Dolce (Love at Center Court #2)

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “Hey.” The voice was deep and hypnotic, and I had to shake my head so hard, my earphones almost came off. I definitely needed a call screener next time I took over the show.

  “What can I do for you tonight?” Not asking for the caller’s name, I finally squeaked out a question.

  “I’m at a party by myself, no date, and I find myself missing someone I wish was here.”

  “Hmmm, I’m sure there are a lot of people at this party, other friends,” I quipped.

  “Yeah, but not one in particular.”

  “Is it a male or a female friend,” I asked my caller, pretending to be coy.

  “Definitely female.” His voice was scratchy and raw, as if he’d been yelling a lot.

  “You should reach out to her.” Christ, I banged my forehead into the mic and a loud thud echoed through the studio.

  “I am.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’m talking to her right now. Come to my party if you know who this is.”

  He rattled on but I hung up, disconnecting his call. I quickly hit PLAY on the deck and Fetty came on.

  “Who’s going to whip it nae nae tonight?” I heard myself say, announcing the song, but I didn’t register the words coming out of my own mouth.

  Slouched back in the chair, I took stock of what just happened. Blane Steele called my show and asked me to his party. At least, I thought so.

  But I couldn’t go, and I didn’t. I stayed on the air and gave out a few dozen doughnuts instead.

  And signed up for Twitter.

  @SonnyB_KnocknBoots:

  Welcome @CuteCatieP to Twitter! #Hafton #HaftonNEWS969 #happyhalloween

  @HaftonSweetiePie:

  Who was that who called @CuteCatieP tonight? I swear it was @BallerSteele #cheater #happyhalloween

  @BallerSteele:

  Happy Halloween #Hafton! Who’s ready to cheer the Green Boys to a ’ship? #dontworryaboutmylovelife

  @Hafton101:

  Rumor has it that @SonnyB_Knocknboots has gone soft and let @BallerSteele out of the bet. Maybe he’s in love? #steelenolongercelibate?

  Blane

  Sunday mornings in the field house had turned into a regular thing for Mo and me. We’d meet there around eight, bust each other up in one-on-one, and hit the gun before eating our weight at the diner.

  Sober and clearheaded, but fucked in the head all the same, I made my way to the court on the Sunday after the Halloween party. The air was chilly, and despite living for three years up north, I was cold. I tossed my hood up, pulling the strings tight, thinking maybe it would squeeze some sense into my head.

  For Christ’s sake—forgive me, Lord—I was a wanted man, and there was no need to get caught up on some little chippie.

  But there was. She might be a little sprite in stature, but she was a giant when it came to personality. And curves.

  The back door to the field house clanked shut behind me as I made my way to the locker room. Banging my palm into my locker, I threw my bag in, and grabbed a pair of my practice shoes and made my way to the couches to lace them up.

  The TV was on and the place was immaculate with its dark green wooden benches and matching leather couches. The lockers lined up along the wall with a small monitor above each one, flashing our picture and number. The place was obscene, considering I grew up in a trailer park outside Jacksonville.

  The good thing was the locker room still smelled fresh and clean with the regular season two weeks away.

  “You in here, Steele?” a grumbly, ragged voice called.

  “What the fuck, Mo?”

  I stared at my teammate and friend in disbelief. His face was a mangled mess. His eye was almost swollen shut, and if his skin wasn’t so damn dark, he would have one hell of a shiner.

  He slumped down on the couch across from me. “Demetri found out.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. What the hell? When?” I leaned forward on my knees and waited for him to answer.

  “Well, you were all pussified over the radio chick, so it must have been when you slipped out to call her. I went outside to toss some trash, and fucking D sneaked the hell up on me and gave it to me good. Then he said it was over and I better do right by his sister.”

  “She told him?” I relaxed back into the couch and made myself comfortable, not sure if we were going to play.

  Mo nodded. “That’s why my voice is all screwed, ’cause she and I got into such a screaming match. Fuck, I’m an idiot. Who the hell gets into a screaming match with a pregnant chick?”

  “Woman. I think woman may be more appropriate.”

  “Shut the fuck up with all your feminist bullshit. Sonny was right . . . you’re going soft.”

  “Listen to who’s talking,” I shot back.

  He laughed. “Don’t! It hurts when I squeeze my eye like that.”

  “Wimp.”

  “Want me to give you one? Might make you look tough to your fans.”

  “Please, I took care of Sonny. Told him he’d get an exclusive after we won the ’ship if he laid off the intern and me, let me see if there was something there. Of course, I also suggested he lighten up on her at work, and then like a fool, I accidentally mentioned it to her. So there’s no chance now.”

  Mo smirked at me and then grimaced, reaching up to gently prod at his eye. “You’re even worse than me when it comes to the ladies. Didn’t they teach you any moves down south?”

  I stood. “Shut it. I have plenty of moves; I’m just getting in touch with my Southern gentleman side.”

  He stood and twisted his torso a few times. “We gonna play?”

  “You up for it?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  We wound our way through the locker area and out to the tunnel.

  “Hey, did you make up with D’s sister? Angela, right?” I asked as we walked toward the hardwood.

  “We made up, and I’m doing the right thing.”

  I slapped him on the back. “Good boy. Now, get ready to lose.”

  We played thirty-three and then banged out three hundred shots on the gun before breaking for breakfast.

  Walking down the hill toward town, Mo said, “So that’s pretty big expectations, we got to win the ’ship for Sonny to stay on your good side.”

  “Yeah, I know. Big mistake.”

  “Hey, Hafton, I got your Fighting Green starting lineup ready to go. Let me hear you scream!”

  The announcer’s voice echoed through the field house as I jogged in place in the tunnel. It was the season’s opening night, and we were playing a cupcake of a team—for us—Central Michigan State. It was a non-conference game, and we were favored to win by a lot.

  Adrenaline and nerves rushed through my veins. I tugged at the waistband of my dark green uniform and adjusted the sweatband holding my hair back with my mind on one thing. Winning.

  “Here they come, put your hands together! At center, six-foot-ten marketing major Demetri Portacalas.”

  D-man ran out, breaking the banner, and rushed the bench with two cheerleaders shaking their ass all the way with him.

  “Coming next, another senior, Alex White, standing tall at six foot five and playing small forward. White’s a local guy and an agriculture major.”

  Alex took his place next to Demetri, both of them jumping up and bumping shoulders in midair.

  “Our main man, Mo, Maurice Dawson, a junior taking after his alumni brother, a six-foot-seven power forward.”

  Mo pumped his fist in the air and kissed both cheerleaders on the cheek before taking his place and bumping shoulders with the others.

  “In the back court, point guard Ashton Denube, another junior, six foot four and lethal with his ball handling.”

  Ash blew kisses to the crowd and flexed his arms like the showman he was, and hugged Coach. Conley hated his antics, but wouldn’t show it on the court.

  “Annnd, filling out the back court, junior logistics major and advancing the ball every game, six-foot-four Blane Steele.”


  When I ran out, a pair of ginger cheerleaders latched onto my arms and stopped me at center court. They waved their pom-poms in the air and turned me around for everyone to see before they let me on my way to bump chests with the other four guys on my team.

  The scoreboard flashed, music blared—definitely not the song from Grease Sonny had suggested before the season—and the crowd roared.

  My blood pumped hard. I lived for this moment before the ball went airborne at center court and the action would begin. This was my time, my game, my court, and my championship to win this year. I hadn’t risen from nothing not to take what was mine, and I had the best guys to do it with. I was fucking ready; bring it on, Central Michigan. My Fighting Green were hot and on point, and I was pumped to take them there.

  D-man got the tip and knocked it to Ash, who passed to me. It was an easy open shot from there. Three–zip, Hafton. We ran back on defense and when Mo blocked a shot, we were back on offense. Ashton brought the ball up, slipping it to me at center court, and from there I drove right to the hoop, finishing with a dunk.

  The hoop lit up and the student section started yelling “the Stealer,” but there wasn’t time to get distracted. I was back on defense in a hurry. We played a man-to-man defense, and no way the guy I was guarding was getting his hands on the rock.

  “Hey, Blane! Call me,” some ball baby yelled after I blocked a pass and stole the ball.

  Chants of “the Stealer” continued to echo in the field house. I tossed the rock back to Ashton, who drove down the court and sent a heated pass to Alex, who hit the backboard with it. Mo was right there waiting for the alley-oop.

  We didn’t hold the bad guys at zero, but we were up by eighteen at the half when I tossed a towel around my neck and ran toward the tunnel. Little slips of paper rained down over our heads. All phone numbers; ball babies were there for the taking.

  Like an idiot, I automatically lifted my head to flash them a smile, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a familiar curvy figure leaning against the wall in Section 108. Her hips filled her jeans, and her curls hid most of her face. Every part but the smile on her lips, a smile I wanted to kiss the fuck off.

  Like I said, I was an idiot.

  “Steele, what the fuck is he doing in here?” Coach Conley growled as I burst into the locker room.

  “Who?” I yelled back, but my question was answered when my gaze landed on Sonny’s face.

  “I don’t know what kind of antics you two shits are up to now,” Coach yelled, “but I’m not in the business of betting on girls or championships. Get the fuck out of my locker room, Sonny. I have a game to win. In fact, I have a shit-ton more to win, so don’t ever come back here again!”

  “Give me a winner, guys! See you at the after party. Peace out.” Sonny flashed two fingers as he shot through the door.

  Coach turned his furious gaze on me. “Steele, if you didn’t have twelve so far, I’d have your ass. I thought I told you to behave when it came to the fucking radio jock.”

  “Oh, he is, Coach,” Mo offered. “He told Sonny off, and the good little girl—”

  “Shut it, Mo,” I interjected before he spilled everything. “We’re not here to discuss my personal life. We’ve still got a game to win out there.”

  Coach nodded. “Right, get your heads out of your asses. We should be up by thirty. Get out there and give them a show, put some points up on the board . . .”

  He rambled on some more, spitting and swearing as he slapped his clipboard into the bench and loosened his tie. A few of us dropped trou and put on dry tights while he spoke, me being one of them. I hated wet balls. Nothing pissed me off more than crotch rot in my spandex.

  Now fresh as a daisy, I trotted back out to win a game, but not without glancing up to Section 108 and winking at the stunned little missy still leaning against the wall, one foot propped against the cement.

  Catie

  I raced to the library after the game. Actually, I had a paper for Stanwick to finish, but mostly, I wanted to avoid any contact with Blane. Watching him lead the team to victory tonight was one thing; interfering with his game was another.

  Plus, there were a million ball babies he could choose from. Blondes and redheads, tall and even taller ones, gorgeous and even more gorgeous girls. He liked me because he thought I didn’t like him back, but I was so not his type.

  I opened my laptop and clicked on the document in progress. My title was Maybe Pornography Isn’t All Bad?

  Stanwick was going to fail me. I’d decided to write a counter argument to her theories. Not because I got all hot and bothered from watching porn, but after some investigation, I realized pornography or stripping was the only way out for some women. Single moms, women trying to get out of abusive relationships, girls with druggies for parents—the system didn’t work for these young women, and working at Mickey D’s didn’t pay the bills. Taking their clothes off and having sex on camera gave them the notion they were controlling the situation and calling their own shots, and allowed them to pay the bills.

  I was in the middle of typing a chapter about the Casting Couch, an Internet show, for lack of a better word, where a very convincing man interviews women on their sexual preferences and knowledge of porn, and promises them jobs that pay upward of five thousand dollars. Of course, the dude must sample the goods before sending in the girl’s résumé (was that what they called it?), and the two ended up exchanging oral favors and having sex on camera.

  It should be noted, I wrote, I use the term “girls” in the most positive way because the young women on the couch are very much, in fact, young in age and maturity.

  However, I didn’t think the couch was one of the better outcomes of the porn industry. It was more a horrible fad, perhaps even a diss to the women making real pornography flicks.

  I was banging away at the keyboard, defending my position, when my phone dinged.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER: I saw you, closet fan.

  I smiled to no one, just my laptop and my lukewarm cup of tea. I didn’t intend to answer. I knew who it was, but I went back to my paper.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER: What are you doing? We’re having a party. You can’t keep turning your nose up at my invitations. They’re legit. And we don’t check IDs.

  I spent ten minutes trying to construct a sentence for my paper, but my concentration was broken. All I could think about was Steele in his uniform, his arms glistening from sweat as he winked at me. Finally, I swiped my finger over my phone and hit REPLY.

  CATIE: Great win! Thanks, but I can’t come tonight.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER: So you know who this is? You at a better party?

  CATIE: :) No.

  I hit CONTACTS on my phone and added this number under the rightful owner’s name, because apparently I was a masochist.

  BLANE: What are you doing? Studying? It’s Thursday; you’ve studied enough.

  CATIE: How did you get my number?

  I wasn’t going to admit I was sitting alone in the library. If I had learned one thing from Grace, it was to never come across as desperate.

  BLANE: Mr. Boots, of course.

  CATIE: Stop it.

  BLANE: You coming? Don’t make me come and find you. That’s a lot of coming separately.

  CATIE: I’m not coming. You don’t need to come alone and get me. I’m sure your party is packed with willing come-helpers.

  I banged my head into the desk. What was I doing? I didn’t know how to talk sex in real life, let alone sext.

  CATIE: Great game, though.

  BLANE: Don’t do that, Cate. Don’t shut me out. I’m coming.

  Did I answer? No.

  He wouldn’t find me.

  I certainly wasn’t falling into that trap or down that hole, or whatever they called the abyss of hot jock boys.

  I toggled the phone on IGNORE and went back to my analysis of porn with an ache a mile wide in my gut. I wanted to like boys; I really did. Despite my feminist leanings, I craved something more than the lonely exist
ence I had established for myself, but I needed to reevaluate my goals.

  I definitely didn’t need the campus player.

  With that settled, I grabbed my notepad and scratched down some notes for what I wanted to research the next day, and typed the last few sentences of the casting-couch portion of my thesis.

  My eyes were tired, and my head hurt from demanding it concentrate on the task at hand. I was taking a sip of my lukewarm tea when I felt the hair lift off my neck and a calloused hand run along my collarbone.

  “Found you,” a low voice whispered into my ear. “Told you I would come and get you.”

  I turned slowly and there he was. Green eyes, matching dark green headband keeping his hair out of his face, and low-riding worn-in Levi’s with a button fly—yes, I spent a few too many beats staring at that region. It was in my line of sight right now, after all.

  “Blane?”

  “That’s me!” He slapped my laptop closed and shoved it into my bag.

  “What if that wasn’t saved?” I hissed at him.

  “Come on, Cate. You know you’re an every-ten-seconds saver. It was saved.”

  He grabbed my bag and my almost-empty cup of tea and said, “Come on.”

  “What? No, I can’t just go with you.”

  “You can and you will.”

  He guided me out of the seat by my elbow, and I went willingly, saying “no” but showing “yes.” When I was on my feet, I wrapped my arms in front of my boobs, keeping my stance firm as I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Cate, hon, I’m not going to corrupt you. I’m not going to rape you or even take you back to the heathens occupying my apartment. Now, come on. I won tonight, and I feel like celebrating with you.”

  I raised my eyebrow even higher.

  “Not that kind of celebrate . . . G-rated celebrating.”

  I tried to stop it, but my frown had a mind of its own.

  “Come on,” he said in a wheedling tone. “It’ll be fun. Stop with all that he likes me like a buddy shit in your head. I see it running around under your big head of curls.”