Dolce (Love at Center Court #2)

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Vérité

  The Electric Tunnel Series

  Electrified

  Smoldered

  Crossroads Series

  Redemption Lane

  Absolution Road

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  Not too long ago, I wanted to quit all of this. My words weren’t coming, my head hurt, and my fingers ached.

  A fellow author told me not to do it, and shared a little of her own story to encourage me to move forward. She didn’t know me well, nor did she have any vested interest in telling me to continue. Despite that, she gave her ear willingly and her advice graciously.

  This is for you, Sarina Bowen.

  The following story is a spinoff of Vérité, but it’s not necessary for you to read it first. There are a few glimpses into characters from Vérité in this book, but this is a complete standalone story.

  Dolce is a separate angst-riddled romantic comedy set a few years in the future, after Tiberius from Vérité graduated.

  In order to make this sports story work, I had to exert some artistic license in terms of athletic seasons, as well as dates and times of college events. I also made up a college town (Hafton, Ohio), a college (Hafton State University), and team (the Fighting Green), so fans could go on cheering for their own universities and not be hindered by my story.

  Much like, Vérité, for me Dolce was about thinking, debunking stereotypes, and love.

  Thank you in advance for reading and falling in love with my ballers.

  If you haven’t met the gang in Vérité, you can do so here.

  “Who just stole my thunder across the Hafton airwaves, you ask? Right now, right this very second, listeners, I have Hafton’s one-and-only, the main man with the ball in hand, Blane Steele is in the studio. Mark my words—he’ll not only steal the ball, but your lady’s heart too. Watch out, gentlemen, the Stealer is in the house!”

  — Sonny Be Knocking Boots, Hafton Radio 96.9

  Coed antics.

  Chaos.

  Angst-ridden twists in fate.

  Caterina is an intern. Sonny is her shock-jock boss. And Blane is a good-hearted baller . . . except when he steps on the court. Between on-air dares, an evil feminist professor, a straight-shooter of a coach, and rumors from the league surrounding Steele, these three are destined to screw it all up.

  Rather than a love triangle, this is a friends-to-lovers story where the disc jockey acts as the catalyst, and a basketball player finds his life transformed when center court intersects with love.

  Blane

  October

  Sonny hit the ON AIR button and words began spewing from his mouth faster than basketballs from the automatic gun. The guy barely came up for air, and he was damn good—even though he was an obnoxious prick.

  I leaned back in my chair, waiting for my interview to start. My hair was still wet from my post-workout shower, a flimsy dark gray Hafton T-shirt stuck to my chest, and skinny sweats hung low on my waist. I flung my feet up on the table, letting the shock jock roll with it. After all, it was his show. At least, that’s what I thought.

  “Wassup, Hafton? Sonny Boots here on the radio, working for all of you around the clock, rocking some old school Beastie Boys this Thursday. Don’t you worry your pretty little heads; I’ll be mixing it up later for you barflies. I know you all will be itching to go out and get loaded. I’m pulling some funky tracks as I speak, but if you have a request, e-mail the station or tweet me at Sonny B underscore KnocknBoots. You got all that?”

  Rolling my eyes for no one to see, I grabbed the mic. “They got it, dude. And if not, it’s plastered on the big sign above the station.”

  My voice sounded a little more gravelly than usual. I must have shouted more than I thought in pickup today. Clearly, I’m not meant to be a radio announcer.

  Sonny jumped back in. “Who, you ask, just stole my thunder across the Hafton airwaves? Right now, right this very second, listeners, I have Hafton’s one-and-only, the main man with the ball in hand, Blane Steele in the studio. Mark my words, he’ll not only steal your ball, but your lady’s heart too. Watch out, gentlemen, the Stealer is in the house!”

  This got a laugh from me. Sports Illustrated had dubbed me “the Stealer” last year after my sophomore season, and the moniker stuck.

  “Steele’s a well-known predator,” he continued, “on the court and off. He’s getting ready to start his third year of eligibility, and NBA gossip has been swirling around him since the end of last year. Oh, and every lady in the house is swooning for him, especially after that breakout sophomore season. Forgive me, but why the heck didn’t you go to the big guys last year? Why are you still here in the middle of Ohio, gracing us with your glory?”

  “Yeah, I know, but credit wise I was going into my senior year. I redshirted my first year, so I wanted to finish my degree, be the first person in my family to graduate,” I mumbled into the mic. Quickly realizing I was tarnishing my bad-as-hell rep, I added, “And I like you too much, Sonny. Why would I give up another year of listening to you and your stupid antics?”

  “I’m not here to talk about your nice-boy tendencies or to flatter myself, although the compliment is welcome. Today, I have one thing on my mind, and it’s what the ladies all want too. Bad boys of ball,” he growled, lowering his voice for effect before continuing.

  “Not since Jamel Lincoln and Trey Dawson graduated has there been a basketball player with as bad a rep as Steele’s. That’s right, Haftees, right here in the flesh across from me, I got your six-foot-four, blond, always-tan-and-beautiful stud muffin.”

  A deep laugh rumbled through my chest at his introduction. Okay, so I was a bit of a ladies’ man, but why not? The girls were there for the taking, and I wasn’t about to question my luck. Although lately it was getting old, but I wasn’t about to share that little nugget with Sonny Boots.

  Leaning into the mic again, I said, “And how is that y’all would know? Didn’t Trey and Jamel graduate four years ago, Sebastian?” I spent time drawing out Sonny’s real name, my Southern drawl making an appearance.

  “Hey now, Steele, it’s Sonny to you. Sebastian’s for the ladies only. And for the record, I’m a fifth-year senior. You know that because I was working at this very station when your lanky, bony butt walked in here as a freshman, requesting some ‘good’ music. What was it you wanted to hear? The theme song from Grease?”

  “I hear you making fun of me, Sebastian,” I said with a grin.

  Truth was, Sonny had been a semi-decent friend to me since I landed in the middle of Ohio, plucked from the good life in sunny Florida. With only a smidge of a tan remaining and earbuds stuck in my ears, I’d wandered into the radio station when I first arrived, looking for someone to complain to about the shit music being played. Sonny was the intern back then, and now he was hanging on to every last vestige of college life, afraid of the real world.

  A small piece of me got it. After all, I’d decided to wait to go pro until I finished my degree. Who the fuck does that?

  “Bottom line, people, I like it here so much, I don’t want to leave.” Sonny shoved his hand through his signature unruly blond hair and playfully twirled his chair in a full circle for my benefit.

  “That’s what they all say to me,” I said, then raised my voice to a falsetto. “I like it here so much.” Returning my voice to normal, I added, “. . . when they’re in my apartment.”

  Sonny returned to the mic. “Listeners, I can see my good friend is going to torture me this evening, so let’s ask him about the upcoming season before I kick his behind out of here. He must have been with so many women, he’s starting to think like one.”
/>
  I rolled my eyes again, even though no one could see me but Sonny.

  “So, Blane, what do you say? Are we looking at a ’ship this year?”

  A nervous chuckle spilled from my mouth. The college sports analysts were predicting it, the magazines were printing it, and my coach was demanding it. Regardless, the thought of winning the national championship made my head throb and my stomach churn.

  “Well, it’s a long road to the ’ship, but if any squad can do it, I think this year’s is the one. Trey Dawson’s brother, Mo, is starting at power forward, and we got Ashton Denube and myself in the back court along with the D-man, Demetri, at center, and Alex White at small forward. It’s a formidable lineup. We have to stay focused, healthy, and on target.”

  “I forgot about my boy, Mo, also known as Moby Dick. I can say that . . . it’s like the book. So, did the coach rule out parties and girls?”

  “No, he most certainly did not,” I lied. “We’re grown men. We make our own choices, and Conley trusts our shit.”

  “You can’t say that on the air, Steele.”

  “What? The coach knows we’re not giving anything up.” I wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. He was the head coach of a squad full of hooligans and womanizers.

  “I meant s-h-i-t. You need to say crap or something else, my man. As for the coach, I’m sure babysitting all of you gets old after a while.”

  “We’re all very good boys,” I said with a wink.

  Just then, the door to the studio flung open and a short, curvy young thing with a headful of black curls swore like a sailor when she toppled over a tower of CDs and a lamp.

  “Fuck me. Sorry about that,” she muttered through clenched teeth as she righted the lamp.

  Sonny ran his hand like a knife across his neck, motioning for her to shut up.

  Apparently, he was used to thinking quickly on the air. Without missing a beat, he swung the mic in a full circle, grabbed the head, and announced, “How about we take a quick break? You know what I got for you all? The song, the one! The actual song the team is going to jam out to this year in the locker room. Turn your radios up, Hafton, because you heard it here first at WHSU 96.9, the new theme song for this year’s basketball squad.”

  He flicked his finger over a switch, and “Greased Lightning” poured out from the speakers.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Boots,” Little Miss Curves whispered.

  “What did she just call you?”

  I stared down my friend, my mind filling with a bunch of ugly scenarios. Freaking Sonny had a bad rep as it was, and here he was asking his intern to call him by some pet name? He might be my friend, but I knew his faults.

  What now? Was the sucker going to get slapped with some kind of sexual harassment charge? Could they do that in college?

  Christ, I may be a bit of a man-whore, but I don’t get off on making women jump through stupid hoops, or get hard from high-and-mighty power trips. If there’s one thing my good-for-nothing dad taught me, it’s women rule the world. The power of pussy, he called it.

  “What the heck did you just say?” Sonny asked with a wicked grin on his face, his voice dangerously low.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes, you did,” the girl said in a hushed voice from near the door. “The power of pussy.”

  “Did I just say that out loud?”

  The chick with big brown eyes and a mass of curly black hair nodded.

  “Fuck,” I muttered.

  I knew it all the way down to my size thirteen basketball shoes—Sonny wasn’t going to let me forget what I’d just said.

  The song ended and he was back on the airwaves. “Sonny B. back here, and you’re not going to believe what I learned while we took a break. Blane Steele has gone soft; he’s become a champion of women’s rights. Are you a women’s studies major, my man? Let me guess, you’re doing some sort of community service at the . . . what do you call it? Wow, I’m never at a loss for words.” He snapped his fingers, searching for the zinger he wanted.

  “Got it!” Sonny crowed as he slammed his palm onto the table in front of him, rattling the mic. “Planned Parenthood.”

  I shook my head and leaned to the mic. “Nah, I’m more of a numbers guy. You know, logistics. And of course, putting points up on the scoreboard is my calling.”

  I tried to divert Sonny with my boring major, but no such luck.

  His eyes sparkled with glee. “All right, Hafton, we want a win this year. We want to see the Stealer here and his gang holding up the trophy. We need to see them dump cold Gatorade on Coach Conley, or whatever you barbarians do, and to do that, I think Steele here needs to stay focused. And since he’s become such a champion of women’s rights, let’s see if he can go all season without any liaisons, for lack of a better word. He shouldn’t be wasting time taking advantage of innocent women.”

  “You double-dog daring me, Boots?” I spat out at the mic.

  “You know it!”

  “You’re on, Sonny B., and now I’m out of here to my monastic existence. Are we allowed to say that on the air?”

  I stood, flipped off the asshole who’d just destroyed my social life, and strode toward the door. The curvy chick opened it wide for me before I even remembered she was still standing there.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. “After you.”

  I leaned into the door frame as I propped the door open with my elbow and gestured for her to walk ahead. Avoiding my eyes, she slipped past me with a muttered thank-you.

  As the door clicked shut behind us, I said to her, “Yeah, well, a hand job may be nice, but I guess that’s out after what I promised inside there.” I tilted my head back toward the studio and laughed at my own joke.

  She turned and shot me a hard glare, her oversized sweatshirt sagging off one shoulder.

  Most other girls I knew would have been fine if I dropped trou right there and whipped my dick right the fuck out. Their hands would have been just itching to grab me. But not this one.

  “Kidding. I was kidding.” I lifted my hands in the air in surrender.

  All of a sudden, I felt ashamed of my behavior. I wasn’t that guy. Was I?

  She raised an eyebrow, making me question my character some more.

  “I’m serious. Kidding. Listen, don’t let him boss you around. Once upon a time, Sonny was an intern too. A lowly, pimply one.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her words were thick with an East Coast accent and heavy with doubt. “See you around,” she said, dismissing me at the supply closet.

  I started walking toward the exit when I stopped and shouted, “What’s your name, my fair maiden?”

  She turned, bracing the door with her shoulder. Planting her hands on her hips, she cocked one to the side.

  “Do I look like a fair maiden at the top of the tower?”

  Stunned, I shook my head. I’d never been challenged like that—ever.

  “It’s Caterina.” She turned on her heel and started to enter the closet.

  “It’s Blane. Nice to meet you, Caterina,” I hollered over my shoulder.

  “Actually, everyone calls me Catie,” she yelled back.

  Without looking back, I shook my head. Semi-sweet, foul-mouthed Catie and Mr. Sonny Fucking Boots.

  What an odd pair.

  I didn’t have time to get involved in whatever situation they had going. I had a basketball season to get ready for, and apparently, a libido to keep in check.

  Loud laughter echoed down the hall as I exited the elevator and walked toward my apartment. Coach allowed me to live off campus with two of the other starters as long as we avoided any bad press. We were typically discreet, although I suspected I’d hear about today sooner rather than later.

  “Wassup, Priest Steele?” Ashton yelled the moment I opened the door. “Looks like Demetri and me are going to be the only two getting any pussy this season!” He doubled over in fits of laughter before bolting upright and shouting, “Shit! You made me mess up my sea
son.”

  “I can win your NBA 2K season while you’re busy with all the pussy, Denube,” I tossed back, and slumped down into the leather chair opposite the couch where he and our teammate from down the hall, Alex, sat.

  “Where’s D?” I asked.

  “He had to go to the tutoring center. Coach laid into him this morning because he hasn’t shown up to his stats class all trimester.”

  “Fuck, what the hell is wrong with him?”

  “Same thing that’s wrong with you. He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch,” Alex shot back, dreads flying as his long fingers worked the game controller.

  “Slam dunk!” Ashton called out, his fist punching the air in celebration of his video game win. “Oh, I’m sorry to mention that . . . since you won’t be getting any slam dunks, my man.”

  I flipped him the bird. I was doing a lot of that today.

  “Shit, I don’t know why I even agreed to do the stupid show. I’m an idiot. Big-time,” I muttered as I made my way back to my room. I slammed the door and fell onto my bed, snatching my phone out of my pocket.

  Ninety-five notifications waited for me. Texts and tweets about my dare, and an e-mail from Coach Conley.

  Superb.

  I scrolled through Twitter.

  @HaftonFan101:

  Move along girls, @BallerSteele has sworn off s$x while on the air with @SonnyB_KnocknBoots #findanewman #Steeleisoffmarket

  @CollegeBBallFan:

  Just in: Across my feed, @BallerSteele confirms Hafton gunning for the ’ship & says no nooky allowed #Steeleisoffmarket

  @HaftonSweetiePie:

  Hey, @HaftonFan101 Hearts breaking around campus, especially mine - I thought you were mine @BallerSteele? I don’t want to #findanewman

  I switched to my text messages, and they were about the same. Then I e-mailed Coach.

  I was to report to his office first thing in the morning. Duh.

  Catie

  It was late, after midnight, but I felt grimy so I went to shower.