Disclaimer: I don't own The Mighty Ducks. That pleasure belongs to Disney. I do, however, own Maggie and her crush on Averman.
A/N: I know I'm not the only one who used to daydream and put myself in as a character in the Mighty Ducks movies. I finally decided to write a fanfic featuring myself, but I'm trying not to make me a Mary Sue. This is also my first fanfic ever, so please read and review and let me know where I could improve. It's also been a while since I've seen the movies, so I apologize for any inconsistancies this story may have. My local video store only carries the first one, and I can't find the transcripts anywhere. If anyone knows where I can find them,I would greatly appreciate it.
You would think that since everyone around me eats, sleeps, and breathes hockey, I would, too. Not true. Sure, I've been to every Ducks game since they were just District 5 losers, but it wasn't for the love of the game. At first, I was dragged along to cheer on my older brother and his teammates. As I got older, I continued to cheer the Ducks on at every game, but I really just wanted to see him.
At least we're on summer vacation and I don't have to deal with all the hype at school. I mean, I know the Ducks are great -- I'd have to have been living under a rock for the past six years not to -- but sometimes it seems like I'm the only one at Eden Hall who cares more about school than hockey. Not that I have much of a choice. I'm not exactly the scholarly type, and if I want to continue to go to Eden Hall, I have to maintain a grade point average of at least 3.0, so a huge chunk of my time is lost to the whole homework thing. And of course I want to stay -- and again, I give a silent thank-you to Charlie and Coach Bombay for helping me finagle an academic scholarship. He goes to Eden Hall.
For the millionth time, I contemplate hunting him down and confessing everything. I'm sure he's off somewhere with Charlie. Just what I need, my brother witnessing my emotional spillage to the only guy I've ever really wanted. "Averman, there's something I've been meaning to tell you, and Charlie, why don't you stick around?" That, combined with what his reaction will no doubt be -- "Wow, Maggie, I'm flattered, but you know you're like a sister to me." -- chase away any thoughts I may have had of coming clean.
I cross my bedroom and stand in front of my mirror. My mom tells me I'm pretty, and I'm sure if my features belonged to someone else, I would be. I'm also sure my hair's natural wave would show if it weren't so long that it pulled the curl out, and it's so thick that I can't really do anything with it except pull it up in a ponytail. At least the color's pretty enough, much darker than my brother's. An entire summer of being out in the sun has awarded me with auburn highlights, but I don't wear my hair down enough to show them off because I don't like dealing with all that frizz. I smile. Not too bad, thanks to three years of uncomfortable orthodontia, but now there's a slight gap in between my front teeth from where I tripped over Charlie's skates and chipped my tooth on the edge of the coffee table. Charlie only ever tripped on the ice -- I'm the real Spazway. I run my tongue over the hole it left. At least it doesn't hurt anymore. The only thing that I'm always satisfied with are my eyes. I'm the only one in the family with brown eyes, a testament to the dad that ran away. After he left, Charlie used to make me cry by telling me I wasn't a real Conway. I don't have my mom's blonde hair or the blue eyes that she and Charlie share. A couple years back I decided I didn't want my father's eyes, either, and begged my mom to let me trade in my glasses for colored contacts, a very hardwon battle. The green lenses don't exactly cover the brown, but I'm happy with the result nonetheless.
I gather my hair up into a ponytail and secure it with the elastic I always keep around my wrist, sliding my foot into a flip-flop while scanning my room for its counterpart. Crouching down, I peer under my bed. I really should clean up that mess, but that will have towait for another day. I spy my missing sandal and pull it out, along with the sewing kit laying on the floor beside it. With both feet now clad, I sit on the bed and open the box, rooting through it until I come across a pair of scissors and some safety pins. I cut a slit up the left side of my reconstructed Van Halen halter to show off the shooting star tattoo I'd been wanting since I was twelve. It became a reality when Charlie dragged me to the tattoo parlor a month ago -- an early birthday present on his part. I safety pin the slit together and examine my handiwork in the mirror. Perfect. I grab my headphones and some CD's and head out the door.