Dolce (Love at Center Court #2)

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Yes?” Wary, I held in place, not wanting to approach.

  “Come here, please,” she said as she beckoned me.

  Taking my time, I trudged down the stairs to the front of the lecture hall as if I were walking the plank, and I sort of was. She’d probably seen me with Blane on Tuesday night, and wanted to make an issue of it.

  “Caterina, who was that boy here earlier in the week? I called the paper and they said there was no such article, so naturally I was concerned. Fortunately, I saw the two of you leave together.”

  “Um, I tripped and ran into him—”

  “Enough of that. I know who he is. Remember, I have a son on this campus. That was Blane Steele, and I want to know how he knew where to find the movie seminar.”

  “He was curious. I don’t know him well. I ran into him and it slipped out in conversation, and then he wanted all the details.” My mouth ran like verbal diarrhea, every last detail purging straight from my lips.

  “I see. And when you left, what did he say?”

  “Honestly, not much.”

  She gave me the stink eye over her readers. “Caterina, I hope you’re not falling for that boy. I know the type, and no good can come from it. Especially for a girl like you.”

  What the heck is that supposed to mean . . . a girl like me?

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Don’t get involved. I did once, and look what it got me. A son your age and no man to help, but this isn’t about me. You have brains and the power to stay on course. Stay focused, Catie. Don’t be a lamb going to slaughter. Don’t let him ruin your life.”

  “I don’t like him like that, Professor Stanwick,” I lied. “We barely know each other. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I didn’t realize we were this close.”

  She laughed, loudly and boldly. It rang throughout the now empty lecture hall. “I see everything that goes on in my class and my department. You are my business. I’m graduating future female leaders, not love-struck temptresses who date jocks.”

  “Um . . .” Stunned, I lost my words. I couldn’t make a sentence if I tried.

  “Besides, according to my son, Steele is off the market.”

  “Yes, he certainly is. Thank you for the warning, but I’m all good.”

  “You can go now, but know I’m watching, Caterina.”

  And like that, I was dismissed.

  I ran back to my room as fast as my short legs would allow, tore off my leggings and sweatshirt, pulled up my hair in a messy bun, wrapped myself in a towel, and hit the shower across the hall.

  After a quick rinse off, I padded back to my room and dressed to go to the music fest. I put on jeans and ankle boots, hoisted my boobs into a navy racer-back bra, and slipped on a layered shirt—the bottom was a black camisole covered by red lace.

  In front of my small mirror, I ran my fingers through my curls with a little bed-head solution. There was no way it was going to cooperate and lay flat, so I went for the opposite look. I dipped my finger into a few pots of eye shadow and made my eyes look smoky and sensual, and then lined them in black liner before adding a healthy dose of mascara.

  Hey, I was from New Jersey, not Kansas.

  I grew up on my mom blaring Springsteen and Bon Jovi, and I might be all about equality for women, but in my world . . . this was how women dressed. In fact, in high school, I’d secretly dreamed one of the Jonas Brothers picked me out of millions of girls who asked for any one of them to go to their prom. In reality, I went with Billy Reynolds as friends, but a girl can dream.

  Sonny might be forcing me to stay behind the scenes, but I didn’t go out much and this was the music fest. It was a big deal in the middle of central Ohio where there was nothing to do, and it was something I could legally go to and have fun. There would be a roped-off area for legal drinkers, but the main drag, College Avenue, would be closed for everyone else to enjoy the music and food.

  As a final touch, I spritzed myself with Marc Jacobs Water Perfume, a Christmas gift from Clara. Then I grabbed my backpack purse and went to meet Tess.

  As I approached her door, she stepped out in worn and ragged skinny jeans, a tight white long-sleeved T-shirt that emphasized her cleavage, an Army-green jacket left open, and high-topped Chucks. Her hair was a wild blond mane. She looked like Manhattan, which was where she came from, the Upper West Side. Her parents were new money, but she tried to look like sexy grunge.

  “Hey, girl! Look at you,” she said with pink-glossed lips.

  I touched my own lips and realized I forgot lipstick.

  “Wait! I have the perfect color for you,” Tess said without missing a beat. She opened her door and came back with a tube of fire-engine red lipstick.

  “No way!”

  “Way,” she said, grabbing my cheeks and swiping some on my mouth, coloring perfectly inside the lines.

  I peeked inside her door at the mirror and gave her a dirty look. “I look like a Robert Palmer girl from the nineties.”

  “No, you look hot. Marlboro, New Jersey, hot.”

  “That’s not the look I’m going for. I need Sonny to take me seriously, and I don’t want to be thought of as some sex symbol.” Did I?

  “You’re perfect. Let’s go.” Tess grabbed my arm and dragged me to the stairs and out the building.

  We hit the chilled air, and I considered a jacket but ditched the idea. I would warm up from moving around and dancing. And maybe I would have a drink. Surely someone would sneak me one.

  Tess rambled on about Ryan and his food-truck entrepreneurial spirit, and wasn’t he so hot?

  But I was only listening with half an ear, worried that I was having a schizophrenic break, which I knew happened to people in their late teens and early twenties. I couldn’t stop myself from exploring the possibility that I was cracking up.

  My life goal was to be the voice of women’s angst everywhere, yet here I was trotting to a music fest dressed like a sex kitten and wanting to drink, dance, and maybe get laid.

  Again, that last part I couldn’t help, what with my Jersey upbringing and all. It was in the tap water.

  But the drinking and the visions of myself dirty dancing? I’d spent the better part of the last five years offended by my mom, disgusted with my sisters, and repressed when it came to my own desires. And why? Because women like Stanwick told us as feminists we should repress our sexuality and focus on being like men.

  Who thought about sex more than men?

  Me—right now. What the fuck?

  I smiled to myself. I even swore in my thoughts. I’d bet Blane would laugh at that.

  And there I was thinking about him again, the guy I’d run away from earlier in the week.

  “Okay, there’s Ryan,” Tess said. “I gotta run. Come by later.”

  Apparently I’d missed the entire walk and conversation. We’d made it to the foot of College Avenue where it ran into the other main thoroughfare through campus, and Tess hurried over to a rainbow-painted food truck. The van looked more like the piece of crap in Scooby-Doo than a restaurant on wheels.

  I closed my eyes tightly for a moment and tried to center myself. I breathed in deeply and let out a long breath, ridding myself of anything sexual before I headed toward the radio station’s setup. Sonny was standing behind the DJ tables, earphones cockeyed on his head as he flirted with a gaggle of blond girls. All of them were hanging over the table, purring compliments and taking selfies.

  “I’m here,” I said as I sneaked up behind him.

  “Look who it is . . . my intern. Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put this one to work.”

  I glared at him. “I think it’s time you quit that, Sonny. Seriously.”

  “It’s Mr. Boots to you.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re going to respect me as a person.”

  I wasn’t sure if it was the crowd in the distance or just the comfort of the public space that gave me a backbone, but I wasn’t letting him bully me anymore.

  “What? You put
on a red ho top and grow a set?” Sonny peered up at me with blue eyes surrounded by ridiculously long lashes, which complemented his perfectly coiffed bed head. If he weren’t such a pig, he’d be cute.

  “That too. Cut it out. Now, tell me what to do since I don’t have a speaking role.”

  “Oh, I think you’re gonna get on the mic this weekend. This is too rich, this banter. But in the meantime, babe, go flaunt your bad self over by the giveaways table and entice people over. The guys are gonna go nuts for that shirt.”

  “Why don’t you put it on, babe?” I sneered.

  “A, because red isn’t my color. B, I don’t want to attract the guys. And C, you should’ve shown this fire weeks ago, girl. Stop being such a hermit and come out of your shell. I think you may have a chance.”

  Speechless, I simply stared at him for a moment.

  Holy shit. A compliment from the shock jock.

  I’d been busy for hours. The giveaway table never let up. Music blared from the stage as all the local bands got a turn to play for the audience.

  Now that night had totally fallen, Sonny was going on and on about the evening’s main act taking the stage. Dirty Soul was a local band that had gone big-time after signing a record deal with a national label. They also had a female lead singer who played the electric violin, Carrie Stanford.

  I liked them, and would have wanted to meet them or her. As of yesterday, I wouldn’t have asked Sonny. In my newfound assertive state, I was prepping to go over to ask when I heard a deep voice.

  “Hey, coffee girl.”

  I turned to find Ashton Denube standing alongside the table. He was wearing a dark gray Nike T-shirt, filling out every inch of cotton, and low-hanging jeans. His eyes jumped with curiosity as he waited for me to answer him.

  “Um, hi!” I said, forcing a bright smile to my face. “You want a prize or something?”

  “Nah, just saw you standing here and thought I’d come say hey.”

  “Catie,” I said, reintroducing myself and pointing at my chest like a cavewoman.

  “Right, with a C.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, with a C. So, you having fun?”

  “Nah, this isn’t really my kind of music, but the chick from Mean Beans asked me. And I’m a sucker for her. You like them?” He bumped his chin toward the stage.

  “I do.”

  “Your guy is here, getting food. I’m going to send him your way.”

  “Who?”

  “Really?” He chuckled. “Blane, silly girl.”

  “He’s not my guy.”

  “He might have this crazy bet going on, but you should’ve seen the jerk when you came on the radio. He kept shushing us all. You’re definitely his girl.”

  I shook my head but didn’t get a chance to answer.

  Ashton flashed me a peace sign and said, “Check you later, DJ girl.” He sauntered back out to the crowd, and I forgot all about asking Sonny to meet Dirty Soul.

  And what was with all the girls?

  “Catie, get over here,” Sonny bellowed, interrupting my thoughts. “Come on, I don’t have all night.”

  I held my breath all the way over to his table, fearing the worst. Dirty Soul finished a set right as I made it to Sonny’s side, and he took the mic.

  “Yo, Hafton, you having fun? Who’s pumped? You know I am. Tomorrow’s going to be another big day. The women’s basketball team is playing a preseason game. Go, Hafton Green!”

  A few boos came from the crowd.

  “I know, I know. Sonny B. agrees. Men’s ball is way more exciting, all those muscles and sweat. Have no fear, those bad boys of the hardwood will be back soon. Also, tomorrow we’ll have Pimply Teenager on the main stage at noon, and the homegrown rapper Cool Ray at nine tomorrow night.”

  Cheers sounded from the audience. Ray was hot. He’d gone to high school in Cleveland and was slowly making it huge. His videos were all over the Internet, his songs topping the charts, and he was about to go on a national tour.

  “Dirty Soul’s going to come back on tonight for all you alternative junkies, but I got a special treat first. Sweeter than a Krispy Kreme, nicer than a brand-new Lambo, meet Catie P. My girl is a sophomore who wants to take my slot and make all you guys tree-hugging hippies. Let’s hear what she has to say for herself.”

  Sonny shoved the mic in my face. “Come on, Catie, don’t be shy!”

  “Hey, Hafton!” I called out, working the crowd. “How you guys doing tonight? Sonny’s right, I’m vying for his spot. What do you think? Shouldn’t they graduate him already?”

  The crowd roared and chanted, “Graduate, Sonny!”

  I laughed into the mic and heard my voice echo off the buildings all around us. Putting a hand over my left ear to cancel the effect, I held the mic with my right.

  “What do you think? It’s time for a woman to take over the Hafton airspace. Don’t worry yourself silly, it’s not going to become a big pajama party. I’m still going to play your music and pump up your barbaric sports teams.”

  I semi-lied; I needed to keep up my persona.

  “We’re not barbarians,” they shouted back.

  “I got you,” I said and gave another of my throaty laughs into the mic before Sonny pulled it back.

  “All right, gang, kiss Catie good night. She has to get up early and study her feminism. Speaking of females, how tight is Carrie Stanford on that electric violin?”

  “Tight,” the crowd shouted back.

  “Well, she’s coming back. Dirty Soul will be back in five. In the meantime, I’m going to change it up for a moment. I got the Hills for you.”

  Covering the mic, he whispered, “Say something catchy.”

  “Until Sonny is ousted, this is Catie P.,” was what I came up with.

  Apparently, the crowd loved it. They started to chant, “Oust Sonny! Oust Sonny!”

  “Good one.”

  Sonny smirked at me before he pushed a lever to make the music louder. The sultry beat tumbled from the speakers as I made my way back to my giveaways table.

  “I thought you watched sports,” a low voice said in my ear.

  A warm hand grasped my shoulder and turned me. Standing behind me—now before me—was Blane Steele.

  At the sight of him, my heart raced, my throat tightened, and my neck was only one part of many that went damp. Clearly, another schizophrenic episode.

  “I can’t tell all my secrets,” I quipped.

  “You told me, so that must make me special,” he said, his green eyes twinkling.

  I got a good look at them and his blond eyelashes and eyebrows because he had his hair pushed back with a pink sweatband.

  “Guess I fucking walked right into that one,” I said. “You should move back a little; Sonny’s right there.”

  I gestured to the sweatband. “What’s with the pink all of a sudden? Stanwick getting you to join the class?”

  He reached out to touch my mouth, dragging his finger’s roughness along my painted lip. “You did fucking walk right into that one, and I know he’s right there. He let me back in your inner circle. And no, I’m not going to be joining Stanwick’s lectures anytime soon. It’s October. Breast cancer awareness month.”

  “Oh,” was all my jock-rattled brain could make out. I squeezed my fist, pinching myself a bit, trying to shock my brain back to reality.

  “You sounded good. Glad Sebastian gave you the mic back.”

  I averted my eyes, trying not to look at his perfect face with the delectable-looking stubble on his cheeks. I rolled my neck, which was actually stiff from staring up more than a foot to meet his eyes. But then I settled my gaze even with his chest. Although it was covered in a Nike Dry-Fit long-sleeved shirt, I could make out every ridge and plane, and my mouth was no longer dry.

  “Thanks,” I whispered to his pecs.

  Blane lifted my chin with the same rough finger that had caressed my lips.

  “Hey, you were great!”

  I shrugged and changed the subject. “Are yo
u having fun?”

  “Now I am.”

  “God, you are so cheesy sometimes. Are you having fun?” I raised my voice over the music that was blaring around us. “Don’t give me some bullshit line. Do you like the band? The food?”

  Finally, I got my nerve and my personality back. That was a short mental episode.

  “I do. I like their vibe and that chick . . . woman . . . is rocking out. The food was fair. I got the funnel cake for dessert. Now, that was a little slice of heaven that I’ll be paying for tomorrow when I’m running up and down the court at practice.”

  “That’s why I don’t play soccer anymore. Didn’t want to give up funnel cake.”

  “Soccer, huh?”

  “That was a while ago.”

  “I may have to challenge you to a goal-kicking contest.”

  “Then I may have to challenge you to a slam-dunk contest.”

  “Ha!” His shout of laughter punched me in the gut.

  Sobering, I asked, “What are we doing here,” voicing my thoughts without thinking, but was interrupted.

  “Hey, excuse me!” A guy across the table waved a ticket at me. “Can I have one of those CDs? Here’s my ticket.”

  What the hell? Couldn’t they see I was confronting a gorgeous man about why the hell he was talking to me?

  I took the guy’s ticket and handed him a CD that was complimentary for people dumb enough to buy a VIP ticket. You could hear the music anywhere.

  Blane quietly waited at the side, watching me work. I’d just turned back to confront him again when he asked, “What time are you done?”

  “What’s going on, Blane? I thought we discussed this.”

  “It’s cool. What time are you done?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to walk you back to Southern.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ll buy you a funnel cake if you say yes.” His eyes twinkled. “Mmm . . . yummy, gooey funnel cake.”

  I couldn’t resist a smile. “Yes. Now, go.”

  I went back to my job wondering how I went from brushing Blane off a few nights ago to now letting him walk me home.

  Funny what one will do for funnel cake.

  Blane

  Mo had invited us over for happy hour before the music fest. He’d opened up a full bar in his kitchen with one of the freshman team managers running it. The season wasn’t in full swing yet, and there was nothing wrong with us kicking back a bit before it got going.