fan. I should probably go.' She pulls on her underwear and dresses hurriedly.
'Wait!' he says, limping after her and grabbing her wrist. 'Do I know you?'
'In a Biblical sense, yes,' she says sarcastically.
'I mean from somewhere else. What's your name?'
'Why does it matter?' she snaps, yanking her hand back and picking up her handbag. 'I have to leave. Can I have my money?'
Wrapping a sheet around his waist, he picks up his wallet and takes out some cash, which he hands to her. She counts it carefully, folds it and puts it in her handbag. Like one hypnotised he opens the door. As she steps out the door, she turns back.
'You should visit Charlie. He's not too good lately either.' With a small smile, she runs down the corridor to the elevator.
'Tammy?'
END