AN: Not much to say, just a thanks to the wonderful people who reviewed, your comments really make my day! For my anonymous reviewers, I've got replies posted at the end of this chapter. If you guys want more timely replies though, please leave me an email address.

This fic is written in British English, and with only a shallow, basic understanding of a) US society and b) ice hockey. Comments and concrit both welcome, and please enjoy! ^_^

Chapter 01: When the very best are the very worst as well

The Hawks were legendary in peewees as the state's long-running best team, and also as the state's biggest collection of assholes. They were all recruited from rich families who could afford expensive equipment, extra sessions in indoor rinks, and being driven by their fathers to practices and games in polished, well-maintained cars.

For Charlie, the last was a double point of envy.

But watching the Hawks sail around their home rink in neat formation, it's the skill he's most jealous of, even if they do look ridiculous in their neat lines of four or five as they practised drills, a bunch of kids playing at being adult. They were a sleek team who moved fast, passed fast, and all of it with precision. Thinking of his own plays, precise was the last word he could use in the description.

"Stupid cake-eaters," muttered Jesse, gripping his hockey stick in a way that suggested he was about to play baseball with someone's head. The rest of the team were dragging Karp back into the box to prevent him going after two of the Hawks who'd skated up and away with some silly comment. Charlie shook his head at yet another neatly executed goal, not disagreeing.

"They're good."

"We'd be just as good if we had all that fancy-ass equipment."

"Speak for yourself," cut in Peter, sniggering. "Spazway couldn't hit a goal if they put the puck and net in his hands."

"I didn't see you do any better," retorted Jesse, looking ready to pummel the shorter boy. He'd been in a bad mood all morning. Sensing the danger, Peter quickly turned to an easier target to bait. Already riled up, Karp responded with a shove that sent Peter sprawling over the bench, still spouting comments, and the rest of the team's attention turned to the brewing fight.

In the chaos, Charlie moved to sit next to Jesse. His friend's eyes were narrowed at the Hawks' number 9, one of the smaller players on the team, effortlessly moving the puck around his teammates. Letting out an impressed whistle when the guy –Banks, he read off the jersey– feinted around the Hawks' goalie to pop the puck in, Charlie asked, "Can you imagine Goldberg trying to stop that?"

Jesse sighed irritably. "I'm serious, Charlie. You can't buy talent with money."

"I'd have started saving up if you could," he joked. Seeing that Jesse was still scowling, he gave his friend a light punch in the arm. "Come on. Let's just have some fun."

"It'd be more fun if we could win," Jesse grumbled, though the frown left his face as he started to look around the stands. "Hey, who's Coach talking to?"

"That's the Hawks' coach," Guy told them, having heard the question. "He's been their coach for like the past 30 years or something. All the flags up here were won by teams he trained."

Jesse snorts. "Yeah, but they still lost one. See?"

"You want to put another yellow one up there?" asked Charlie, grinning.

"We'll have to win a game first," pointed out Connie. Before anyone can reply to that, a sharp whistle drew the Hawks in to their bench; they spotted Bombay weaving through the mass of black jerseys, his expression tight and drawn. Nothing like the sarcastic but still somewhat cheerful man they'd met the day before.

The Hawks chant started as Bombay reached them, their mantra of "WIN! WIN! WIN! WIN!" quickly infecting the crowd of friends and relatives crammed in the Hawks stands into joining in. By contrast, the District 5 stand was mostly empty; some of their parents had to work weekends, others just didn't care. Charlie was glad his mum was there, seated next to Mr. Hall, though he did feel a little sorry for them having to witness the match.

"Yeah, we're all fired up," sighed Bombay after his attempt to get the team to copy the Hawks' chant fell flat. "Averman, Karp, Moreau, you're starting on the bench. Germaine, centre, Jesse Hall left wing, Terry, right. Mark left defence, Conway right defence. Any questions?"

The team shook their heads, a little surprised that Bombay had learnt their names. That was more than their previous coach had managed to do.

"Coach," Goldberg piped up. "Any chance I can sit out today? I have the most terrible–"

"You'll be fine," Bombay drawled, pushing Greg onto the ice, where he promptly fell. The rest of the team snickered, and the elected starters stepped over him to get onto the ice. As punishment for trying to skip his goaltending duties, they decided to copy the drill the Hawks were doing –lining up to tap their goalie's shins– and Charlie made sure to hit Goldberg a few extra times before they took their positions. From across the rink, Charlie eyed Jesse a little nervously as his friend stared down the Hawks' number 9; Bombay wasn't the only one in a difficult mood.

The whistle blew, and they heard the puck slide right before Guy hit the ice. By the time they realised number 9 had it, he was already skating to the side. Jesse fell, followed by Peter as they tried to stop him. Charlie lunged… and missed completely. The siren informed him that the Hawks had scored, and the scoreboard confirmed that. Ten seconds, he thought as he climbed to his feet. How many ten seconds were there in a three period match?

They were down 5-0 halfway through the first period; it seemed that the Hawks took much longer to score when their number 9 wasn't on the field, and they changed lines after every point. Guy, Terry and Peter exchanged places with their bench; he and Jesse had no one to switch with, though they were both breathing hard. The change proved ineffectual, as just over a minute later, he watched from the floor as number 9 led Goldberg out of the net, skating smoothly around the back to score another goal and make it 8-0.

God, but he wished he might one day skate like that.

Bombay called a timeout, for which Charlie's lungs and legs were both grateful. He could hear the tones of frustration in their coach's voice, though he was having trouble processing the words. He tuned out thinking about the plays he'd seen, most from quite close up. What was so different with his own technique–

"Hey Charlie," Guy shook him back to the present. "Let's go."

"R-right."

Goldberg managed to stop a shot from the Hawks' number 7, albeit with his head and entirely by accident. The puck slid back towards the centre and Charlie chased after it, struck by a sudden burst of inspiration as he mimicked the way the Hawks skated. Steady, unrushed strokes of the feet, pushing the puck forward carefully… He glanced up to find himself just an unprecedented few metres in front of the Hawk's goalie. Astounded that he'd made it this far, he promptly forgot what he'd observed, lifted the stick high and hurriedly swung.

His feet slid out form under him as he missed the puck and overbalanced, losing his helmet along the way. Luckily he crashed into the wall on his side, injuring his pride, but not a lot else. He climbed to his feet with a frustrated growl. So close, he'd been so close–

A weight slammed him into the boards from behind, the flat of the hockey stick hard across his shoulders. Wind whooshed from his lungs and he fell back, stunned. A loud cheer of "Way to play it, Banks!" let him know who it was; he caught a glimpse of intense blue eyes in number 9's face before the guy skated away. He lay there, trying to get his breath back, until he heard his mother's voice calling out.

"You okay, Charlie?" Jesse leant over him, frowning. "That was some check."

"It's not as bad as it looked," he answered as he got up, and was surprised to find it was true. So his back was a little numb from the ice, and he still wheezed a bit, but overall it had been a pretty restrained check compared to some of the ones he'd copped from the other Hawks' players. Like that number 7 goon. "Honest, I'm fine. I'll just go sit on the bench for a bit."

Jesse shook his head and looked back at where their starting positions were, thirty metres of ice in between. Without the slightest sarcasm, he said, "Talent, Charlie."

"So go get the next one in."

Jesse saluted him and skated off.

"Nice fan Charlie. Keep swinging, maybe you'll give them a cold."

Charlie made a face as he sat on the bench, glad that it was Averman replacing him, not Connie; he wouldn't have to listen to a long detailed playback of his check, and she could make Karp keep his mouth shut. His eyes searched through the Hawks' bench and the field until he found what he was looking for. Number 9 was still on the field, already focused on the next play. Charlie noted the stance, his grip on the stick, the reaction to the whistle and puck as he surged in for goal number five.

"Say the word Charlie," Connie remarked, her fist hitting her other hand when he looked at her. "We'll get that guy back for what he did."

He realised that she'd noticed his staring –really, she'd have to be blind not to– and misunderstood his intent. For a moment, Charlie contemplated correcting her, but he didn't want Karp or Bombay to shoot him down with a snide remark. Not on this. "If you do that, I'll never live it down. They'll all say I needed protection from a girl," he teased instead, pretending to wince when she landed a punch on his shoulder.

"Hmph. See if I offer to help you again." Charlie poked her in the ribs, and she giggled as she poked back.

"Hey, knock it off," Bombay snapped, eyes glaring at the scoreboard; they stopped sheepishly, and Charlie glanced back at the field. Damn, he'd missed seeing the last goal, he thought, disappointment sharp in his chest as he watched number 9 return to the Hawks bench. Oh well. The other Hawks players were pretty good too, he convinced himself. Or at least he tried.

He watched the rest of the period in silence.

**********

By the time the buzz of the final siren sounded, Jesse was wishing he'd never heard of hockey.

No, scratch that. He wished he could go back in time to share a little of his pent-up frustration with the bastard who'd invented the sport. Damn the man. And damn the referees for watching him diligently after his first attempt at inciting a smack-down, against that racist little shit number seven.

"Nice going, Banks. New Hawks' record," he heard the Hawks' coach say, words barely audible over the din that was their own bench tearing each other to pieces.

Jesse just managed to curb his urge to spit on the ground. Damn that guy too. Lousy, show-off, cake-eating–

"Hey, shut up!" roared Bombay, the sound cutting the team off as they argued over who was the worst on field… like it mattered when they all sucked. Disgust echoed clearly through the rink, the looks of pity thrown to them by some of the spectators making Jesse feel sicker than their derision as Coach continued his tirade. "You guys stink. I thought we came here to play hockey!"

"You know, I knew we forgot something," shot back Peter, the comment garnering a laugh from the whole team, Jesse included. The sound seemed almost foreign to his ears, and he realised he hadn't been laughing that much in recent weeks. Not that school, frequent detention with their asshole maths teacher and being thrashed in a match that left him feeling tired and beaten, inside and out, were anything to laugh about in the first place.

His body throbbed with bruises, and he winced. Wondering what the hell he was doing here.

"Oh, you think it's funny? You think losing is funny?"

"Well, not at first, but once you get the hang of it…" explained Averman, apologetically; his tone set off something in Jesse (they were bad, but it wasn't their fault and they shouldn't be sorry for it!) and he found his voice.

"We're the ones out there getting our butts kicked."

"Yeah, it's not like you coach us or anything," chipped in Terry. "At least we tried."

Poor Terry, he thought, watching his brother's face fall as Bombay proceeded to throw everything they'd done wrong in their faces. No matter how many times they lost, his brother hadn't yet lost excitement for playing the game, still approaching each match with a naïve enthusiasm Jesse wanted badly to experience.

And poor Charlie, who had a bad habit of taking a shine to their new coaches and being disappointed in the most horrible way every time.

"Why the hell won't you just listen to me?"

He'd heard enough. "Why the hell should we?" he snarled, a sneer on his face that even Bombay could only look away from. It wasn't right that he had that much anger bottled up in him, enough to give adults pause and make them shrink away, he thought as he stomped away, barely feeling the reassuring pats from his teammates. He skated away, the coach's last words audible to him across the ice.

"I don't care. You wanna lose? Fine. You're the ones who look like idiots out there."

Jesse's slam of the door seemed to punctuate the words.

He was almost fully changed by the time his teammates trooped into the locker room, allowing him to make a quick exit before anyone could grill him. Not that they would; they all thought letting him blow off steam on his own was the way best way to deal with it… and in a way it was. He rarely stayed in a bad mood for long after all, just let the anger keep simmering away underneath. A few deep breaths, and he'd be back to 'normal' again.

So he was surprised and thrown off-balance when he heard the door swing open and Peter step out, hopping as he removed his Enquirer shin-pads. "You okay?" Peter asked.

"Fine, man."

"Don't give me that," Peter snorted, grimacing when his socked feet stepped into a pile of snow someone's skate had left to melt. "You had detention with Walker on Thursday, right? What's that, the fifth time this month?"

"What's it to you anyway?" he demanded, grabbing Peter by the collar to growl the words in his face.

His friend just blinked back, waiting. Staring at him with eyes that were clear and unnervingly patient until he started to reconsider.

He tried to think of a good reason not to tell Peter. The guy was a pain-in-the-ass runt who loved to make mischief, but he was smart, probably the smartest in their group. More than that, he wasn't a happy-go-lucky idiot (though he used the term fondly) like the rest of the team. He viewed the world through glasses only slightly less cynical than Jesse's, and would understand his point of view.

That made the only real reason not to say anything was Jesse's own pride… which was battered beyond salvaging by the match today anyway. He had nothing to lose.

"Bastard gives me all this extra work in class," Jesse muttered, letting go of Peter. "Says I need 'remedial studies' or some crap, when it's all like advanced stuff. Then when I can't finish it all, he gives me detention."

"Well, you did hit him, and get away with just a suspension," pointed out Peter reasonably. "What I don't get is why you don't hit him again."

"Are you nuts? My dad'll kill me if I get expelled." Before Peter could suggest another, more viable route, he explained, "It's like, I dunno, like I'm running away or something if I do that. Like I can't hack a few extra pages of homework, or that it's too hard."

"But it's unfair."

"Duh it is." Jesse let out a deep breath, then grinned, genuinely this time; it felt good to air out his reasoning. "But hey, if I learn this now, I can relax next year."

"Oh I see," snickered Peter, stuffing his 'pads' into his bag. "You want to be a nerd and get a scholarship into some preppy school, is that it?"

"Yeah, and then I'll come visit you when you're flipping burgers for a living," Jesse retorted, shoving Peter and snickering when he toppled backwards onto the ground. Looking up, Jesse saw the rest of the team watching cautiously from the locker room door, and motioned for them to come forward with a roll of his eyes. They surged forward and surrounded him with slaps on the back and chatter and laughter, and he let them sweep him along.

He didn't miss Peter's eyes watching him carefully though, or the sly look that screamed warnings to Jesse as his friend opened his mouth and said, "I don't know about you guys, but I want a distraction from brooding on all this hockey business. Who's free this afternoon?"

"Not me," answered Goldberg ruefully.

"Why?" Connie asked, looking suspicious. Peter snorted.

"I said "guys". Girls aren't invited."

"Hey, that's not–"

"Forget it, Guy, I'm busy this weekend anyway," retorted Connie, hands on her hips. "Let me know when you've stopped hanging out with these jerks."

"You pissed off Connie," Guy intoned reproachfully to Peter as she walked off, holding her nose in the air and pretending to ignore the snickering that followed. Without the least show of remorse, Peter clapped him on the shoulder solemnly.

"Trust me, man, you do not want her to see this."

Guy's expression didn't budge from "my puppy died", just took on an element of guilt as well when Peter led them to a box of Sports Illustrated magazines that Karp had found. The team –sans the absent Connie and Goldberg, and Guy, who was hanging back– practically leapt upon them with triumphant crows.

"I don't believe it, who would throw these away?"

Jesse flipped through his copy and lifted an eyebrow at the contents. He looked up until he caught Peter's attention and mouthed, "This is your idea of a distraction?"

Peter just grinned impishly, and opened the centrefold. "Hey Guy, it's your mum."

A wedgie, Jesse thought vindictively as they grabbed Peter, was the least of what the little brat deserved.

"Hey!"

They spun around at Karp's cry to see three tall figures swooping past them to a stop, one so close to Jesse that he felt the brush of nylon across his nose. Hawks, he saw from the logos on their coats. His earlier negativity rushed back as they started to circle, bringing with it a dull headache that seemed to sap his usual desire to fight. Not that he could really get in a good hit when they were moving fast, as fast as they had on skates. He recognised the one in the middle instantly from his sneer. From his size, the one on the left was probably their number thirty-three; that meant the one on the right was number nine, Banks.

Looking at him, he found blue eyes gazing coolly back. It seemed that his hunch was right; number nine had been targeting Jesse during the game as much as Jesse had been glaring at him.

He snapped out of his brief pacifist phase when number seven and thirty-three tossed Karp into a pile of garbage, surging up with the rest of his friends. Before any real pushing or shoving could occur though, a shadow fell over all of them; moments later, the Hawks were thrown, stunned, on top of Karp, courtesy of one Fulton Reed from their class.

Jesse felt a satisfied smile curl his lips when he saw the flash of pain and fear over number nine's face, and made sure the guy saw it as the trio scrambled back up to their feet and hastily skated away.

"Thanks a lot, man," the group told Fulton, who grunted and walked away, boots thudding against the ground. Collectively, they let out a deep breath when he was out of sight; he may have helped them and been in half of their classes, but he was still an intimidating person to stand in the presence of.

As soon as he was gone, Peter pulled a dazed Karp up to his feet, though he left the fussing over him to the rest of the team. As soon as they'd ascertained that he was okay, Peter smiled broadly and asked, "So, that was fun. What's next?"

A streak of wickedness ran through him as he exchanged a look with Charlie, and they grabbed Peter by the arms and legs, shouting as they swung him, "One, two, three!"

One of the garbage bags decided it had had enough and split open when Peter landed on it, spewing old food all over the boy. Everyone stared at the mess, before they all turned tail and ran as empty cans started to fly at them.

"You guys are dead, you hear me? Dead!"

**********

Honestly, they'd deserved that, Adam thought ruefully as they skated the hell out of that alley, not stopping until Billy and George were winded and even h was breathing hard. They stumbled into a park, arrowing for the nearest bench; Adam just leant his hands on his knees, remaining standing, while his friends sprawled on the bench and groaned.

"That… big gorilla," cursed George, punching his fist into his other hand without getting up. "I'm going to get him good."

"You and what army?" Billy muttered tiredly. "I'm sure as hell not going in for Round 2."

"Wuss," George sneered, receiving a half-hearted hit for the comment and giving one back. He craned his head to look at Adam, who'd straightened and was rubbing his elbow gingerly. "What about you?"

Thinking over his answer, Adam shrugged. "Forget it. You threw one of them into the garbage, they threw us in return. Just call it even."

"We threw them? Don't give me that goody two-shoes bull, you're no St. Adam either. You were right there with us."

He shrugged again, not denying what was true or wanting to argue semantics, but not bothering to explain himself either. Let George think he'd just been going along with things or something, it was easier than explaining the bet he'd had with that black kid from District 5, something Hall.

Not that the guy seemed to remember it, he thought, thinking back to the game. He'd gone out of his way to score that first goal so he could gloat a little, knocking the kid's helmet off with some asinine comment as he skated past. To no apparent avail. Oh, he'd noticed the guy try to come after him for a fist fight, and his angry stare following Adam through the match, but there was no recognition in his gaze, no acknowledgement of their little wager.

Maybe that's why he'd gone after that kid who seemed to be good friends with Hall, Conway or whatever. And maybe that was why, despite scoring seven goals and receiving rarer-than-rare praise from Coach Reilly, he'd felt unsatisfied with the team victory. Enough that he'd actually gone along for once with George's dumb idea to hunt out the "District 5 losers" for some post-game fun.

He rubbed his elbow again and winced. Definitely the last time he was doing that.

"Oh, leave Adam out of it," Billy grumbled, finally sitting up. "He just wants to focus on hockey, right Adam?"

It wasn't entirely true, but Adam made a non-committal noise he knew would be taken as an affirmative. George rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. I need to get home, my dad's got some house party he needs me to be presentable for."

Automatically, they offered empathy in the form of "Ugh, I hate that" and pats on the back, some mutual grumbling about such parties passing their lips before George skated off, yelling over his shoulder about meeting up the next day. Adam and Billy shouted back agreement, then watched in silence as their friend skated out of sight.

"I should probably get started on that history assignment Mrs. Jones set," Billy conceded reluctantly. Digging and counting a handful of bills from his coat pocket, he asked, "Want to get something on the way back? I'll pay today."

Billy had paid for the three of them last time, but Adam had alternated with George the month before when Billy's pocket money had been cut because of his grades. He nodded. "Okay."

They'd skated out of the park's vicinity when he suddenly said, "Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"I–" His intended words seemed to choke in his throat. It would be easier to just keep his mouth shut, let his friends believe what was convenient, but for some reason he wanted to explain himself to Billy. He needed him to know the truth, even if he didn't understand Adam's line of thought. "What you said, about me wanting to focus on hockey…"

"What about it?"

"It's not true." Adam thought over the words once they'd left his mouth, and shook his head. "I mean it's true that I wanna do well with hockey and stuff, but that's not why I don't want to go along with George again."

"O… kay." Billy's brow was furrowed.

"It's not that I'm scared," Adam added quickly, smiling when Billy's expression lightened a little, though his friend still looked confused. "Okay, maybe a tiny bit. I just think it's pointless. We're not proving anything." Except that we're jerks, perhaps.

"Adam–"

"Sorry, forget I said anything." They reached the café situated halfway between their houses, and Adam glanced at his friend casually. "You still paying?"

Billy nodded absently and appeared lost in thought as they bought cocoa and skated a little way from the shop, sipping their drinks carefully. A tense silence fell over the two of them, though Adam let it wash over him, preoccupied with watching his cup.

After a few minutes, Billy sighed. "Look man, I'm not sure I quite get where you're coming from. But the bottom line is if you don't want to do it you shouldn't have to, right?"

"So… you're cool if I don't come along…?"

"I'm sure I'll live," Billy grinned into his drink. "George might die of disappointment though, the big girl."

Adam snorted into his chocolate, and watched some of it leak onto his sleeve with dismay.

They finished their drinks and threw them at the nearest trash can, Billy laughing at him when Adam's shot went wide. As they prepared to part Billy told him, "We're friends, okay? Don't sweat the small stuff."

"Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

Waiting until he'd skated a good five metres away, Billy turned and remarked with a sly grin, "Don't sleep in tomorrow. We wouldn't want a repeat of last week now, would we?"

The snowball Adam threw fell well short as Billy skated out of range, laughing.

Left alone now, Adam pondered his options. He could go home to start on his own history assignment, or he could go to the library and pretend to work on it. Sadly, more hockey wasn't an option; normally he'd procrastinate happily until the night before, but he'd foolishly let slip about the assignment to his father, who was probably guarding his gear as closely as –excuse the pun– a hawk.

He'd just resigned himself to an evening spent indoors when the sight of an old man at a bus stop suddenly gave him an idea. If he went to the skate shop, Hans might let him borrow a pair of skates, maybe even a stick and puck to play with. At the very least, talking with the eccentric old man and breathing in the smell of hockey gear beat doing homework.

Grinning broadly, he started towards Hans' store.

Halfway there, a car horn had him spinning, startled; his heart sank at the sight of his brother's vehicle, and he groaned. Drat, foiled. His brother honked again when he didn't immediately move, and Adam slowly skated over, reluctance and resentment practically radiating as he opened the front door and sullenly climbed in.

Smiling wickedly, his brother pointed in the direction Adam had come from. "Home's that way, you know."

"Shut up, Jon," Adam grumbled, slouching back into his seat. Just to be annoying, he turned the heater up a few degrees; his brother was the type to gripe about the extra fuel money he had to pay for heating. "What are you doing here?"

"Dad had a hunch you'd try to pull a runner. Something about a history assignment?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "Geez, it's not like I'm failing."

"No, you just run around like a headless chook every time you've something due the next day," was the cheerful reminder. "Don't say I didn't warn you. How'd the game go?"

"Alright."

"Just alright? How many goals did you get?"

"Seven." Realising he was being a little too quiet, Adam offered a slight smile. "But they were a really crappy team, so it doesn't really count."

"Hm." The car stalled at a red light, and Jon turned to face him. "What's wrong then? You obviously didn't lose."

"I just…" Adam made a few frustrated, unintelligible movements with his hands, "did some stupid things. After the game."

It wasn't a comprehensive report –looking back only made him feel more embarrassed about how immature he'd acted– but Jon nodded understandingly. He turned his eyes back to the road when the light turned green, though a hand movement encouraged Adam to continue.

"My friends don't seem to realise that what we did was stupid and… well, wrong, I guess. It's like–"

"Like they think that because they have money they're above everyone else?"

Adam nodded, surprised at how quickly his brother had grasped his thoughts. Jon shrugged.

"I have to deal with it all the time at Eden Hall. Guys there think because their parents are loaded they're like fu– like royalty or something. I try to show them that isn't the case. Who knows if I'm succeeding or not."

The thought of trying to make George see things from his perspective made Adam feel a little queasy, as much from the hopelessness of trying to drill through his friend's skull as the scorn (and possible bruises) he'd probably get from the venture.

Glancing over, Jon ruffled his hair. "I'm not saying you have to do that, squirt. Everyone's got their own way of doing things. At least you know your right from wrong, that's more than most people can boast of."

"I… said I'm not going to go along with it anymore," Adam ventured. "Is that really enough?"

Jon smirked. "When you're older, remind me to explain a little something called 'passive-aggression', okay?"

Adam thought about that for a moment. "You can't tell me now?"

"Unfortunately," the car stopped, and Adam abruptly realised that they were home, "you have a history assignment due. But hey, maybe you can get it done early and I'll explain it over a game of hockey outside."

Recognising a ploy for him to do homework, Adam groaned and let himself out. Trudging into his house, he couldn't help but wonder if his conscience would really suffer so badly if he paid someone to do the assignment for him.

Probably not, he decided as he settled for a night of staring at the ice outside longingly.

**********

Anonymous89: Thanks for reviewing. I really like the way you've described Charlie in your view, it's a lot more eloquent than my own attempts, lol. Jesse became one of my favourites only recently, but I love how complex a character he is and (in my opinion) how much he affects the team dynamic. The Chadam element will be slow… I just hope not too slow! ^^;

Jnwrx1: Thank you! I almost think I'm setting myself up for failure, trying to write such a long fic, but we'll see what happens. To me, the chips/fries thing would've been okay... if I hadn't used 'chips' in the dialogue. My reasoning for having Charlie and Casey from being from a different state is because of the fuss Casey made about the car on the ice, which suggested to me that she wasn't a 'native', so to speak. The reason I chose California is because it's the only US state I've been to… and for other reasons that may become apparent. ^_~ I thought it would be fun for them to meet, though since nobody really remembers it doesn't really affect the plot or anything. It's funny you should mention the novels, since I'd just read them the night before I got your review, lol. I find them quite appallingly written, so I doubt I'll draw much from them, but there were a few bits I liked.

Fanficfanatic: Thanks for your review! :D