A/N: First of all, thank you so much for your reviews! SugarStace, I'm glad you like the direction I took things instead of having them start dating right away. The whole dating thing can be kind of scary if you've never done it before, and I just tried to remember how unbelievably stupid I was when I first entered the dating scene.
This chapter is kinda short, so I'm sorry for that, but the next one will be awesometastic, I can promise you.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mighty Ducks, but if Disney wants to give them a day pass, I'll take 'em. I do own Maggie and her ginormous crush on Averman, and I'd love owning Matt Doherty. Just for a little bit, I promise. This is all for fun; don't sue!

When I wake up a couple days later to find Charlie sitting at the foot of my bed, my first thought is that I need to start locking my bedroom door at night. My second thought is that I hate my brother.

"I'm sleeping," I inform him, rolling over to face the wall. "Leave me alone."

Charlie has never listened to what I say before; why should he start now? "What's going on with you?" he asks my back.

"Um." I pretend to think about it for a second. "I don't know, I'm tired?"

Apparently, he doesn't care. "You've been weird for the past two days."

"So?" I ask. "You've been weird your whole life. Do you hear me complaining?"

"Fulton says you won't even answer your phone."

"That's not true!" I protest. "I answered my phone yesterday!" Of course, I only answered it when I saw that it was Dwayne calling, not Fulton. I decide Charlie doesn't really need to know that.

"Not when Fulton called, you didn't," Charlie responds.

I kick my leg out, not stopping until it connects with what I assume to be my brother's body. "Get out of my room," I order. "I want to go back to sleep."

"That's another thing," Charlie says. "You snore like a banshee."

I really hate my brother. "I have allergies, okay? At least I don't talk in my sleep."

"I haven't done that in months!"

"And I only snore when I'm sick or the pollen count is high."

We argue for a few more minutes until Charlie decides, "This is stupid. I only came in here because I told Fulton and Averman that I'd try to find out what was going on with you."

"Nothing is going on," I insist. I roll over and face him. "What did they tell you?"

He shrugs. "Averman won't tell me anything, just that I should have you call him."

Terrific. "And Fulton?"

"Fulton says that you're being stupid and he's right. About what, I don't know, but that's what he says."

I pull my blanket up over my head. "I just want to disappear," I say aloud. I peek over the top of the blanket. "Great," I moan when I see Charlie still sitting there. "You're still here."

"Come on," he urges, pulling my blanket away from me. "Get up. You can't avoid everybody forever."

Actually, I was thinking of doing just that. I've spent the past two days holed up in my room, listening to melancholy music and doing some hardcore thinking. The only times I left were to use the bathroom and get food, and once return a movie to the video store. I haven't answered the phone, except when Dwayne called, and I haven't answered the door, unless it was my mom. And I have to admit, it's been kind of nice.

Charlie gets up and opens my top dresser drawer, and it occurs to me how much I really don't want my brother looking at my underwear. He looks at me. "How come your sock drawer is the neatest part of your room?"

I throw a pillow at him, which he manages to avoid. It hits the dresser and knocks over a framed picture of the Ducks, taken after the Goodwill Games. "It bothers me when my socks don't match."

A pair of socks hits me in the face. "That's the only thing in this drawer I'm touching," Charlie says, as he walks out of my room. "Now get up and get dressed."

I salute him, mockingly. "Yes, drill sergeant!"

Since I'm now wide awake, I decide I might as well start my day. I grab the socks that Charlie threw at me, a bra and a clean pair of underwear, and my standard uniform of jeans and a t-shirt. I shift everything to one hand, and, with my free hand, grab a CD from on top of my stereo.

"Not Pantera!" Charlie yells from his room.

"A little respect for the dead, huh?" I ask him as I shut the bathroom door behind me. I should have grabbed Pantera, I think. I turn on the shower and let the water heat up, remembering the first time Charlie asked me about them, four years ago.

"Maggie, you've got to help me," he said.

"Why?"

"What do you know about Pantera?"

"Eh," I replied with a shrug of my shoulders, "they're okay. They're a little too heavy for my taste, but the singer's got a pretty sweet voice. Why are you so interested in them all of a sudden?"

He looked sheepish as he answered. "I was talking to this girl at the bus stop today..."

I pop open the CD player Charlie and I keep in the bathroom and insert my disc. I press play as I step into the shower, closing my eyes as the hot water hits my back. Some people love to take baths. They love to soak in the tub until all their stress and worries melt away. That's how they unwind. Julie even gives Connie and me homemade bubble bath every Christmas. I, however, am a shower person. It only takes me about ten minutes to get clean, and that's if I shave my legs, but I can use up all the hot water, if I have time. That's where I do all my thinking, while the water is hitting my back and loosening up my muscles. That's where I wake up at the beginning of the day and relax at the end of it.

"She ran up into the light, surprised. / Her arms are open/ Her mind's eye is / Seeing things from a better side than most can dream / On a better road I feel/ Oh, you could say she's safe," I sing along with the music. "Whatever tears at her, whatever pulls her down/ And if nothing can be done/ She'll make the best of what's around."

After rinsing my hair, I shut off the water and step out of the shower. I dry myself off, then wrap the towel around my head, turban-style, while I get dressed. I've never understood the girls that need two towels. I always dry my hair as best as I can, then dry the rest of me, and then wrap my hair up. One towel is really all you need.

I continue to sing along as I brush my teeth. "Every dog has its day. / Every day has its way of being forgotten. / Mom, it's my birthday!" I spit and rinse before shutting off the stereo, scooping up my PJs on my way out the door.

There's a Post-It on my door, covered with Charlie's chicken scratch. Maggs -- Went over to Banksie's. Plenty of BEER so we can PARTY. Everyone's there, just waiting on you. Later -- C.

I'm sure most girls my age would love to party with a bunch of eighteen-year-old hockey players. Actually, I know they would. There were these two girls my English class last year who wouldn't shut up about how hot Fulton and Portman are, and since I was always hanging around them, was I dating one of them? And since I wasn't dating either of them, could I fix them up? And since I couldn't do that, could I at least let them tag along when we all hung out? I quickly grew to hate those girls -- it was almost enough to make me wish that I had friends of my own.

I'm not ready to face everyone -- okay, just Averman and Fulton -- yet, especially not if they're all going to be drinking. I grab my keys, then decide to walk, and put them back. Since everyone's over at Adam's, I decide to head in the opposite direction. I walk the three blocks to the park and station myself on the swings, my usual seat.

I can't have been here for more than ten minutes before Fulton appears in the swing next to me. "What are you doing here by yourself?"

Avoiding you. "Thinking."

"About how wrong you are?"

Could we not talk about this? "Maybe."

"About how stupid you're being?"

Shut up, shut up, shut up. "Maybe."

"About how you're starting to sound like a broken record?"

"Fulton --"

"What?" He's defensive now, like I'm about to verbally attack him. "He likes you, you like him, but you aren't together? Correct me if I'm wrong, but that seems A: wrong, and B: stupid."

He's right, so I don't say anything for a minute. "I'm scared of messing things up," I admit.

He looks at me. "I know," he says. "Dating can be scary."

I nod. "Especially if you've never done it before."

We sit in a comfortable silence for a while, and this is something I'm used to. The great thing about hanging out with the Bash Brothers is how they don't feel the need to fill silences with what Portman calls "useless conversation." The other great thing about them is that with the Bashes, you always know where you stand. Dean hated Fulton at first, and he made it no secret that he didn't like me, either. He didn't understand why Fulton would hang out with a ten-year-old girl, especially when I didn't even play hockey. Eventually, he came around, and since the Bash Brothers are always together, and Fulton is my best friend, Dean had no choice but to accept me, too.

Fulton stands and stretches. "There's a party going on," he tells me.

I stand up, too. "At Banks's? I know."

He starts to walk away, like he expects me to follow. "So, you're coming, right?"

I realize that it would be useless to protest. As he's pointed out many, many times, Fulton is bigger than I am, so it's usually easier to just go along with what he says. Not that I think he would ever, ever hit a girl, but still. The Bash Brothers are known for their strength. I follow him with a sigh. "Right."