Dedications This story was inspired by Blu Jitsu's Mighty Ducks story, D25: The Mighty Vikings.

A/N Hiya, readers! I'd like to welcome you all to my first ever Mighty Ducks story! I'm a little bit rusty when it comes to these beloved characters of ours, but I'll try to keep them in character as best I know how. Please let me know if they ever seem OOC (out of character) to you because I really want them to be believable.

Disclaimer The Mighty Ducks (c) Disney. Chloe Blake Winslow (c) Takara "Taka" Matsudaira.

Ducks of a Feather Flock Together

Chapter One

I knock on the door to the coach's office, but I don't wait for a formal invitation to enter; I just walk right on in like I own the place. I have my duffle bag over my shoulder in one hand, and my hockey stick in the other. It's my hockey stick that I place on his desk. "Well Coach, I guess you get what you want; I quit." I leave the room without another word. And without my beloved hockey stick.

"Who was that?" I hear someone ask. I guess I had interrupted a very important meeting. But I didn't care. It's not like Coach Jenkins ever cared about me, so why should I care about him?

But it was what he had said next that really hurt. "Nobody; she's nobody."

He's lucky that I have a lot of self-control. Because there's nothing in the world that I want more right now than to punch his lights out.

"Just you watch, Coach; I'll become a somebody someday, and then you'll have to acknowledge me," I say more so for my benefit and confidence than for anyone else's. It's times like these that either make or break you.

I'm halfway down the hallway by the time when very distinct sound of heavy footsteps catches my attention and I turn around. I see the very same man from Coach's office coming my way; he's apparently out of breath by the time he gets to me, because he actually has to lean on my shoulder for support before he can say anything that remotely resembles the English language.

"What's up?" I ask bluntly, looking him up and down. He doesn't look like the men that Coach Jenkins is usually seen with, either talking to or heard yelling at. He has that goofy quality about him. "Who are you?"

He's now doubled over, gasping for air. What's wrong with this man? Hasn't he ever ran before? Apparently not, looking at him now. "My name... is Don... Don Tibbles," he introduces himself to me, having finally gotten his breathing under control. Or at least enough to explain himself to me.

"Don Tibbles?" I question, quirking an eyebrow at the funny last name. "You don't look like someone the Anchorage Snow Leopards Coach would associate with. What business do you have here in Anchorage, Alaska?"

That's when he smiles. Like, really smiles. And it's really freaking me out. "I'm the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel, and the Scouting Manager. We're the official sponsor for Team USA, and I want you to be apart of that team."

Now he definitely has my full attention. "Me? But why me? You don't know anything about me. And I don't play hockey anymore in case you didn't just see me quite back there." I jerk a thumb in the direction of Coach Jenkins' office. "And nothing you say can make me change my mind either."

He places a hand on my shoulder. I meet his eyes. "You're name is Chloe Blake Winslow; you go by your middle name so people automatically assume you're a guy because of it. You're #92 and a forward for the Anchorage Snow Leopards, whom don't treat you like one of their own, hence the hostility between you and Coach Jenkins, because you're a girl playing her favorite sport.

"You were born in Hilo, Hawaii, but are a military brat at heart and was stationed in various parts of the world because your father's currently in the military as a Colonel in the United States Air Force. In fact, it was him who had taught you how to play hockey, if I'm correct; and I do believe that I am."

I can't help it; I stare. I'm speechless, totally speechless. I didn't think anyone knew what he did. To tell you the truth, it's freaking me out actually, how much he knows about me when I don't know anything about him; this man, who I just happened to have bumped into. What is he? A stalker? Somehow, something tells me he's not done.

He continues without so much as missing a single beat, almost like he's reading my life's story from a book. "You know nothing of your mother because she died when you were born, my condolences." He looks at me not with pity, but with something else. Something that I can't quite put my finger on. "But that's why you live with your hockey-loving grandparents and four older brothers; each having his own favorite sport that he plays, although three are already in the military, serving their country with pride.

"Each of them were named after famous hockey players; your father actually being named after the great Wayne Gretzky himself, Wayne Winslow. Then there's Bobby, the oldest out of your four brothers, named after Bobby Hull; Michael, the second oldest, named after Michael Dean Bossy; Patrick, the third oldest, named after Patrick Jacques Roy; and finally there's the fourth and last brother, Max Winslow, named after Max Bentley.

"And you; you were named after your beautiful mother, Chloe Winslow."

I raise an eyebrow at this. Who is he to talk about my mom? "Look, I don't know who you are, but you certainly know a lot about me. And I find that creepy. So I'm gonna go call the police now if you don't mind," I say, removing his hand from my shoulder as I start to walk away from him, slowly and backwards, making my way to the closest phone that I know of.

I literally take off down the hallway in a sprint. I look frantically for a phone in the lobby when my eyes fall on an unused one in the far corner, closest to the door.

Dialing 911 for the police, my eyes scan anyone and everyone that enters the lobby in fear of Don Tibbles' presence. It's scary how much he knows about me. And that's putting my fear of said man's knowledge of me mildly.

I put my arm up on the ledge of the pay phone in anticipation. "C'mon, pick up, pick up," I keep repeating over and over again. My back automatically turns away from the hallway for a little bit of privacy when they finally pick up on the third ring. "Yes, my name's Blake, and I'd like to report a stalker. His name? It's Don Tib—" The phone is suddenly yanked out of my grasp by the very same man I'm trying to avoid by all means necessary. But I don't seem to be doing a very good job at it.

We wrestle for the phone until it's Mr. Stalker-Man that wins, and reassures the police that there's nothing wrong and it was all just a misunderstanding.

As if.

Mr. Stalker-Man totally lucked out in the lobby because there's just us. So he doesn't have to worry about getting arrested if I decide to yell for help. I'm actually surprised that I haven't yet. What the heck is wrong with me?

I yell. Or at least start to anyway before he stops me by placing both his hands over my mouth, and shushes me so that he can explain.

Didn't he already tried to do that? That's why we're in this mess to begin with, isn't it?

"I promise you, I'm not a stalker. I'm a family friend. I knew your mom. We were high school sweethearts. She was the only woman I ever really, truly loved. She saw me for me. We've kept in touch," he explains this all in one big, long breath and quite quickly too, whilst trying to make our conversation look as natural as he possibly can with both his hands covering my mouth to keep me from talking. It isn't working. People stare at us as they walk in and out of the building, not really sure what to make of the situation obviously. "I really am the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel, whose proud to be the official sponsor for Team USA."

I finally yank his hands away from my mouth so that I can get my two cents in before I really do yell for help or go crazy, whichever one comes first. He stumbles back a bit at the unexpected force. I know I should feel bad about making him trip, but I don't. "That still doesn't explain why you want me to play for Team USA. It's like I already said, I quite playing hockey."

"And I'd like to say, no, you haven't," he outright says. He plops himself down on a nearby plush sofa chair, and motioning me to do the same. But I don't and instead I lean against the closest wall that I can find. He sighs. "I've seen you play with the Anchorage Snow Leopards. You're good, really good. Look, I'll be honest with you, Blake, Hendrix Hockey Apparel didn't even knew you existed, that is until I told them about you and your skills for the game, your passion.

"As soon as they saw your skills and love for the game, they all immediately agreed that you'd be a great addition to Team USA; it was an unanimous decision. They literally fell head over heals for you. You even have a few Hendrix Hockey fans now. Please don't make me disappoint them by telling them that you don't want to be apart of Team USA."

I look at him inquisitively about having fans at Hendrix. Yeah, right. Whatever. "Fans? What fans?"

"Me, for starters. Also the President of Hendrix Hockey Apparel himself and a few others here and there in the department downstairs."

"The President of Hendrix Hockey is a fan of mine?" I ask disbelievingly. As if someone as important as a president for a super, duper big and important company like Hendrix would be a fan of mine. "Yeah, right. I don't believe you."

"If I can get him on the phone and have him confirm that he is a fan of yours, then will you join Team USA?" Mr. Stalker-Man asks. I'm still not all that sure that he is who he says he is. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. I don't know.

I shrug with a tilt of the head, but only slightly, still unsure about this whole thing. How did I know that I'd meet up with the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel today after quitting the Anchorage Snow Leopards? Not me. That's for sure. If he says who he is, that is. I'm still not even sure myself. And I'm a pretty darn good judge of character and can certainly tell when someone is lying; so far though, he seems pretty truthful. No one can act that confidently, and goofy for that matter, when lying, especially to my face. It just couldn't be done. Period.

He jumps up all of the sudden from his chair, startling me half to death. I'm not used to all of this enthusiasm. It's just not me and if anything I don't like it. He's too perky for my taste. But that's just me. I can tell why my mom loved him, if what he says about them being high school sweethearts is true anyway.

I just don't know what to think about Mr. Stalker-Man. And that's definitely saying something when not even I don't know.

I'm confused. And concerned that all of this could be a trap to get me to come with him, and into his car, to never to be seen or heard from again. Call me paranoid, I don't care what you think. My brothers taught me to always be on the lookout for weirdos, like this man. But Mr. Stalker-Man is actually more of a lovable weirdo now that I think about it. How could anyone hate him? He's goofy, probably too goofy for his own good.

"Great! Just let me get him on the phone for ya; just give me five, and I'll guarantee ya that you'll be saying yes in no time!" He makes a beeline straight for the very same exact pay phone that I had tried calling the police on from earlier.

Forget Hendrix Hockey. Mr. Stalker-Man here, should be writing for Dr. Seuss; he just rhymed, and I don't even think he realizes it, I think, chuckling to myself.

"Yes, sir; I understand completely, sir," he says, a little flustered. I can tell that he feels really, really bad about something, but I don't know what it is because I can't hear the other end of the conversation. "Yes, I do realize that you're in a meeting—" (—that explains it—) "—but if you could maybe just — Sir! Yes, I know that I raised my voice and I am truly sorry about that; but I'm here with Ms. Blake; you know, the player that I told you about?"

I have to give Mr. Stalker-Man props; he's yelling at his boss, and knowing full well that he could possibly get fired for it, too.

I see that he holds his breath in anticipation, but then he visibly relaxes after a few minutes of what I can only assume was silence.

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. You won't regret it, I promise." He shouldn't make promises that he can't keep. I learned that the hard way. He then turns to me, motioning for me to come obviously, but I'm adamant at first before I soon find that my feet have a mind of their own. He places the phone in my hand. "There's someone that wants to speak to you, Ms. Blake; I'd advise you not to hold him up. He's a very busy man, with very little time."

He walks away, I watch him go in silence before placing the phone slowly over my ear, not totally positive of what it is that I'm supposed to be doing. If only my brothers were here...

All of my confidence is suddenly gone when I feel the cold metal of the pay phone pressed up against my ear. I only start by saying unsurely, "Uh... H-hello, Mr. P-President, sir?" I want to slap myself silly right then and there for stuttering before someone answers.

"Hello, Ms. Blake." It's a man's voice; and a scary deep one at that, too. Awesome (note the sarcasm). "My name's Zimmermann. Just Zimmermann. But you can call me, Mr. Zimmermann, if it's all the same to you. I'm the President of Hendrix Hockey Apparel."

There's something in his voice... And that something tells me that this is no joke. That it's anything but.

A/N Who else thought it was funny when my character tried to call the police on Don because she thought that he was a stalker? I did, no lie; I still do, actually... ;D When writing this, I had wanted to give him some background story because we hardly know anything about him, other than him being the Senior VP of Hendrix Hockey Apparel, but other than that that's it; that's all we know about him. Sad, really. He's a lovable character, sometimes annoying, but always right there for our beloved Ducks!

Reviews are much obliged! Flames'll be burnt to a crisp. ^_^