Dolce (Love at Center Court #2)

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “She’s good. Ribbing Sonny,” Ashton said with a laugh, and I shushed him again.

  His face brightened as realization hit. “Damn! Is this the girl from the coffee place?”

  “Will you shut up, Ashton?”

  “Ha! She is.” He started doing some awful running-man imitation through the apartment.

  “Oh no,” Cate cooed into the microphone. “I insulted the god of Hafton radio, and now I’m being told to switch to music. That’s my cue, listeners. Let’s slow things down a bit tonight and take it back a decade or so with Sheryl Crow’s ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ for all of you nursing a headache.”

  Her voice faded into the soulful tune, and I wanted to rush to the station and demand Sonny put her back on for the night. Just so I could listen.

  I was allowed to do that, right? It was just listening.

  Catie

  Behind closed doors, Mr. Boots might have had me cowed, but put me on the air and I found my backbone.

  I was getting over his crap as fast as I could. I was born to talk, and talk was what I would do on the airwaves. Plus, Sonny couldn’t exactly put his obnoxious ways on display in front of his audience. So when he gave me a chance to introduce a song, I took my opportunity, making sure to get a dig in.

  “Catie, get back in here,” he called out over Sheryl’s crooning. Sounded like my small-shoe comment didn’t go over so well behind the scenes.

  “Yes, Mr. Boots?” I asked, injecting whatever I imagined Southern hospitality to sound like.

  Sonny was kicked back in the control room with his motorcycle boots propped up on the table. His headphones were slightly crooked, allowing him to free an ear, and his strawberry-blond hair was a mess.

  “The bitchiness thing,” he said, “I don’t know if I would have gone that direction the first time, but you were okay. More fire, babe. I’m giving you a real chance.” He focused his blue eyes on me, lasering in on every one of my imperfections, targeting my insecurities. “You want to be on the radio, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Then I would suggest you don’t diss me on my own show. You got me? Channel that heat elsewhere.” He half smiled.

  “Okay. I was only trying to let some of my East Coast humor show. You gave me thirty seconds to win an audience, and I really wanted to. I’m sorry.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I mentally kicked myself. Glass-ceiling lesson number one: Never apologize on the job. How many times a day did I do that with Sonny?

  He shook his head, and I had no idea what to do with that.

  What kind of modern woman apologizes or grovels to their chauvinistic boss? One who’s going to die a nasty death, that’s who. I crossed my fingers in an effort to ward off lightning striking me down, or falling dead of a heart attack.

  Sonny waved a hand, dismissing me. “You’re done on the air for the night. Go stack those CDs in the back for next week. They’re prizes for the concert out on College Avenue. In fact, you can be in charge of handing them out.”

  Despite my Cuban and Italian genes roaring at me from deep in my cells, I swallowed my Jersey attitude and attempted to be polite to a man who didn’t deserve it.

  “I’m happy to do it, but honestly, I don’t know how you’re ever going to find a replacement if you don’t let them get to know the audience. And I say that in the most respectful way.”

  Sonny narrowed his eyes, studying me. He knew he had me by the lady balls. There was nowhere else to do an internship in this crappy small town during the school year. When I’d told him my aspirations like a fool during our initial job interview, I could see the realization hit him. He could make me do whatever he wanted. Or at least, he thought so.

  “Maybe I’ll fail a class and be short a few credits.” He gave me a mean smirk. “Then I won’t need a replacement.”

  They’re right. Apologizing gets you nowhere.

  Stuck in the closet stacking CDs, I cursed to myself as sweat trickled down my back. Jesus C., why did the heating vent have to be in the closet? It was about a thousand degrees in the tiny box, and the door refused to stay open and allow fresh air inside.

  I tore off my sweatshirt. Left to my own devices in a tank top and leggings, I tossed the stupid plastic cases into piles organized by local artists.

  Maybe I would get strep or chicken pox, or a million lice crawling around my massive head of hair, and not be able to go to the Hafton Music Fest. I’d been looking forward to it, but now thanks to my stupidity and inability to follow rules, I’d be stuck behind a table and not onstage spinning tunes.

  This was the exact kind of thing Clara had warned me about. Of course, she’d hidden behind good intentions. No doubt, she’d meant to ruin my plans. “Catie, if you act all aggressive and barracuda, they’re going to stick you in the corner. Act demure and appreciative.”

  Bitch. She’d set me up for failure, and now I was clawing my way out like a cat in heat stuck in the gutter. I stomped my foot just thinking about it, and a pile of CDs came toppling down on my arm. I stomped again.

  A knock sounded on the door, followed by a muffled, “You okay in there?”

  I yelled back, “Yeah,” and went back to stacking and organizing.

  There was another knock.

  I was in no mood for more Sonny Boots and his dictatorship. “What?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I grabbed the handle and flung the door open, nearly knocking myself over. Standing tall above me was a mirage—one that resembled Blane Steele holding a bakery bag.

  Stunned, I blinked hard, trying to be sure I was awake, but had no idea what to say.

  He smirked down at me. “Hey.”

  “Um, hi. What are you doing here?”

  A bead of sweat trickled down my spine. I tamped down the urge to sniff my pits and quickly wrapped my arms around myself, remembering I was practically naked.

  “I heard your big moment,” he said. “You were good. Funny, I mean. I would have liked to hear more.”

  His blond hair flopped over his eyebrows, skimming his eyelashes, and I wondered how he saw clearly when he played ball. Then I remembered he always wore a dark green sweatband. In fact, there were rumors he didn’t wash it as long as the team was winning, one of those sports superstition things. All of a sudden, I wanted one to keep.

  Oh God! Gross.

  Wait a minute . . . Blane Steele thought I was funny. He heard me on the air tonight!

  “Um, thank you?”

  Blane stood there wedged sideways between the door and me as the bright lights from the hallway flooded the dark space, highlighting all of his perfections.

  And my imperfections.

  I snatched my sweatshirt and pulled it over my head, tugging it down hard to cover my butt.

  “I don’t know. You sounded like you were having fun, and I wanted to congratulate you.” He held the bag up in the air and waved it from side to side. “Ashton went back to Mean Beans, so I tagged along to grab you a scone like you had the other day. A celebratory scone, I guess you could say.”

  “That was thoughtful,” I said, wary. “Is that what you usually deliver to all the ladies?”

  I didn’t know what the hell to say. Standing before me was one of Hafton’s most notorious man-whores, fumbling over his words and bringing me scones. Clearly, he could see I didn’t need any more scones. My mom would insist I say I wasn’t hungry, pretend to be stuffed even if I hadn’t eaten all afternoon.

  “It wasn’t really thoughtful, more selfish. I wanted to see you, since we’re friends and all, and I didn’t know how to reach you. So the scone is more like a bribe or an incentive.”

  He flashed me a smirk, sly and full of raw sex, drawing my attention to his lips. They were perfect, very masculine, and not really pink or red but somewhere in between. Stubble lined his jaw, all blond and scruffy, framing his mouth.

  He wanted to see me?

  My eyes traveled his face until they met his. Crisp and clear green pools of cocky sp
eculation stared back at me, and I was pretty sure my panties disintegrated. I quickly stared at the floor, expecting to see a pool at my feet, gushing from my girlie parts—which were most certainly not into all my women’s lib and what-not.

  “Well, it was good you had your best interests in mind.”

  “And yours. When’s Sonny putting you back on the radio? Do you have time for a quick break?”

  I cleared my throat and turned to resume slapping the CDs back into a neat pile. “I don’t know, definitely not tonight. But I have to finish this, so I think a break is out.” I waved my hand over the disorganized mess next to me, and tried not to pout like a lovesick sorority girl.

  “What’s this you’re doing? Seems a bit below your pay grade.” He leaned one arm against the doorjamb, flexing his bicep against the sleeve of his T-shirt. His eyes crinkled in what appeared to be sincerity.

  “This is part of what I’m supposed to do. I’m getting these ready for the music fest, where I’ll be grounded.” The last part came out on a mumbled whisper, more for me than my present company.

  “What did you say? Grounded?”

  I’d never felt smaller, and it wasn’t just because of his six-foot plus frame looming over my five feet three inches. “I shouldn’t have made that joke insulting Sonny. He gave me a chance and I fucked it up—messed it up. Excuse my language.”

  “You were being funny. I ate it up, as I’m sure everyone else listening did. He’s being a prick. You need to go talk with him. And for the record, I’ve heard the word fuck before.”

  This time he smiled big, showing his dimples, and the combination made my traitorous nipples harden.

  Lock it down, Catie.

  “You want me to say something to him, Cate?”

  Cate. His nickname for me was sophisticated and sexy. I’d always been cute Catie or cuddly Caterina.

  “No, don’t,” I blurted. “It will just make it worse.”

  “Okay, but you should.”

  I felt myself biting down on my lip, trying to keep from smiling. Someone wanted to stick up for me, wanted me to stick up for myself. It was a heady feeling, and one I’d never experienced before.

  Hoping I wasn’t glowing at his attention, I said, “I have to get back to this shit.”

  Blane laughed. “I love the way you swear. You may be tiny, but your mouth is mighty.”

  He tossed the bag in the air, and I caught it.

  “Don’t forget to give that mouth some sustenance,” he called out as he moved his foot from the door and walked away.

  “Thanks,” I called back, hoping my voice carried out the closing door.

  I sank to the floor, holding a hand to my chest as I blew out a long breath.

  “What was that all about?” I whispered to myself.

  Lord if I know.

  Blane

  I wasn’t sure what compelled me to pop in and visit Cate at work—or why I gave her a nickname. Her name was Caterina, not Cate.

  As I ran the track around the football stadium, my hair flopped into my eyes again. I cursed as I ran my hand through it, shoving it back before wiping the sweat from my forehead. Where the heck was my sweatband?

  It was Tuesday, and it was a miracle I’d made it all of five whole days of celibacy without pulling my dick straight off my body from all the jacking off.

  As I pumped my arms and my feet slapped a rhythm around the track, my mind kept wandering to Cate. Something about that chick challenged me, and I liked it. Maybe it was the whole not-getting-laid mandate. Forbidden fruit and all that.

  At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

  I slowed my pace as I rounded the track so I could bring my shirt up to wipe my face, and spotted one of my football buddies coming from the tunnel.

  “If it isn’t the Stealer!” Toots hollered. “What are you doing? Working off some sexual tension?” He headed my way as I stopped to cool down.

  Toots was a senior and was Hafton’s second-string quarterback. His arm wasn’t good enough to get him into the NFL, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He loved football and the benefits that came with it, especially since he wasn’t all that good-looking. But football wasn’t his life. He was majoring in accounting and enjoying having a beautiful woman, despite his pockmarked face.

  “Is my sex life all anyone can talk about?” I leaned over my knees and tried to breathe through my nose.

  “Nah. That’s mine. The ladies can’t seem to stop talking about me and my shlong.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Toots. We all know you’re a one-woman guy. Berit would have your balls on a skewer if she knew you talked like that.”

  Toots laughed and brushed back his shaggy brown hair. “Seriously, what’s up? What’re you doing in my neck of the woods?”

  I stood up straight, breathing deeply. “Got a lot on my mind. Whole place is talking about the ’ship. I know we’re a team, but I’m feeling a lot of pressure to carry the load. Plus, I got the added bullshit of whether to enter the draft.”

  “I hear you, man. But you’ve got what a lot of us will never see. A future doing what you love.”

  I nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know. One week, you feel like you’re an invincible college dude, and the next, you’re an adult. And fucking Sonny took away my one stress reliever, the little shit.” I laughed out the last part, trying to lighten up the conversation.

  Toots shook his head. “You’re the one who’s dumb enough to be friends with him. You know he always pushes the limits. He’s a cock-blocking shock jock.”

  “Cock-blocking shock jock. Try saying that three times fast!” My laughter ripped through the empty stadium, echoing off the bleachers. “Think he can he put that on his résumé?”

  Toots laughed with me, his large frame shaking.

  I slapped him on the back and said, “I’m outta here. Catch you soon.”

  Toots headed in the other direction to start his run as I jogged out the side entrance and down the hill to the field house. Coach would tear me a new one if I was late to work out.

  I left the field house a couple of hours later, my hair still damp from the shower, dripping a little on my Hafton sweatshirt. My phone buzzed, and I slid my hand into my back pocket to pull out my phone, curious as to who the hell was bothering me.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “How you doing?”

  “I’m good, baby. How are you?” A rustling came over the line, and her voice muffled a little as if she was speaking away from the phone. “Slow down, Rocky!”

  “What are you doing, Mom?”

  “I’m walking the dogs, and Rocky is chasing after some pretty piece of Rottweiler. Rocky!” My mom kept shouting the dog’s name, and I was forced to hold the phone away from my ear.

  “Mom? You should call me later and free up your hands.”

  “Nah, don’t be silly. I got one of those earpiece thingies, and I’m hands-free. I just turned to walk in the other direction, and Rocky’s not distracted anymore. The little guys are easy, doing their thing, so I’m all yours.”

  My mom was a bit of a kook. Dad walked out on us years ago, and since then she’d spent her time writing romance novels and adopting dogs. She was definitely not your typical stay-at-home mom with milk and cookies on the table, but I loved her.

  She’d put her life on hold when she found she was pregnant with me, married my dad, who she never really loved, and tried to make a life in a trailer park. When that failed, she picked up the pieces and raised me as a single mom, making ends meet with her writing and a full-time job in a coffee joint.

  “You doing okay, Mom?”

  “I’m good. I took in this cat until he gets adopted. He’s a diabetic so it’s tricky, but the Yorkies like him, and Rocky is managing. Oh! I forgot to tell you, my last book went to the top of Amazon’s charts. Not bad for a high school graduate.”

  “That’s great, Mom. But do you really need a diabetic cat? Don’t you think you have enough on your plate?”

  “It’s one little kitty.
The animal league gives me his medicine, so hush up, Blane. Are you ready for your season?”

  “Yeah. I’m ready.”

  “I’m proud of you, son. You didn’t have to stay in school, could’ve left for the major leagues early, but you’re sticking it out.”

  “Mom, it’s the NBA, and I’m going pro after this season. I’ll be good and employable when my professional career ends. I’m a few credits shy of graduating, and I’m wrapping them all up.”

  “Blane, honey, I don’t care if you drive trucks like your asshole father. I just want to know you’re happy. I don’t like your future being unknown. Gigi says those agents really take advantage of some guys, so you need to get someone good when you’re ready. I want to make sure your father isn’t advising you, honey.” Her breathing puffed into the phone, and I could hear the dogs yapping in the background.

  “Don’t start with Dad. He did the best he could too. And what the heck does Gigi know? She’s a waitress.”

  I wasn’t just saying that; my dad did do the best he could. Yes, he was a commercial trucker and spent most of his nights in the cab of his rig after fucking some cheap broad, but he loved me.

  “I know; I’m not getting into it about your dad. And Gigi is a waitress down by U of Jacksonville, so she hears things. By the way, is your dad coming up to see you play?”

  The way we were bouncing from subject to subject, family member to family member, was giving me a headache. I would rather have gone back to discussing the diabetic cat.

  “Yeah, he took some routes up this way so he could stop and see a few home games. And you know he’ll be at the Xavier game, up here before the holidays? The same one you’ll be at, so keep the peace.”

  Those two could go at it when given the chance. Unfortunately, it usually ended up in post-divorce make-up sex and another round of bickering, so I tried to keep them separate when I could.

  “I know. I wouldn’t miss it . . . seeing my boy play on the hardwood. Never, sweetie. Hey, Rocky!”

  “Listen, Mom, go walk the dogs. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “All right, sweetie. Love you.”