Disclaimer: I still don't own any of the Mighty Ducks… but I still own Becky and Benny and Carmen! Yay…

After everyone left (and I'm still mad that I couldn't cleverly get everyone to say their name), I stood up and investigated my appearance via the full length mirror attached to the bathroom door. I was really tall and muscular and, after becoming conscious of the fact that I had an ID bracelet on thanks to the doctor, my name was Adam Banks.

I've never been good at solving puzzles, but I'd pieced together that Adam probably played hockey. No wonder his calf muscles were so cut… Anyways, he must have gotten checked into the boards exceedingly rough. Rough enough to be sent to the hospital. Which is actually a good thing – otherwise, I wouldn't have figured out his name.

The fact that I was no longer Becky Conners, famous actress/singer who lives in Hollywood, hadn't really set in. Until I looked out the window. My jaw dropped as I saw at least 3 feet of perfectly perfect white snow on the ground. I checked my ID bracelet again and saw that I was in Minnesota. Wait… snow? It's March! I checked the handy dandy information giver once again and it confirmed that I'm not crazy. It was March 13.

My hand immediately flew to my mouth and I started gnawing on my nails. I'd learned to stop doing that – my manicurist always yelled at me for it. But, now, I could go all out, right? I mean, his hands are always covered by gloves.

I sighed deeply, resting one hand on my hip, the other still attached to my teeth. Once again, my jaw dropped. My hand moved over, now placed on my stomach. I pushed down, jumping back with surprise. I still don't really know who this guy is… but he is ripped. You know, I could get used to this very easily.

"Now, Becky, I know that that little accident over there probably confirmed your feelings about this photo shoot… but we have to go on. The photographer's booked the rest of the month and the reporter from Seventeen has to get her article in by Monday. You'll just have to suck it up." Mr. Mafia told me gently, ushering me back to the set.

"Seventeen?" I asked, absolutely horrified. "I have to do an interview for Seventeen?" How was I supposed to know what to say!

Mr. Mafia's hand gripped my thin, hardly toned arm protectively. God, I wish he'd let go already. I struggled to get out, wanting to run away from the building and hop the next flight to Minnesota. But, then, he placed me in front of a white screen and camera and left me. No, no, come back, Mr. Mafia! I yelled inside, feeling extremely exposed. I hated having my picture taken. My self-esteem level was crap. And now I have to add being a girl. A famous girl, too!

Suddenly, the flash bulb lit up. I wasn't even ready! I heard the photographer yelling out instructions rapidly.

"Turn to the side. Hands on hips. Left foot forward. Cross your arms. Tilt your head. Come on, I need more pout!" Couldn't I at least get some help? I tried following the instructions, but the only response I got was a rolling of the eyes and a heaving sigh.

After about a half an hour of desperately trying to get one good picture, the photographer left in a huff and Mr. Mafia glared down at me. "Let's hope your interview goes better." He growled as a smartly dressed reporter walked in.

She sat down across from me, a fake smile plastered on her face.

"Good afternoon, Miss Conners." She said, shaking my dainty hand. "I'm Carmen Bradford. May I ask you a few questions? Good. Tell me, what is it that you do in your spare time?"

I lowered my eyebrows, having no clue what Becky Conners did. The only thing I knew about her was that she was in that lame movie that came out this year and her new single was called "Life in Pink".

"Well, I, uh, like to… watch… hockey." I muttered, sticking with the only comfort within my reach. Carmen scribbled it down in her notepad, keeping her tape recorder turned to me.

"Ok and I'm sure every available guy out there wants to know – do you have a boyfriend?" She asked, her smile still obviously fake.

I glanced over at Mr. Mafia, hoping he could give me a hint. Thankfully, he shook his head and I answered confidently. "No, I don't." Why not? Geez – I'm famous and I'm hot!

"Wonderful. Do you ever wish that you could go back home to Georgia more often instead of staying here in L.A.?" Carmen's expression turned to one of sympathy, but she somehow managed to stay cheerful.

"Well, of course." I answered, figuring everyone would feel the same way about home. "I love going home when I get the chance and I wish I could go more often. The environment is so much calmer there. Plus, all my friends and family live there." How I answered that so naturally… I'll never know.

After 20 more questions like that, Carmen shook my hand once more and rushed out. I sighed, exhausted already. I looked around and saw Mr. Mafia, head in his hands. "Is something wrong?"

"…Is. Something. Wrong?" He said, lifting his head up slowly. "What the hell kind of answers were those!"

"Uh…" Was all I could get out of my mouth. Shit…I'm in trouble.

I was beyond relieved when the doctor came in and said I could go home that night. But, the only thing was… I didn't know where home was. I panicked for all of five minutes until the guy, whose name I figured out was Charlie, came to get me.

"Hey. I figured you wouldn't want to drive yourself home. You know, just in case." He shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting as I gathered everything together. Who knew hockey bags were so humongous and heavy? Usually, I would have struggled just to lift it up, but now, I hoisted it onto my shoulder and carried it with ease.

I could really get used to this life, I'll tell you that now.

Charlie directed me to his car and drove me back to school – Eden Hall. A nice private school I'd heard about in some magazine. All during the car ride there, Charlie tried to make conversation about a myriad of topics: hockey, school, girls… whatever. I don't know about Mr. Banks, but I wasn't much of a talker unless I was being interviewed. So, I kept my chatting to a minimum.

While Charlie's voice murmured in my ear, I couldn't help but glance at myself in the side mirror. To tell you the truth…Adam Banks was not bad. Not bad at all.

Maybe I'll get to meet him one day. But, how awkward and uncomfortable would that be? Actually, now that I think about it… I kind of have to meet him one day. Just then, I started pondering this whole situation. The last thing I remember before waking up as this guy was wishing I could just be normal… Ok. There you go. I made a wish and my wish came true. But how? I mean, wishes don't come true everyday. And why him? Why Adam Banks?

He must have wished to be famous or something. At the same time. I sighed as I walked into a nice, brick dorm building, following Charlie the whole way up. Hopefully, he was Adam's - - er, MY room mate. He opened a cheap-looking wooden door and stepped in. When I stepped in after him, he didn't look at me funny, so I guessed this was my room, too.

I observed it, shifting my eyes around the room. It wasn't too bad. A little small for two people…and definitely too small for MY tastes, but adequate enough. Charlie plopped down on an unmade bed which only left the one in the corner to be mine. I looked at it and my eyes widened. It was made. The sheets were clean. The pillows were perfectly aligned. I looked up to the heavens, thanking God for this miracle. A boy was actually clean.

I set my hockey bag down, opening the door right by my bed. It turned out to be a closet, which also made me happy. Rummaging through the shirts and pants on hangers, I noticed one thing. All polos. All khakis. Ok – I'm a preppy neat-freak who plays hockey. And my name is Adam Banks. And I'm not bad looking…

I ran a hand through my hair absentmindedly and almost jumped back in surprise. I had totally forgotten that I no longer had past-my-shoulder length hair. It was really, amazingly, utterly short. After a few moments of silence, I looked back at my room mate (who wasn't bad looking either…) and found him sleeping soundly.

"Thank God." I said quietly, glad that I could freely investigate the room without him asking any questions. I took out a few polo shirts, frowning. They weren't Ralph Lauren… Who owned polo shirts that weren't Ralph Lauren? I sighed, checking the tag. Ok, it was bad enough that they weren't designer, but they weren't even made of Egyptian cotton. I threw one down on the bed, exasperated.

And just how long was I supposed to be this guy…?

It had only been a few hours and already my head was hurting as if a cow had stomped on it. How in the world did most girls stand having this much hair on their heads? Don't they realize how much easier it is to have it short? Of course…I could always cut it. I shook my head, smiting my own idea. It's probably best not to tamper with a famous person's looks.

My manager, whose name we have learned is Benny, talked a mile a minute on the limo ride back to Becky's house. I guess it's my house, now. After all, I am Becky. Oy. That still makes me shudder.

The dark Hummer-limo stopped in front of a huge, stone house by the beach. The door was opened and I stepped out, my now-light brown eyes squinting in the sun. Wow. It's actually warm in March. Something I'd never thought would happen to me. I can't believe that the sun is act- - I stopped dead in my tracks, gazing up at the huge mansion towering above me.

"Miss Conners, please, move along. We know how you hate to stay in the sun too long." A lady with a black dress and white apron (I presume she's the maid) said hurriedly, pushing me into the monstrosity re-named as a house.

…Wait, what? She doesn't like to stay in the sun too long? Uhm, ok, then. I thought as I heard my heels (gack!) clicking underneath the marble floor in the foyer.

"Would you like your carrot juice now, miss?" The maid asked, gesturing towards the kitchen as if she would make it right away.

"Oh, I can get it myself." I told her, smiling warmly. Apparently, this was new to her. Her expression gave off that she was somewhat shocked.

"Yourself, miss?"

"Yes… I'll get it myself. I have two perfectly good legs. And I'm capable of using them."

I headed to the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a coke. To heck with the carrot juice. I thought as I gulped down the sugary liquid. I set it quietly on the counter, remembering the look on the maids face. Becky Conners must be one spoiled brat.

I was about to take another swig of my coke when another lady rushed into the room.

"Darling, why are you drinking coke?" She poured the rest down the sink and handed me a water bottle. "Come on. We're going to be late for your meeting." She turned around, scoffing at my confused appearance. "Your meeting. With the head of Moe's Production Studio? Becky, please, don't give me that look. You're signing your new contract/movie deal today. Let's get a move on."

And just how long was I supposed to be this girl…?

Yay! That's the end of Chapter 2. I'm having a lot of fun writing this and please, review!

The Dog Ate My Penname: It's weird that the part I didn't see of your review was the part I needed the most! Thanks for sending it to me, though. And thanks for the advice.

yeah kool okay bye

Sinbin05: Thanks! I like to laugh myself, so I try to write a few lines in each chapter that will hopefully make other people laugh. And you got your wish! Now, it's just the question of when will the next chapter be posted?