TMD; The Mighty Ducks; Preferences and Imagines

ℂ𝕠𝕥𝕥𝕠𝕟 𝔹𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤; 𝔸𝕕𝕒𝕞 𝔹𝕒𝕟𝕜𝕤 & ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕖 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕨𝕒𝕪

You smooth the feathers on your Gertrude McFuzz costume, nerves fluttering like birds in your chest. The mirror in the drama room barely reflects the stage lights leaking through the cracked door, but you can still make out the smear of eyeliner under your eye. It's opening night of *Seussical*, and you're not sure if it's excitement or sheer panic coursing through you.

You text Adam—**"curtain's in 20 mins 😬"**—and try not to imagine him not showing up.

But of course, he *is* coming. He always does. Even when it's something like a school play and he's way more into hockey games and Marvel movies than musicals and Dr. Seuss rhymes.

What you don't know, as you sip your water and try not to wrinkle your costume, is that Adam's currently pacing the sidewalk outside Charlie's house, phone in hand, trying to work up just the right angle.

"Dude, I'm not sitting through three hours of rhyming cats," Charlie says on the other end of the line.

Adam groans. "It's not three hours. It's like, an hour and forty-five. Maybe two. With intermission."

Charlie laughs. "Bro. Why do you even care this much?"

There's a pause. Adam looks down at his sneakers. "Because it's her. I *have* to go. I just don't wanna go alone and be that guy sitting between a mom with a camcorder and a little kid with sticky fingers."

"Then just *be* that guy."

Adam exhales through his nose. "Come on, man. I sat through that documentary about sound design with you. The one with zero plot. Literal waves on a screen."

Charlie sighs. "...That was art."

Adam snorts. "It was torture."

There's a long pause on the line.

"You're really making me do this?"

Adam smiles, hopeful. "Yes. And I'll buy you Sour Patch and a Sprite at intermission."

Charlie groans loud enough to make Adam wince. "Fine. But I swear, if she starts singing about Horton's egg or whatever—"
Charlie slumped into the padded seat with the enthusiasm of someone heading into minor surgery. He had the green pipe cleaner wrapped around one finger like a noose and was already muttering under his breath.

"This better be *some* egg," he said, glancing sideways at Adam. "You dragged me out on a Thursday night. I could be gaming."

Adam, already regretting most of this, shot him a look. "Just—don't be a jerk, alright?"

Charlie picked up the pink cotton ball they'd handed him at the door and squinted at it. "Is this supposed to be a tree?"

"A Truffula tree. From *The Lorax*," Adam said flatly.

Charlie held it up, deadpan. "Wow. So eco."

As the house lights dimmed and a hush fell over the gym-turned-auditorium, Charlie leaned toward Adam and whispered, "If she spots me, I'm mouthing all the lyrics like I know them better than she does."

Adam glared. "Don't."

Charlie smirked, obviously planning exactly how to get under your skin the moment he could. "No promises. I'm here, I'm bitter, and I want my Sour Patch."

The spotlight hit center stage.

Charlie slouched down and whispered, "Let the Seuss-ing begin."

The lights came up, and the first notes of the overture rippled through the room. You stepped into the glow, heart racing, but your instincts kicked in. Smile. Hit your mark. Sing.