Handbook for the Sellout XII
Title: Handbook for the Sellout
Summary: It's not a story. It's life. Grade 12 at Eden Hall brings about new beginings and ends. Connie leaves the team, the Bash Brothers struggle while Adam and Charlie unlock their own secrets. Maybe Ducks don't always fly together. [slash] [het] [complete]
Author's Note: This is being written instead of a subjective essay on the Scarlet Letter that I’m supposed to be writing because my teacher thought it was garbage, that was due 2 weeks ago. Feel lucky. Sorry I’ve focused mostly on Adam, Charlie and Connie. I haven’t had much motivation for anything else. All suggestions are appreciated. Just added, Jessi finished the Connie scene and wrote the Ken part. Holler.
Fandom: Mighty Ducks
Chapter: 12
Disclaimer: The Pop Tart line belongs to Stan and Cartman from South Park. Ducks go to Disney, OCs go to themselves, and if you beg differ on anything and wish to sue? Good. I’ll make you write my essay.
~*~
The scalding water cascaded down his pale skin, filling the white tiled room with thick clouds of steam. Adam made not an effort to shampoo his hair or to lather his body. He was too disillusioned. Images ran through his mind, fresh and viable as though they were being played out in front of him. The sweat saturated bodies of his teammates, naked and passionate, together, groping and thrusting. By this point in time he wasn’t sure if had really seen anything or if it had been an unconscious nightmare due to his lack of sleep.
Yet he couldn’t help but egg on the pictures, as though he subconscious yearned to see one Bash Brother boning the other. But he knew he wasn’t a queer fudge packer like Port and Fult, he shuddered as he considered the thought.
He didn’t like the porn above Charlie’s bed… because it was so phony. The ballooned, flawless breasts, the provocative poses, the unreal amounts of airbrushing and makeup. He didn’t date girls because the ones running around Eden Hall were mindless whores who couldn’t differentiate between a pop tart and the rainforest, even if the pop tart had sprinkles. With the null selection and the hours he put in devotedly for his studies and hockey, he didn’t have the time to invest in such utter stupidity either.
And most of all he didn’t like Charlie Conway. He didn’t adore the power and passion he put into the game, the grace he had on the ice. He despised how laid back yet headstrong his roommate was. His charisma that enabled him to befriend everyone, and how everyone put him on a pedestal of sorts. The mysterious aura that engulfed number 96, the enigma that he was. He was disgusted by his subtle sarcasm that never ceased to amuse him. When he’d strip down to boxers in the locker room or for bed, the mere sight of his muscular yet scrawny frame made him want to vomit. His thick brown hair that fell carelessly into his deep eyes that always seemed to twinkle made him sick.
He, Adam Banks, was not a fag.
~*~
The screeching of her phone awoke the girl, her vision spotted and blurred, head pounding repeatedly and stomach churning. Moaning she had scrounged for the ringing that seemed to pick away at sections of her brain, finally grabbing the phone. It was Guy calling and it was 4:35 in Minnesota. Struggling to keep whatever contents of her stomach where they were she rolled softly onto her back, chucking the phone in the direction of the staircase, clenching her eyes shut. The small amount of sunlight that filtered into the basement shattered her head in half, the ringing only agitating it.
Roughly she took her pillow pushing it over her head, hoping to ease some of her agony. What the hell she had done last night, she didn’t know. All she was aware of was the hell she was undergoing now, making her vow to herself once she remembered what happened, she’d never even contemplate doing it again.
As she took slow deep breaths ignoring the stinging pains in her head, back and thighs, she tried to remember what she was doing today. It was a Saturday, 3:30… and she had her first practice with the select at 4:15.
She darted out of bed, noticing she was still clothed from last night, grabbed her bag and stumbled half hazardly up the stairs and burst into the kitchen where Donna was at the stove humming to herself while stirring a pot of something that smelt like beef stew that sent pangs of nausea to her stomach.
Chris wasn’t home so she was forced to bum a ride over to the arena with Donna who was more than happy to drive her. She inquired into Connie’s disheveled state such as the dark puffy circles that seemed to engulf her dark eyes, which were now hidden by bloodshot rouge. The first excuse that came to her mind, altitude sickness plus a bit of an allergic reaction to the tomatoes in the sauce from dinner that had kept her up. Overused and cliché, yes, plus it was a straight out lie, but it worked.
The next half hour wasn't as bad as she had expected. She in a surge of sheer luck was able to comprehend the dry erase board in the rink lobby and locate the locker room her new team was in and shuffle in.
Girls in various state of dress stared as she came in. Dark hair ratted in tangles, skin pale with pain. As she sat down in a corner that looked like it wasn't being used, a short stocky blonde asked, "Are you lost?"
"No," she frowned, "Connie, Connie… eh Moreau."
"You're our new player?" she asked incredulously. Connie just stared up, stupidly, at her from her seat into the too bright fluorescent lights.
"God she looks like a junkie," a mutter from the other side of the room cut through the ringing of her ears. Pointedly shifting her gaze to the accuser, she waited until the girl turned away before she pulled off her shirt throwing it near her bag.
I wish Julie and Guy were here.
*~*~*
Kenny Wu watched Jordan pull on his shoes and finger his hair from the doorway as he approached his dorm fresh from practice.
"There's a chick in your bed, dude. I'm going out, see ya." The taller Caucasian kid brushed past him in the doorway. Ken looked over to the bed and underneath the blanket; he noticed a lump of person. Shaking his head he dropped his bag and jumped onto his bed, twisting so he landed face up next to the lump.
"Hi Hallie,” he chuckled, the semi conscious girl groaned at the jolt.
"Hi,” she croaked, sleep still in her voice.
"Had a good sleep?"
"No, McChesney turned on a fucking radio at noon. Blaring fucking Insyders. Too loud, too happy."
"Did you throw something?" he smirked.
"No, too much effort. Too tired, can't talk more." She rolled over, back to him. He watched the back of her dark head for a minute.
"Why don't you just complain about your roommate?" Ken asked.
"Because the next person who becomes her victim might not have a friend like you to share their bed with."
"You just like sleeping next to me."
"Wu, shut up and let me sleep."
"You do know it's 1 in the afternoon."
"It's Saturday," she pleaded rolling back to face him.
"Fine. Go to sleep Hallie."
"Thanks Wu, At least I know you won't be starting your homework until later."
"Mmhmm." He mumbled through closed lids. She smiled at her friend and closed her eyes, moving closer to him on the narrow bed.
Summary: It's not a story. It's life. Grade 12 at Eden Hall brings about new beginings and ends. Connie leaves the team, the Bash Brothers struggle while Adam and Charlie unlock their own secrets. Maybe Ducks don't always fly together. [slash] [het] [complete]
Author's Note: This is being written instead of a subjective essay on the Scarlet Letter that I’m supposed to be writing because my teacher thought it was garbage, that was due 2 weeks ago. Feel lucky. Sorry I’ve focused mostly on Adam, Charlie and Connie. I haven’t had much motivation for anything else. All suggestions are appreciated. Just added, Jessi finished the Connie scene and wrote the Ken part. Holler.
Fandom: Mighty Ducks
Chapter: 12
Disclaimer: The Pop Tart line belongs to Stan and Cartman from South Park. Ducks go to Disney, OCs go to themselves, and if you beg differ on anything and wish to sue? Good. I’ll make you write my essay.
~*~
The scalding water cascaded down his pale skin, filling the white tiled room with thick clouds of steam. Adam made not an effort to shampoo his hair or to lather his body. He was too disillusioned. Images ran through his mind, fresh and viable as though they were being played out in front of him. The sweat saturated bodies of his teammates, naked and passionate, together, groping and thrusting. By this point in time he wasn’t sure if had really seen anything or if it had been an unconscious nightmare due to his lack of sleep.
Yet he couldn’t help but egg on the pictures, as though he subconscious yearned to see one Bash Brother boning the other. But he knew he wasn’t a queer fudge packer like Port and Fult, he shuddered as he considered the thought.
He didn’t like the porn above Charlie’s bed… because it was so phony. The ballooned, flawless breasts, the provocative poses, the unreal amounts of airbrushing and makeup. He didn’t date girls because the ones running around Eden Hall were mindless whores who couldn’t differentiate between a pop tart and the rainforest, even if the pop tart had sprinkles. With the null selection and the hours he put in devotedly for his studies and hockey, he didn’t have the time to invest in such utter stupidity either.
And most of all he didn’t like Charlie Conway. He didn’t adore the power and passion he put into the game, the grace he had on the ice. He despised how laid back yet headstrong his roommate was. His charisma that enabled him to befriend everyone, and how everyone put him on a pedestal of sorts. The mysterious aura that engulfed number 96, the enigma that he was. He was disgusted by his subtle sarcasm that never ceased to amuse him. When he’d strip down to boxers in the locker room or for bed, the mere sight of his muscular yet scrawny frame made him want to vomit. His thick brown hair that fell carelessly into his deep eyes that always seemed to twinkle made him sick.
He, Adam Banks, was not a fag.
~*~
The screeching of her phone awoke the girl, her vision spotted and blurred, head pounding repeatedly and stomach churning. Moaning she had scrounged for the ringing that seemed to pick away at sections of her brain, finally grabbing the phone. It was Guy calling and it was 4:35 in Minnesota. Struggling to keep whatever contents of her stomach where they were she rolled softly onto her back, chucking the phone in the direction of the staircase, clenching her eyes shut. The small amount of sunlight that filtered into the basement shattered her head in half, the ringing only agitating it.
Roughly she took her pillow pushing it over her head, hoping to ease some of her agony. What the hell she had done last night, she didn’t know. All she was aware of was the hell she was undergoing now, making her vow to herself once she remembered what happened, she’d never even contemplate doing it again.
As she took slow deep breaths ignoring the stinging pains in her head, back and thighs, she tried to remember what she was doing today. It was a Saturday, 3:30… and she had her first practice with the select at 4:15.
She darted out of bed, noticing she was still clothed from last night, grabbed her bag and stumbled half hazardly up the stairs and burst into the kitchen where Donna was at the stove humming to herself while stirring a pot of something that smelt like beef stew that sent pangs of nausea to her stomach.
Chris wasn’t home so she was forced to bum a ride over to the arena with Donna who was more than happy to drive her. She inquired into Connie’s disheveled state such as the dark puffy circles that seemed to engulf her dark eyes, which were now hidden by bloodshot rouge. The first excuse that came to her mind, altitude sickness plus a bit of an allergic reaction to the tomatoes in the sauce from dinner that had kept her up. Overused and cliché, yes, plus it was a straight out lie, but it worked.
The next half hour wasn't as bad as she had expected. She in a surge of sheer luck was able to comprehend the dry erase board in the rink lobby and locate the locker room her new team was in and shuffle in.
Girls in various state of dress stared as she came in. Dark hair ratted in tangles, skin pale with pain. As she sat down in a corner that looked like it wasn't being used, a short stocky blonde asked, "Are you lost?"
"No," she frowned, "Connie, Connie… eh Moreau."
"You're our new player?" she asked incredulously. Connie just stared up, stupidly, at her from her seat into the too bright fluorescent lights.
"God she looks like a junkie," a mutter from the other side of the room cut through the ringing of her ears. Pointedly shifting her gaze to the accuser, she waited until the girl turned away before she pulled off her shirt throwing it near her bag.
I wish Julie and Guy were here.
*~*~*
Kenny Wu watched Jordan pull on his shoes and finger his hair from the doorway as he approached his dorm fresh from practice.
"There's a chick in your bed, dude. I'm going out, see ya." The taller Caucasian kid brushed past him in the doorway. Ken looked over to the bed and underneath the blanket; he noticed a lump of person. Shaking his head he dropped his bag and jumped onto his bed, twisting so he landed face up next to the lump.
"Hi Hallie,” he chuckled, the semi conscious girl groaned at the jolt.
"Hi,” she croaked, sleep still in her voice.
"Had a good sleep?"
"No, McChesney turned on a fucking radio at noon. Blaring fucking Insyders. Too loud, too happy."
"Did you throw something?" he smirked.
"No, too much effort. Too tired, can't talk more." She rolled over, back to him. He watched the back of her dark head for a minute.
"Why don't you just complain about your roommate?" Ken asked.
"Because the next person who becomes her victim might not have a friend like you to share their bed with."
"You just like sleeping next to me."
"Wu, shut up and let me sleep."
"You do know it's 1 in the afternoon."
"It's Saturday," she pleaded rolling back to face him.
"Fine. Go to sleep Hallie."
"Thanks Wu, At least I know you won't be starting your homework until later."
"Mmhmm." He mumbled through closed lids. She smiled at her friend and closed her eyes, moving closer to him on the narrow bed.