Behind The Jersey

//CHAPTER 9// BEHIND THE CLOSET TALK

//CHAPTER NINE// BEHIND THE CLOSET TALK
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A/N: Sorry about the minor foul language that follows and has happened.
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The adrenaline pulses through me rapidly, my heart accelerating and my palms sweating. My mind jumps through hoops hitting the rim of each ring of fire. I can't think straight, I can only think curvy. See? That doesn't even make sense. Even for me.

At the last moment, I come up with a solution to end this awkward situation. There is no time to think over my next movements, not even a second for a light bulb to flash over my head. I see the motions in my head and then activate the sequence.

I shove my hands into his chest, catching him off guard, like really off guard. My hands tingle at his chest, and that freaks me out even more, activating a strength I never knew was within me. With the power of a thousand Dwayne Johnson's, I push him as hard and fast as I can.

Mercilessly, I send him flying back into my bathtub, yelling at the top of my lungs.

"THIS. IS. SPARTA!"

He slips backwards, flailing around and grabbing at the air to catch himself on something. But he grabs nothing and continues falling into a bottomless pit of fire. Or in other words, into my bathtub.

"GET DUNKED ON." I throw up some hand signs, slamming my hands down in between my legs like some high stakes rapper. "A swish."

Recoiling from the fake basket I just made, my eyes bulge out of my head at the realization of what I have just accomplished. I whip my head in every direction before sprinting out of the bathroom, leaving him for dead. I bust into my bedroom, cursing myself as his mouth starts to run with profanities foaming out of it.

I start to bite my thumb as I go off on myself.

Nice going, RKO.

Sack a football player and tackle him into a shower. Good plan.

Ugh. God, what is wrong-

But the conflict in the bathroom distracts the one in my head.

"Holy shįt. What the figglehorn was that?" I hear in his deep voice with a big breath of air mixed with disbelief. "Did I just get sacked by a short girl? And did she just tell me to 'get dunked on'? Holy shįt."

He whispers something in a quiet, conspicuous voice. It's low and hushed, shadowed with realization. Almost like an afterthought of shock and amazement. A moment I just missed.

Nonetheless, I start to giggle, exploding into a full on laugh. But before the tears can start, I am interrupted mid cackle. Do not worry, for my plans have not yet been foiled.

"Think this is funny?" He calls from the bathroom, and I can just picture him sitting in the bathtub with his legs and arms sticking out and his face twisted in annoyance. He looks like a giant spider in my head.

I let out a loud chuckle, failing at covering it with a cough behind my hand. I snort even, pounding a fist into my stomach to stop the giggles. I think this is all the answer he needs.

"Want to know how it feels to get tackled for real?" He challenges in a serious voice, my urge to laugh getting stronger.

The giggles bubble up inside of me, fizzing and sizzling. They hiccup into my throat, and from then on they can not be stopped. Like a champaign bottle my cork is popped, and I swear you can visibly see the wave lengths of my laughing hit the air. And they hit hard because in seconds tsunamis of chuckling flood out of me in an uncontrollable manner. I'm surprised I have not been knocked down and reduced to just my laughing box.