"Tracy? You home?"

He remembered the last time, when he's simply shown up, unannounced: he had caught Tracy in the tub, and she had been none-too-pleased by the invasion of her privacy. And, despite Doctor Lambert's assurances to the contrary, Vachon was certain that the bullet was still lodged in his shoulder.

"Tracy?" he said, entering the darkened bedroom. He knew that she was not in the habit of leaving her windows open when she was out - even during the heat of the summer - but perhaps she was just down the hall or was running a quick errand or something.

"Tracy?"

He peered into the darkness, finally discerning a lump under the bed covers.

The lump moved and suddenly the light on the nightstand was turned on, flooding the room with a yellowy glow. Brown eyes met blue, only the latter pair did not belong to Tracy!

"Who the hell are you?" the stranger in Tracy's bed growled.

Vachon stood his ground. He glanced quickly about the room, knowing it was Tracy's, but thinking that he ought to double check just in case. Framed Georgia O'Keefe print on the wall above the walnut dresser. Rocking chair covered by a grandmotherly, peach quilt in the far corner. Tall, tropical plant, which would have been much happier living outside in the Amazon jungle as nature had intended. Brass-frame bed with white eyelet-covered comforter. Full-length mirror in near corner. Yup, definitely Tracy's room. So, who was the buck-naked guy under the covers?

But, before either received an answer to their question, in walked Tracy. "Oh. Um. Hi."

"Hi, yourself," the buck-naked guy under the covers said, in a rather impatient tone of voice, while Vachon chose to simply stand there and stare expectantly at Tracy.

She smiled uneasily, obviously trying to think if she could make it to either the door or the window before anyone could stop her. But then she sighed, as her shoulders sank - clearly deciding making a break for it was not a realistic option.

"So, have you two met?" Both men glared at the young woman. "Okay. Um, Steve, this is... ah... Vachon. Vachon... Steve." Neither man took his eyes off Tracy.

"Who the hell is this guy!?" both Vachon and Steve demanded in unison.

She swallowed hard. "Ah..." Tracy began, as a pathetic smile trembled across her lips. "Well, Vachon is, ah... a friend. Um, he... helps me sometimes... with my work... you know, information and... stuff."

Steve did not seem not in the least bit satisfied with this answer - after all, if this was just her snitch  what the hell was he doing in her apartment in the middle of the night?

But Vachon was not satisfied either. Sure, he had helped her out on occasion, but he was more than just some informant! What about all those nights they had spent together not  talking about her job? Huh? What about those dinners he had watched her eat? And those movies they had seen? And those rides on his bike out into the country?

"And, Steve is..." she continued, completely oblivious to Vachon's internal monologue. "We, uh... we went to college together and... we used to... date... sort of."

"Sort of?" both men asked, incredulously.

What the hell does 'sort of' mean, Vachon wondered. Either stuff happened but he never actually bought her dinner, or he bought her dinner and stuff never actually happened. And, if the latter, then why the hell was she so nervous and WHAT THE HELL WAS HE DOING IN HER BED?!

"Well, yeah, sort of. I mean, we never really did make it official, Steve," Tracy said, nervously fidgeting with her foot on the carpet.

"Official?" they asked together.

S'whew, Vachon thought. Not official means no sex. Cool!

"Tracy," Steve began. "If you don't call a tumble in the sack every night for four months 'official'... well, I don't know what is!"

Sex. Damn. I'll kill him! Vachon thought as he leapt on top of Steve and began beating the living daylight out of him! Steve apparently had similar thoughts as he did his best to pummel Vachon into a bloody pulp.

"Stop it!" Tracy ordered. "Stop it right now!"

Vachon stopped and so did Steve, though they were now both on the floor beside the bed, not even thinking about the blood they might be getting on Tracy's white eyelet comforter.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Vachon?" Tracy asked, clearly more angry than flattered at being fought over.

"You're mine, now. And this guy can go to hell!" Vachon raised his fist as if to strike Steve again, and Steve responded by raising his own fist, obviously certain that he could take this skinny guy.

"Um, no! I'm not 'yours' - I'm not anybody's! And you can both go to hell! Now, get out of my apartment!!!" she commanded, pointing towards the door.

Needless to say, both men were stunned by Tracy's attitude.

Vachon stood first, brushing off his jeans and refusing to look at Tracy. He then offered Steve a hand up, which was accepted.

Steve, who had not actually been buck-naked because of the pair of boxer shorts he wore, slipped into his pants and grabbed his shirt.

As both men slunk out of the bedroom towards the front door of the apartment, they muttered a single word to each other: "Women."

Tracy didn't see Vachon again for several weeks. And Steve never returned any of her phone calls.

But every weekend, Vachon and Steve meet up to watch whatever sporting event happens to be on television. And in the fall, they have season tickets to all of the Toronto Maple Leafs home games.