The Trouble With Puck Bunnies is...
Summary: Drabbles about Cam's encounters with the avid fans of his star rookie status, and an encounter with 'lil Matlin.
A/N: Have writer's block on Sentimental Heart at the moment. URGH.
She's blonde, busty for her age (he's determined to keep eye contact with her, but he's not blind either), and absolutely insane. Sure, she's pretty enough, but on closer inspection Cam is reminded of the Kapuskasing Mall cosmetic department ladies who spritz perfume at unsuspecting customers; they have a penchant for caked-on makeup and gaudy nail polish. The girl clinging to his collar has an uncanny resemblance to Barbara who works at Glam Eyez Cosemtics, who wears an orange-y coloured foundation, and there's her likeness to Dolly who sits behind the Esme Laurier booth, who loves neon green on her nails.
He hates it when Mick is right. Then again, older brothers are often in the right to lord over little brothers. At least, that's what Mick claims; he takes pleasure in boasting about the infinite amount of pearls of wisdom he has on girls to pass down to his younger brother. Cam would habitually wave off these claims.
And here he is. Cam couldn't have placed himself in a worse position as he feels mental bruising, straining to remember Mick's advice. Oh God, he wishes he had paid closer attention to the part about stage three clingy girls with aggressive behaviour.
Currently, the busty blonde has him cornered in the boy's bathroom, in a narrow stall, while someone is rushing to leave next door, and he's drawing a frustrating blank.
"If this is Dallas' idea of an initiation joke—" Cam starts, wishing his voice hadn't squeaked just then.
"Puck bunnies do not joke about unsolicited bathroom booty calls." She has the crazy eyes Mick warned him about, that's certain, and he made the mistake of getting lost in them. He yelps because said distraction has lost him his belt, which whips around his middle and clatters to the ground.
"Ooof."
She pushes him to sit on the closed toilet seat, and she plops herself into his lap.
"I-I don't even know your name!" Cam is desperate now, trying to stall her advancements, while his flailing arms are shielding her from undressing him further.
He exhales in relief to see her rise from his lap, and she straightens her certainly-not-approved-by-Simpson mini skirt. She extends her hand to him. He is hesitant and stares at the blinding neon green colour of her nails.
"My name is Cassie," she says, rolling her eyes, retrieving her hand back when he doesn't shake it.
It hits him just in the nick of time. He resolves to dive into his bedroom later, and punch in his FaceTime account information to thank his older brother.
With a wail and moan, the waterworks are easier to achieve than he expects, and Cassie is so taken aback that she actually winces.
"W-what's wrong?" She's not retreating just yet, so Cam hams it up, sobbing louder.
"M-my ex g-girlfriend," Cam makes a strangled cry, and continues to splutter through. "Sh-she just told me that the b-baby's mine, but she w-won't have a-anything to do with m-me."
"You're like, 14 years old!" Cassie backs up, her arms that reach behind her are shaky, most likely due to her attempts at unlocking the stall door.
"15!" He cries. "15 and a father!"
She has nothing else to say, so Cam continues, "W-would you stay for a while…hold me?"
Cassie pats his head awkwardly as he hugs her middle.
He forces the bubbling laughter on his lips down, biting the inside of his cheek, even in the face of her horrified reaction. Seal the deal, Mick's voice eggs him on. He moves just as his older brother instructs, standing up, reaching for her shoulder, while his other hand clutches at his stomach like he's doubling over in pain. Another dramatic cry comes, and he looks up at her to confess with his most piteous smile, "You know, my ex's name is Cassidy…isn't that funny? Same blonde hair…just like Cassidy…. "
The latch clanging against the door is the last thing he hears before she bursts outside, raving about 'some crazy kid'.
Later, Mick would chastise him for not formulating a plan b in the event that a 'crazy chick actually digs the wounded puppy story'. And Cam pays his older brother closer attention, especially when it comes to his lecture on always preparing an arsenal of evasive maneuvers and chick de-magnet strategies.
The brunette, who jumps, literally jumps in front of his path to Mme. Jean-Aux's class, at the chance to introduce herself as Tara is frighteningly excellent in listing his hockey accolades.
Or just plain frightening.
"So," she says, her smile is gleaming with her braces. "Great first game."
"Uh…" Cam shuffles his feet, trying his best to gesture that he wants to move into the classroom instead of getting nudged further from it, though she's doing an exceptional job with helping with the latter.
She doesn't move, so he relents. "I didn't score at all, and I tripped over my own skates."
"No, but you got five MVP titles on your travel hockey team in Kapuskasing and two Young Hockey Achievement awards because you held the top average score in all your division tournaments." She spews all these facts out as if she's been aching to for too long.
Cam just stares at the space between the brunette and the opening behind her, a trick he is utilizing from his new found trust in Mick's guidelines about 'The Crazy Eyes'. It seems to be working, for a time, because she is not advancing on him in anyway.
"Excuse me," someone tells him, and a flash of blonde moves past him, a faint scent of something so familiar it almost causes him to close his eyes and pause to recall a memory also moves with the blonde.
Cam shifts back, losing his concentration, and he realizes that it is this mistake that causes him to finally take in the brunette in front of him. He can hear his brother's scoff mocking him now.
She is still glittery-eyed, staring at him like he's put her in a trance. "W-will you…willyousignmy—"
She's unbuttoning her collared shirt as she jumbles her request together, and Cam panics in response, shooting his hands forwards to grasp hers.
"Campbell," Principal Simpson startles both students, while their hands freeze over the brunette's front.
Cam hands release the girl's as if he's been scalded by something burning, and he's at a loss for words.
Principal Simpson gives the pair a pointed look before sighing, "I don't have to remind you two of the 'hands-off' policy, do I?"
Cam throws glances between them, before shaking his head, his face fuming.
"I didn't mean—" the girl starts, and Cam can see her face is beet red, possibly matching his furious blush. "I wanted him to sign…"
Cam finally sees what she was reaching for, something from under her shirt instead of the instinctively dirtier thought he initially thought of. He watches, sighing heavily, as she takes out a newspaper clipping she was keeping in an inside pocket of her shirt. The fact that she kept it there, for however long and for whatever reason, is something he wants to question, but he is brought back by Principal Simpson's concern.
"Mr. Saunders, let's try to keep our hands to ourselves," he starts. "Even if the temptation arises from avid hockey fans…"
Cam stares at his principal, mouth agape, trying to scream out his mental protests, but nothing comes. Principal Simpson rounds the corner when Cam shouts, "Wait—It's not—"
He turns at the sound of a low growl.
"Well, are you going to sign it or not?" The brunette is tapping her foot impatiently now, and her strikingly darker tone brings his attention back to her.
She's glaring at him, and Cam strains to gather Mick's profiling notes.
And then it suddenly registers. Stage 3. Aggressive, unstable behaviour.
Shit.
The second time he sees Bianca DeSousa, after his mortifying encounter with her at the mall, she is sauntering from across the hallway in his direction, and he stiffens, but not in a fun way. He literally dives at the chance to become invisible when he sees her just five students in front of him by walking toe to heel behind a random, broad freshman, and luckily it's a crowded trek to second period because she doesn't see him.
He releases a heavy sigh when she passes by him, and smirks to himself for his dumb luck.
Then a boy, shouldering through the crowds and looking drunk off sheer happiness, collides with him, causing him to lose the footing he perfected as a shadow. He collides with someone too, and she has a familiar derisive laughter that he easily matches to the fearsome girl he met at the Eaton Centre food court.
Drew, the girl calls him, is rambling about her early acceptance to some university, but she is clearly too amused with the boy sprawled on the floor below her to entertain her boyfriend.
"Well, if it isn't the star rookie, future billionaire, who apparently can only stand up straight on the ice." Bianca's words are mean, but her features cry sympathy.
Cam only sees red, and he bolts straight up.
"Listen, I-I-uh. I'm so sorry," Cam stutters. "I-I didn't mean any of it—the guys—"
Mick had not specifically addressed this situation before.
"Oh, you're the guy," Drew chimes in, finally acknowledging the hockey prodigy shaking in his shoes. "The guy who tried to hook up with B!"
Cam can't believe the heat in his Ice Hound jacket. "Sorry—so sorry."
"Man, listen, it's a compliment." Drew claps him on the shoulder, winking, and moves in to whisper. "But, once I'm done whispering this in your ear, I'd run, because I'm about to tell her the funniest rumor that someone's spreading." Drew snorts momentarily before he whispers even lower, "Bianca Bunny."
Cam doesn't wait, rushing past them in the fastest bee line he's ever made to third period Math. He swears he hears Bianca cursing his name behind him.
He remembers his freshman year well. It consisted mostly of a mantra: keep your nose down, and they won't notice you. They being anyone bigger than him (and that was almost everyone) who wanted a piece of the fresh meat, that is freshman that stick out like a sore thumb.
Degrassi was a whole other ball game however, and those here who prey on fresh meat are impressively smarter than the senior football team at Kapuskasing High. They are of a different breed at Degrassi. They are FOCAs (Mick endearingly calls them Females Obsessively Compulsive Over Athletes).
Here, FOCAs are relentless; they wait by the boy's locker room, they pass him notes in the caf, where his teammates steal and re-enact the misplaced, heartfelt words, they know where his billet family lives…
He just wishes they would leave him alone. He wishes he could just tell them to leave him alone.
So, as he fiddles fruitlessly with his lock combination (he's already been here for a week and it's maddening when he easily forgets the three digit combination), just after the warning bell after lunch, someone taps him on the shoulder and something snaps in him.
Without warning, and without him turning because he couldn't be bothered, he lashes out, "I JUST NEED TO BREATHE ALONE FOR ONE SECOND. IS. THAT. TOO. MUCH. TO. ASK?"
Something drops at his heels with a surprisingly startling thud, which is preceded with squeaky rubber and a flurry of footsteps. When he turns, he sees that the source of the first sound is a text book, Anthologie 9—the French text book he was sure he collected on his way out of class. Its retriever is gone.
Another bell signals that he is once again late for third period—his third strike, he ticks off.
So, he picks up the book and stacks it with his other belongings in hand, and he thanks God his eye-hand coordination excels at other aspects in his school life. Then he gets a good whiff of the book he's placed on top. The scent of vanilla bean wafts from it, the scent of his mother's favourite candle, which she lights almost every night she gets home from work. It's as if he's back in his own bedroom, and finally appreciating the fact that his family is only footsteps away.
He didn't realize he was closing his eyes the whole journey to third period English until he feels the warmth and bubbly sensation seep away at the sound of someone calling him, pulling him away from the vision of his mother, father, brothers, and little sister sitting around him at their kitchen table.
"Carry your books?"
The girl in front of him has her own books to carry, but she's clearly not moving out of his way for him to reject her, and he supposes no one has ever tried to either. She's a pretty brunette with a pretty pout that twists into an upwards curl.
He's late anyways, so he hands her his books, gesturing that his classroom is three doors down the hall. In one breath she tells him her profile stats: single, her favourite game play she saw him execute in his last hockey game, and her horoscope sign means she's never shy to initiate the first move.
True to her sign, Lacey, the single brunette, slips him a note that falls from his French text book. Her scrawl, listing her number and FaceRange name are not what has him appalled, but it's the scent she leaves behind. It's some sort of cotton candy-bubble-gum-licorice concoction of a smell. It's strong, and he can't smell anything else.
The vanilla bean is overpowered, and no matter how long he waits until after he scraps Lacey's note because the nostalgic pangs do not return.
Lacey becomes FOCA-non-grata.
His teammates joke about his aversion to girls, and they make cracks about what orientation he actually swings closer to. However, the truth is, Campbell Saunders knows where he stands. In fact, even in the face of all his new found confidence (his homeroom teacher actually applauds his promptness on arrival to class, his locker combination is second nature, and he can calculate the exact moment to duck and hide in the Ice Hound Throng to evade the scarier puck bunnies), he knows the girls, the normal ones and even the puck bunnies, are the least of his problems now.
Only, on a Wednesday on the fifth week in Madame Jean-Aux's class, he has to swallow all his self-proclaimed bravado.
It's a bigger class, likely due to the fact that Degrassi cannot afford more than two large cohorts they created for the first period of the day, and he's just an extra head as a tenth grader. So, it doesn't surprise him when he doesn't recognize his new group members that he's been forced to partner up with. One of them is a perfectly coiffed, taller boy, and Cam can tell he's tall because his long limbs are comically mismatched with the desk he's trying his best to look comfortable in. He's also got a familiar glazed look in his eyes as he watches Cam, or it's possibly nothing. Maybe he's seeing puck bunnies everywhere from paranoia, he rationalizes. Then there's the pretty, lithe blonde next to the boy who flashes an easy smile to greet him.
Tristan, the tall boy, snaps his fingers in front of Cam's face halfway through the chapter they were all supposed to be reading. "Did you get that? You didn't write anything down. Maya's not writing that down for you, if that's what you're staring at her for."
His eyes flicker away from the blonde's direction, missing her puzzled look in return, and he swallows the last bit of clinging confidence he was just celebrating earlier in the day with an uneasy gulp. "Right. Sorry." He clears his throat, his ears are burning red and he's sure it's showing.
Tristan reiterates the last sentence he was butchering en francais when Cam starts to scratch the itch he's had since losing the spot he was engrossed with, where she tucks the loose strands of hair behind the back of her ear. His eyes follow her slender fingers as they rub at her nose just before she gives what he can only describe as the tiniest, cutest sneeze he's ever heard. He smiles broadly, and laughs to himself.
They turn to him, Maya's stare feels as if it's boring right through him.
At some point, Tristan says he's got to use the 'little boy's room' when Maya is the first to break the awkward silence that follows after Tristan stalks off.
"You're not like the others, are you?"
Cam snorts at the remark towards who he assumes are his teammates.
He points a thumb at his chest. "Kapuskasing. Population 8200, give or take a few."
"Meaning…."
"Haven't done cow-tipping before, but I'm sure the folks back home have some sort of equivalent."
Maya offers a smirk.
"I mean, some of them are just outright jerks who think it's their job to be rude to perfect strangers, even when you try to be nice to them." She's huffing at this point. "No offense, I just had this weird moment the other day, trying to help one of them..."
He is stricken with unexpected guilt for some reason and clears his throat for lack of a better response.
Tristan is back in no time and it's his pointed glare that sets the tone, and Cam is back on track for the rest of the period.
When the bell rings he has to pack faster than he's used to because his partners are already up and moving towards the exit. However, when he does catch up, he doesn't realize his footing is moving faster than his approximation.
"Ow!" Maya cries for her crushed foot under Cam's heel.
"Jeez, I'm sorry—" He starts, but his words falter from classmates shoving their way out of the doorway that they've blocked, pushing him against her.
"Erm…" Maya has lost her words too, but he's sure it's because he's burst through her personal bubble. In fact, he's pretty sure he's close enough to see the flecks of deeper blues in her eyes and touching enough of her to be causing the pink flush over her cheeks.
He knows he's supposed to be shoving off of her in an instant because Simpson could be rounding a corner to do a repeat offender lecture, but he's rooted to his spot, hovering and clutching at her waist so she doesn't topple over backwards from the amount of leaning in he's doing. She's wearing…
Tristan helps him to stand properly to the side, effectively tearing them apart from what felt like a lapse of lost time. And there is no time left to stand idle before the warning bell announces second period, so his partners leave his side, not waiting for his delayed apology. She turns to look back, however, and it jolts something inside his chest as she waves at him. He's beaming back because it's the only thing he can do when he's too stunned by his luck.
He's finally found her.
The front of his shirt, where her small hands had laid when they collided, smells as if he's brought back to his family's kitchen table, just as if his mother had kindled a new flame of her vanilla bean candle.