The Slam

by Haleigh Lovell

“Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  Then she tipped her head back into the headrest and closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation.

  Switching on the ignition, I backed the car up and floored it, leaving skid marks all over the road. I clenched my jaw, silently fuming as I gripped the gearshift. I wasn’t sure why it bothered me so much that she was going out with that dick… but it did.

  It fucking did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ENDER

  “She said no.” Frodo grabbed the bottle of JD off the kitchen table and took a long pull. “Can you believe that? Can you?” Then he took another swig and burst into tears.

  “I feel your pain, man.” Edric clapped his shoulder. “I feel your pain. At least you got to ask her,” my brother said wistfully. “I never even got the chance to pop the question to Natasha.”

  Leaning against the kitchen counter, I crossed my arms, watching those clowns with mild disinterest.

  Adelaide breezed into the kitchen just as Frodo was cradling himself, sobbing uncontrollably. “My… my heart can’t handle it.” His broad shoulders heaved with the effort of getting the words out. “Why did she say no? WHY? How am I supposed to live?”

  At once, Adelaide snapped her gaze to me and I said, “That’s Frodo, by the way.”

  “Frodo?” She blinked. “Like from The Lord of the Rings?”

  “Yep.” I nodded. “That’s what everyone calls him since he’s drunkenly proposed to all of his girlfriends, proving his unhealthy obsession with the ring. And last night, he drunkenly proposed to his sixth girlfriend and—”

  “She said no,” Frodo said tearfully, then he gave a great shuddering sob and wailed. “Ashley said noooooooo.”

  “He’s fucking drunk right now,” I said in a toneless voice.

  “But…” She checked her watch. “It’s only seven in the morning.”

  “He’s been drinking all through the night,” I said dryly. “So has Edric.”

  “Oh,” she said, casting a worried glance at my brother who was sitting at the kitchen table with his head buried in his hands. “What happened?” she asked, her voice dripping with concern.

  “Natasha broke up with him. And to be honest, I don’t even know why he’s so upset. All she wanted to do was parade him up and down campus like he was a broodmare.”

  “Ender!” she hissed. “Stop being such a boiled cabbage and be nice to your brother! This is really hard for Edric! He has second child syndrome. Everyone knows that second children need extra support and validation. And it certainly doesn’t help that you’re comparing him to a broodmare.”

  “I’m not a broodmare!” my brother said suddenly.

  “Of course you’re not, Edric,” Adelaide said meaningfully. Her features softened and she strode over and patted his arm affectionately. “I’m sorry, Edric,” she said in heartfelt tones. “I’m truly sorry about Natasha. But you deserve so much better.”

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to be supportive. “You do. Just be glad you escaped from the clutches of that woman. She burned you alive, dick first. Don’t go back to her now. If you do, we’ll all know you’re suffering from Stockholm syndrome.”

  Adelaide sent me a cutting glare and I gave a careless shrug.

  “There, there now,” she soothed, rubbing Edric’s back. “It’s all right, Sausage. I’m here for you.”

  “Sausage?” I said mockingly. “Did you just call my brother a sausage? How is that helping him cope with his second child syndrome?”

  “Shhhhhh! He can hear you, you know. Besides,” she said. “Sausage is a term of endearment. I call everyone Sausage.”

  Humph. I scowled. She didn’t call me Sausage.

  She called me a boiled cabbage!

  Meanwhile, Adelaide was busy fussing over Edric. “Can I get you anything, Sausage? Anything?” she said tenderly. “Anything at all?”

  At her gentle words, tears began streaming down his face.

  Niagara fuckin’ Falls was falling from Edric’s eyeballs.

  Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I rubbed my temples. Now my brother is crying, too?!?

  “For the love of God!” I exploded. “WHERE DID ALL THESE LADYBALLS COME FROM?!?”

  In the midst of all this chaos, Adelaide was fluttering around the kitchen like a Mother Hen on steroids, frantically opening the pantry, grabbing boxes of cereal and power bars and piling heaps of food on the kitchen table. “You guys need to eat something. And you need to drink water,” she said urgently, darting to the sink and filling up two glasses. “Water! It’s important you drink water. Alcohol is a diuretic that causes you to lose more liquid than you consume, which leads to dehydration and—”

  “Adelaide!” I snapped and she jumped. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “We have classes tomorrow.” She stood staring at me like I was a complete idiot. “Obviously, I don’t want them to suffer from a hangover on their first day of classes. Hangovers are caused by dehydration so it’s important that they hydrate themselves as much as possible before they pass out.”

  Shaking my head I stalked to the fridge, yanked it open, grabbed two bottles of Gatorade and slammed them down on the counter. “Then they should be drinking this.”

  “Gatorade?” She lifted a skeptical brow.

  Crossing my arms, I repaid her cynical gesture with an arched brow of my own. “Gatorade.”

  “Why Gatorade?”

  “Pantera,” I said, “arguably the hardest-drinking band ever—they used to drink those Pedialyte things before crashing. It’s basically Gatorade for kids.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, nodding with understanding. “It’s the electrolytes. Too much water when you are dehydrated can cause you to lose valuable electrolytes. And drinking sports drinks can help replace those electrolytes while hydrating your body.”

  “Yep,” I said, popping the P sound.

  “Gatorade,” she muttered to herself. “I never knew it was a cure for a hangover.”

  “Well,” I said, yanking the fridge open and grabbing another Gatorade for myself. “It’s not something you learn from a text book.”

  “See!” A grateful smile came over her face. “That’s why you’re my social coach, Ender.”

  “So…” I tossed the bottle of Gatorade into my gym bag. “Are you gonna stay here all day and babysit these clowns?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m coming with you to the gym. Remember? You agreed to let me train you. You’re my social coach and I’m your tennis coach. We help each other. We need each other.”

  Yeah, I’d almost forgot about that. “All right.” I exhaled forcefully. “Grab your things and let’s go.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Adelaide said, standing off to the side as I did a couple of bench presses. “I’m just observing. You just keep doing what you normally do. I should be nothing more than a tiny blip on your radar.”

  Problem was, she was a GIGANTIC blip on my radar.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see her studying my form as I powerlifted, all while tapping madly away at the touch screen of her iPhone.

  With every rep, every set, I could practically feel the disapproval rolling off her in waves.

  When I moved on to leg lifts, she frowned.

  And when I started doing curls, her frown deepened, the creases in her forehead becoming deeper and deeper until I finally snapped. “What?” I demanded. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Everything,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Everything…”

  I waited and she took a deep breath before continuing. “For one, if you keep doing bicep curls like that, you’re bound to have elbow problems. And two, the decline press you were doing is a useless exercise because the angle of the body in the decline position shortens the distance the bar can travel, thus decreasing the amount of work done in respect to the distance the load moves. This has the effect of increasing the weight used in the exercise by decreasing its difficulty. This leads to an inflated perception of your a
bility, and is essentially masturbation. Much of that useless routine could easily be accomplished with a thirty-degree leg press or a half-squat.” A pause. “Or masturbating.”

  I stared at her. “Anything else?”

  “Not only are the exercises you’re doing all wrong for you, your form is bad. This can lead to back problems, knee problems, and not to mention, you can really hurt yourself, Ender. And I will not have you hurt or injured. No,” she said with conviction. “Not on my watch.”

  A moment passed before I found my voice. “So what do you suggest?”

  “Dumbbells are a lot safer. They have fewer joint consequences compared to barbells, and are far superior for developing independent motor control with resistance. And placing your feet up during flat presses can help enhance muscle fiber recruitment. Basically,” she said simply, “it all boils down to physics.”

  “Physics.”

  “Correct,” she said, hurrying to my side. “Look right here.” She pointed to her phone where she had essentially detailed an anatomical diagram of my workout. “What you need is to make gravity work for you when you train. Try doing a set of upright rows immediately followed by a set of military presses. The upright rows fatigue your biceps and shoulders but leave the triceps fresh; now with the presses, the strong triceps push your already fatigued shoulders even harder. This pull and push method is a lot safer than what you’ve been doing. To be honest, you’re lucky you haven’t already injured yourself.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “That probably explains why my back and knees have been hurting after workouts.”

  “Precisely,” she said. “It’s important that you understand your body, to know what it needs, how to push it and when to stop.” Adelaide went on to give me a lesson on the force of gravity in the form of weighted bars, dumbbells, and weight stacks, and how to oppose the force generated by muscles through concentric or eccentric contraction.

  Leaning my back against the weighted bars, I linked my arms behind my head and watched her as she chattered on animatedly, schooling me on the subject.

  I found myself smiling as I stared at her, listening to every word she said with interest. Usually, I hated lectures, but if all lectures were like Adelaide’s, I probably wouldn’t doze off in the middle of class nearly as often as I did.

  Later, after the two-hour long session in the gym, tweaking my workout routine as Adelaide kept tabs on me, I checked myself in the mirror.

  Just as I was reaching for my phone, Adelaide gave a little laugh. “You’re not actually taking a gym selfie, are you?”

  “I’m about to,” I said, flexing as I flirted with my reflection. “Why? You wanna be in the shot?”

  “No!” she cried. “You couldn’t pay me! And why do you keep turning this way and that?”

  Hollowing my cheeks, I checked the effect in the slant of light. “Just trying to show off my best side.”

  She stifled a giggle. “Then may I suggest you take a picture of your butthole?”

  I scowled. “My butthole?”

  “Correct,” she said lightly. “Because that’s precisely what you look like. By the way,” she added, “you just gave me a grand idea. I’m going to invent a built-in phone app that warns users when they’re about to upload a gym selfie.”

  “Warn them about what?”

  “D’oh! That they’re at risk of looking like a butthole loser.” She gave a self-satisfied smile. “There! My financial future is solved!”

  My chest moved in a silent chuckle.

  “Or,” she continued. “I could build a selfie firewall into the gym’s Wi-Fi network.”

  “But,” I said dryly. “Could we really live in a world without #beastmode captions?”

  “Most definitely,” she said fiercely. “Most, most definitely. And what about green juices and wheatgrass shots? I feel that’s a real issue that also needs to be addressed.”

  I smiled. “Not into the whole juice cleanse fad, are you?”

  “Nope.” Distaste flickered over her face. “The only thing those green juices will ever cleanse me of is my will to live and…” She broke off as I drew my shirt up over my chest and cast it aside. “Seriously?” She stared at me. “A shirtless selfie?”

  “Don’t be hating,” I said coolly. “Most girls would love to wash themselves on these washboard abs.”

  “Ender,” she said sweetly. “You sound like a special kind of moron.”

  Ignoring the barb, I snapped the selfie and showed her the picture. “What do you think?” I asked, scrolling through the many Instagram filters.

  Adelaide snorted. “I think you’re glowing like a supernova made of entitlement.”

  “Admit it,” I said. “You like it.”

  “I do not!” she huffed, hoisting her gym bag over her shoulder.

  Grabbing my own bag off the floor, I said casually, “Then why are you blushing?”

  She turned even redder.

  I struggled but failed to keep the grin off my face. That was one of the things I remembered about Adelaide—her blushing syndrome.

  I always thought it was cute, endearing even.

  “I do blush very easily,” she admitted. “And it’s a lose-lose situation. I feel it coming on, I get really hot, and I look wretched. It’s not even a normal blushing. It’s not like a nice English Rose blush. Ugh. I hate that.”

  I love that.

  “However,” she insisted. “I was not blushing at your post-gym selfie.”

  “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.”