The Slam (14 page)

“Sure.” I playfully bumped my shoulder against hers as we walked out the door. “Whatever you say.”

“I wasn’t!” she cried. “I actually felt really embarrassed for you. No more gym selfies, okay? Cut it out! They need to stop if you want me to keep training you.”

“All right, Coach.” I held my hand out for a fist bump. “No more gym selfies.”

“Deal.” Fist closed, she reached out and gave me a pound. “You ready to go hit some balls?”

I cut her a smug-ass grin. “I
stay
ready so I don’t have to
get
ready.”

Tennis is a lot like sex—the women make far more noise.

“AH UH! AH UH! AH UH! AH UH! AH UH!”

Those sounds Adelaide was making… they were fucking distracting.

But
damn
, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a major turn on.

My cock stirred each time she let out one of those loud, breathless grunts. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was how she moaned during sex.

Despite her distracting grunts, Adelaide was a great sparring partner.

Strength, agility, form—the girl had it all. Her game was tough and physical, her powerful slice backhand like an executioner’s shot.

And she played great from anywhere on the court. She had the endurance and commitment to sprint down all four corners, back and forth—BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM—take control of the point, letting out an epic grunt before unleashing her lethal slice backhand.

“AH UH!” The ball went soaring across the net.

Again, that husky, breathless groan… it sent a thrill straight to my groin.

I jumped in the air, swinging with all my strength but my body was so strung tight and there was so much tension between my legs that my return nicked the net.

Concentrate.
I quieted my body, doing my best to stay focused, but it didn’t help that Adelaide kept trying to give me pointers. The girl took her role as coach very seriously.

“Adjust your grip,” she shouted over the net.

“Bend your knees more.”

“Lean into it.”

“Hit it hard!”

“Yes!” she yelled seconds later. “Harder! HARDER!”

“Extend into it.”

“That’s it!” she said encouragingly. “Deep, penetrating slices! That will put your opponent on the defensive!”

“Good serve! Now hit that sweet spot with weight and penetration.”

“There you go! Nail that sweet spot!”

“Own the baseline. Get low! Make a horizontal motion to hit those balls deep. Yes! That’s it! LOWER! HIT THOSE BALLS DEEP!”

I had to keep reminding myself that Adelaide was talking about tennis.

By the end of our practice session, I was so fucking hard my dick could probably crush stone.

As we walked off the court, Adelaide flicked her gaze sideways. “Is that a tennis ball in your pocket?” she asked.

Shit. I glanced down and adjusted my shorts. It looked like I had not one but
three
tennis balls wedged in my shorts, stretching my pocket tight. “Yeah,” I said coolly. “It’s a habit.”

She nodded once. “That’s actually a really good habit you have. It keeps the fuzz matted down.”

I stared at her.
What the fuck is she talking about?

“When you hit a ball, the fuzz fluffs up, making it less aerodynamic, causing it to travel through the air slower. And when you’re serving, you want the ball to travel through the air as fast as possible. I’m always looking for balls that are the least fluffed up. But you’re smart, Ender! You just carry them in your pocket to keep the fuzz matted down.” She beamed. “It’s such a good habit!”

“Right,” I said stone-faced. By now my stiffy had subsided and I quickly shoved three tennis balls into my pocket while she wasn’t looking.

“What about grunting?” I studied her with a glint of amusement. “Is that a good habit, too?”

“Actually it is,” she said in all-seriousness. “It allows you to hit the ball harder and it increases ball velocity by 3.8%.”

“Is that so,” I said skeptically.

“Uh-huh,” she went on. “It’s been proven. That’s why martial artists yell when they strike. The act of voicing your action through grunting makes your muscles tighten more than if you just threw a punch. The forceful exhalation of air at the same time the core abdominal muscles engage can give you more power.”

“So you’re saying I should grunt when I hit the ball?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” She shrugged. “It might help your game. And it masks the type of shots you hit.”

I looked at her with interest. “What do you mean?”

“I can easily figure out what type of spin the ball has on it simply from the sound of your stroke. By yelling, you can mask that and it might give you a competitive edge. Maybe you should try it sometime. Nadal, Murray, Djokovic—they grunt. The men do it too, you know. It’s not just the women.”

“Adelaide.” I laughed, but there was respect in my gaze. “I think you’ve changed my mind about grunting. I never thought I’d say this, but thank you.”

Smiling, she smacked my butt and said, “Always a
pleaj.
”

Chapter Fifteen

ENDER

Later that evening I stopped by Adelaide’s room. I found her on the bed, her legs curled under her, hugging a pillow to her chest. Her eyes were glued to the TV screen.

“What-cha watching?” I asked.

“
Four Weddings and a Funeral
,” she said without taking her eyes off the screen.

I cleared my throat twice. “Edric and I are gonna catch a movie later tonight. He’s still in a funk about the breakup and I need to get him out of the house. He’s crying a river in his room right now.” I paused. “Anyway, you wanna join us?”

“Shhhhh! I’m trying to watch this!”

Annoyed at being silenced, I joined her on the bed and tried to watch the movie. Some guy was in the middle of delivering a eulogy, and he was going on about stopping the clocks and cutting off the phones, planes flying overhead, and then he did a somber mention of the deceased being his compass—his north, his south, his east, and west.

What a load of shit. “Great,” I said. “Just in time for the funeral. Don’t you find this depressing?”

“I think it’s beautiful,” she said quietly. “More so than a wedding.”

How morbid
. I reached for the remote and clicked PAUSE. It was the only way I could get her attention. “Are you saying you prefer funerals to weddings?”

“Correct,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s far more real. A funeral marks something that has actually happened. A wedding is something that hasn’t even started. And to me, celebrating sixty or eighty years of being alive, sharing it with family and loved ones, that makes far more sense than celebrating a union between two people that hasn’t even begun.”

“Humph,” I muttered. I guess she did have a point.

“Not to mention,” she went on. “Weddings are so stage-managed these days, and there’s so much pressure for it to turn out perfectly magical. With funerals, the expectations are much lower and I don’t have to buy a present since no one expects gifts at a funeral.” She shrugged. “No one expects me to dance, to act wild, or overindulge in alcohol. No one expects me to pretend that I’m having a great time. And…” Her voice pitched higher. “Have you tried funeral food?”

When I shook my head, she fixed me with an incredulous stare. “Funeral food is
soooo
much better than wedding food! It’s comfort food. It’s not fussy like wedding food! Just trays and trays of baked ziti, lasagna, chicken parmigiana, honey baked ham, roast beef, candied yams, macaroni and cheese, foot-long sandwiches, black-eyed peas.” She licked her lips before adding, “Hearty Crock-Pot soups that feed the soul, the neighborly accumulation of homemade cakes, rolls, and casseroles…” Her mouth was practically watering at this point. “The casseroles with creamy potatoes topped with melted cheese and crispy cornflakes.”

“
Oh-kay
,” I said dryly. “That casserole sounds gross. And quit drooling and talking ’bout food. You’re making me hungry.”

“I made
you
hungry?” Sighing, she picked up the remote and clicked PLAY. “I think I just made
myself
hungry.”

Feeling the sudden hunger pangs, I whipped out my phone. “I’m gonna order some Papa John’s.”

With sudden supersonic speed, she grabbed the remote, pushed PAUSE, and cut her gaze to me. “Did someone just say Papa John’s?”

“Yeah.” I laughed. It wasn’t the best pizza but they delivered fast. “What do you want?”

“The Hawaiian chicken barbeque!” she said at once. “Extra large and add Canadian bacon, plus three cheeses. And get me some buffalo wings. Breadsticks, too.”

“Got it,” I said and dutifully placed her order. Covering the receiver, I asked, “So are we splitting this?”

“No,” she hissed. “I’m not sharing. I want my own.”

So I placed our separate orders—two extra large pizzas, two buckets of buffalo wings, and enough breadsticks to feed China. And for the next hour we sat in her room gorging on pizza, hot wings, and breadsticks, watching
Four Weddings and a Funeral
.

In between mouthfuls of pizza, Adelaide happily chatted away, pointing out her favorite scenes in the movie. The girl just wouldn’t shut up once she had food.

And I had to admit the movie wasn’t half bad. The characters were subversively awkward, but likable in their own way. From the bumbling vicar to the stammering, commitment-phobic leading man, the movie was okay. Bearable.

Still, it was a Friday night and I was watching a fucking chick flick.

Frowning, I checked my pants and I still had my balls. Phew!

When the movie ended and the credits started rolling across the screen, Adelaide began flicking through the Netflix queue.

“You’re watching another movie?”

“Correct,” she said. “I’m watching
Titanic
.”

“
Titanic
,” I scoffed. “The movie’s a cliché love story on steroids. And it’s filled with cheesy, terrible dialogue.”

“Oi,” she cried. “
Titanic
is one of my all-time favorite movies! I even had a bedroom poster with Jack embracing Rose with her arms outstretched on the ship’s bow.
Ahhhh
,” she swooned. “That scene was superbly romantic.”

“And let me guess.” My lips curled mockingly. “Your favorite line is, ‘I’m the king of the world.’”

“No, it’s not!” she huffed. “There are so many better lines in that movie. Have you even watched it?”

“Nope,” I said, propping an arm behind a pillow. “And I never want to.”

“Then you’re missing out! The ocean-liner-split-in-two, floods-in-the-corridors, and crowds-falling-like-rats special effects are simply amazing. And I don’t care if it’s the height of un-coolness to like
Titanic
. Despite what you naysayers may think, it’s a tale of tragedy and triumph, and the dialogue resonated with me. It wasn’t the least bit cheesy if you ask me. Not the least bit cheesy at all!”

“Oh yeah?” I said dryly. “Name one line that wasn’t.”

“When Rose told Jack she was getting off with him when the ship docked, he told her it was crazy. And then Rose said, ‘I know. It doesn’t make any sense, that’s why I trust it.’”

I shrugged. “That don’t make no sense to me.”

“Don’t you see?” she said earnestly. “Rose was saying that love is crazy and it doesn’t make any sense. But that’s why she trusted those feelings.”

“Okay,” I said. “Now
you’re
not making any sense. And I still think that’s a shit line. What else you got?”

“When Jack told Rose, ‘You jump, I jump, right?’ and later Rose said the same thing to Jack.”

“You jump? I jump?” A smirk lifted the corner of my mouth. “You actually think
that’s
a good line?”

“It
is
a good line.” She swatted me with a pillow. “You have to watch the movie to actually
get
it!”

“Not gonna happen,” I said, getting to my feet. “So are you gonna come with us to the movies tonight?

“What time are you guys leaving?”

I paused at the doorway. “Probably in an hour.”

She checked her watch and began firing off a bunch of questions. “What time does it start? How long is the movie? How far is the theater?”

“It starts at 9:15. It’s an hour and a half long… I think. And the theater’s a ten-minute drive.”

“Hmm.” Her lips pursed for a moment. “With the previews, the movie won’t start until nine thirty. Assuming it’s an hour and a half long, it will end at eleven, and taking into account the ten-minute drive, I should be home by my bedtime.”

I suppressed a grin. “What time is your bedtime, Great Grandaunt Adelaide?”

“Eleven forty-five.”

“So you’re going, then? To the movies?”

“Correct,” she said. “To be honest, I’d rather stay home and watch
Titanic
. But I want to be there for Edric; he’s been in such a sorry state over Natasha. The poor thing. He’s a miserable meatball right now, isn’t he?”

“He’s a miserable fuck,” I agreed.

As I turned to leave, she called after me. “Wait!” she said urgently. “Who picked the movie?”

“Me.”

“Can I pick the movie?”

“No.” I scowled. “I just sat through four painful weddings and a fucking funeral, so I get to pick the movie.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “Are we watching a romance? A comedy? A drama? A sci-fi? A dystopian-fantasy? A post-apocalyptic? A thriller? An animation? A film-noir? A musical? A war? A western?”

I took a deep breath, my patience wearing thin. I had to stop her before she started listing movie sub-genres. “Nope, nope, nope, and nope to all of them,” I said shortly. “A horror. We’re watching a horror.”

As soon as we walked into the lobby, Adelaide made a beeline for the concession stands.

Why am I even surprised?

Of course, this being Adelaide, she had to buy the largest tub of popcorn and a dozen packs of licorice.

Edric smiled at her indulgence. “Are we sharing the popcorn?”

I suppressed a snort. Adelaide’s face was a picture. It was almost comical watching her inner conflict play across her features. It was clear she wanted to say no, that she thought he should get his own tub of popcorn because she fully intended on eating all of hers. But at the same time, I could see her conscious wavering.

“Erm…” she stammered with a pained expression. “Uhhh… sure, Edric,” she said at last. “I guess we can share the popcorn.”

Adelaide looked so deflated you’d think she’d just offered up her kidney and spleen.

But she visibly perked up once she saw me whipping out my wallet and buying two tubs of popcorn.

“Here,” I said, handing my brother a giant tub. “You can have your own popcorn.”

“Thanks, man!” He clapped my shoulder.

“Isn’t this great?” Adelaide said, stuffing her face with popcorn. “We’re doing this for the movie theater. You know, for the first two months of screening, all the money from ticket sales go to the movie studios. And the poor movie theaters have to rely on concession stands to make money.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “We just got three tubs of popcorn to help out the poor movie theater. Not because you wanted to stuff your face with popcorn.”

Adelaide said nothing, merely smiled innocently and stuffed more popcorn in her mouth.

She
did
love popcorn, but not as much as she loved talking.

Typically, when I took a girl to see a horror flick, I never really watched the movie.

I watched her.

I found it
mad cute
when a girl covered her eyes or jumped in her seat when a ghost popped out. Usually she’d clutch my arm and want to get real nice and close to me. This, I’d take as my cue to put my arm around her and rub her shoulder so she felt safe and protected, all while I showed no fear in the face of darkness, evil, and danger. And later that night, she’d want me to hold her in bed in case the boogeyman came out and got her.

Yeah, yeah. I know.
Total dick move. But it was one of the oldest tricks in the book.

Of course I hadn’t planned on using this trick on Adelaide. I’d just thought a horror flick would keep her on the edge of her seat and keep her mouth shut.

Wrong.

Adelaide would not stop talking. Throughout the movie, she analyzed the scientific and logical means as to how the anomaly existed, where it originated from, and found an easy and efficient way to explain away the paranormal occurrences.

“That right there is a classic case of sleep paralysis,” she said between mouthfuls of popcorn. “It feels as if a weight is pressing down from above, gluing your body to the bed. You can’t move and you experience hallucinations.”

Much to my annoyance, Edric found all this highly interesting. “Why is that?” he asked her.

Without taking her eyes off the movie screen, she whispered, “Studies have shown that the stress of sudden paralysis in the half-sleep state can conjure visions of figures sitting at the end of the bed and floating around the room. You feel something touching you, attacking you. You hear footsteps, voices, and you feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience. But I can assure you it has nothing to do with evil spirits. When the brain enters REM sleep, it paralyzes the muscles to prevent the body from acting out dreams or harming itself. When REM sleep breaks suddenly, the body can get temporarily out of sync with the brain, allowing the person to be conscious of their paralysis.”

“I see…” Edric muttered. “Now what about that knife? Five people in the room saw the knife move on its own.”

“Oh, that’s just vibrations from infrasound,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Humans can hear sounds up to 20,000 Hertz, but we’re unable to detect anything lower than 20 Hz. These ‘silent’ noises are infrasound, and while we can’t hear them, we can feel them in the form of vibrations. And since our eyeballs have a resonant frequency around 20 Hz, the infrasound was vibrating their eyeballs and creating images that aren’t really there.”