Dolce (Love at Center Court #2)

by Rachel Blaufeld

  This made me think of Sarina. I pulled my phone from my pocket and found a text waiting from her. It said Call me, and so I did.

  “Ri,” I said when she picked up the phone.

  “Oh, honey . . .”

  “Tell me what’s happening.” I spoke into the receiver with my head resting on Shelby’s chest.

  Apparently, rumors about my story had broken on the evening news.

  “The news said it was an anonymous source, and they were pretty vague about your identity. They only said, Hafton student believed to be moonlighting as porn star Ariel Stone.”

  She explained that Frank had shut the studio down for the night as a precaution. “Lots of people fishing around for details but not finding much.”

  I sighed. There were no words.

  “Frank saw it first and called me. I looked it up on the web, and he saw it correctly. There was no mention of your real name, but Brittany is crazed right now. She’s ready to start a whole movement. She wants justice for all the women who pay their bills doing this,” Sarina went on. “She’s not going to let this go.”

  “Well, I’m going to finish the project and self-pub the exposé, but first I have to go back to my place and try to make my transfer happen.”

  “Aw, babe, I don’t want you to leave.”

  “The sooner I get the hell out of here, the better. I can’t show my face around Hafton now that I’m outed, and after I publish my research, the program will never let me back in. This small town may as well be dead to me. I gotta go now, but I’ll call you in the morning,” I told her.

  I disconnected the call and then rolled over to kiss Shelby on the cheek, telling her I had to go.

  It was dark as I slipped out the back door into the night. I took an unmarked service road to the edge of College Avenue and walked all the way home with my beret pulled low and my coat collar pulled high. Inside my apartment, I undressed and slipped on big sweats and a Hafton T-shirt, and then turned on my laptop with the intention of googling Ariel Stone to see just how bad it was.

  But first, I looked up the score of the Hafton game. We were down ten at the half.

  I glared up at the ceiling of my empty apartment. This was all on me.

  “Fuck,” I screamed at the walls, fisting my hand and punching the mattress.

  Their loss, Blane’s pain, Sarina’s inability to work tonight . . . all on me.

  After reading speculation in articles and blog posts with titles like “Who really is Ariel Stone?” and “Why would a college student do this?” and “It’s Cute Catie,” I curled up into a ball and cried myself to sleep, tangled up in sheets that smelled like Blane.

  The revelation of my identity came from Johnny, Sonny’s intern who followed me. Apparently, he had an informant at the station as well as an ax to grind with both Sonny and me. When he found out Sonny uncovered something salacious, he went to work to steal his thunder.

  It didn’t matter now. It was all out there, and I was ruined.

  Over the next few days, I kept a low profile. Very low. The school told me to take a few days off from my classes, so they could deal with the media storm raining down on campus. My Italian professor called to see if I was okay, and asked if she could bring me a cappuccino or scone. She seemed almost empathetic to my plight, but I turned her down.

  I’d involved enough people who didn’t deserve this. She definitely did not.

  On Saturday, Sarina sneaked in via the fire escape of my building wearing one of Chantae’s scarves and carrying food from the diner. I could barely swallow the soup; the diner’s label on the lid was a painful reminder of Blane.

  I shouldn’t complain. I’d had a few months of fun, a few moments of extreme bliss, and certainly enough memories to die happy. Not everyone lived out every second of his or her lives smothered in happiness. Why should I believe I would?

  On Monday, Mo called me; apparently he’d stolen my digits from Blane’s phone.

  “Seriously, you got to talk to my boy,” he pleaded with me.

  “You’re winning, and he doesn’t need me,” I said.

  “See? You still care.”

  “Mo, thanks for calling. I have to go.”

  After I hung up, I changed my phone number for the second time this trimester, which meant I didn’t receive Blane’s texts anymore. He’d been sending them consistently. Mostly they said, “Can we talk?” or “The ball is in your court, you have the power here. But come on, Cate.” Another one said, “Please? Let’s talk. I miss you.”

  Now his name didn’t flash across my screen anymore, and all that was left was the memory of his touch, the burn of his name tattooed on my skin, and the scent of him that I believed lingered in my apartment.

  I cried over the missing texts, at the thought of not ever knowing if Mo’s girlfriend had had his baby yet. I wouldn’t know if he had a girl or boy, or what they named the baby.

  Tears came and went hourly.

  Sarina came back and held me daily.

  Brittany became a fixture at my place, ranting and raving, listening to rough draft after rough draft of my book without complaint, and making turkey sandwiches.

  One night after she’d done a shift with Frank, she popped over to my place with pillow and homework in hand. We lay side by side in my bed while Britt stroked my hair, curling it behind my ear as we talked about our dreams.

  “Frank says he got every last frame of you off the Internet. Cost him a mint, but worth it, ’cause he knows what you’re doing for us.”

  “It’s just a book,” I said. “One book.”

  “Babe, you’re leaving this school and this state with a scarlet letter on you because of us. I know what you’re going to do at the next stop—more of this do-gooder shit for the porn stars. You got that dreamy look in your eyes. I can see it; you’re not done.”

  When I said her name, it came out on a choke and a sob.

  Brittany let out a little huff. “Don’t get all pansy on me. I’m gonna do my movies and graduate with honors. Go to law school, and take on civil liberties and crap. Your girl Shelby has me all kinds of wound up now. We may go to law school together. And then you and me are going to do some big project together. You’ll interview me on TV.”

  I kissed her cheek and snuggled against her chest. We fell asleep like I’d dreamed about sleeping with my blood sisters for years.

  Catie

  Over the next few weeks, the only times I ventured in or out of my building, I had to force my way through a barrage of media people camped outside. “No comment,” were about the only words I muttered as I gathered the rest of the research I needed, and the media’s reaction was now a crucial part of the package.

  After the phone change, I’d had zero contact with Blane or anyone on the team. Begrudgingly, I gave my mom and sisters my new number, but they only used it to berate me or rub my nose in shit.

  “Told you, you’d make a mess,” Clara had said, her tone condescending and indignant.

  And if my mom could spit through the phone, she would have.

  My dad—my rock—had taken a gentle approach. He told me to call when I was ready or needed him.

  The school allowed me to finish up the credits I’d paid for, but I did appear before a judicial board, who decided this would be my last trimester at Hafton. Apparently my conduct had broken some type of ethics clause, but not because it was pornography. I’d argued freedom of speech and expression, and they had conceded on that issue.

  No, I was being tossed out on my butt because they believed I’d done pornos with “malicious intent” and to “deceive the women’s studies program.” The judicial board didn’t take too kindly to my “personal crusade to go against Professor Stanwick.”

  Fuck ’em.

  Coach Conley made a statement to the school paper. “Yes, Ms. Presto is a fan of the team and was friends with several members, but we had no prior knowledge of her illicit activities.”

  Professor Stanwick commented in an article in USA TODAY. �
�She was a student in our program, but not of the caliber we’ve come to expect at Hafton. She was released when she went on this rogue and illicit mission.”

  Shelby was quoted in the local paper as a character witness. “I was with Caterina when the news broke. She’s a good woman who wants to defend the rights and actions of other women.”

  As the season rolled on, Hafton continued to win. But Blane was questioned at almost every press conference about the nature of our relationship. The questions always went something like this:

  “Mr. Steele, what do you think of the illicit actions of Caterina Presto, a.k.a. Ariel Stone? You were seen with her several times before it broke. Did you know? Were you a part of that world?”

  There was one word synonymous with my name these days. Illicit. My actions and I were illicit, dubious, dirty, and disgusting.

  I didn’t dare show my face inside the field house, even sneaking around. My phone pinged with an alarm every time the guys stormed the court, and I caught every game on the Internet. I was lucky Hafton streamed the games for students who weren’t lucky enough to get seats in the student section.

  Toward the end of February, I sat alone in my studio apartment and watched the team clinch the conference title on national TV. They’d been favored, going into the game with a twenty-five and three record. It was the best record in Hafton history, even better than when Tiberius Jones and Jamel Lincoln were on the team.

  I knew because I’d looked those guys up during one of my sad-sack pity fests.

  Blane was at the top of his game after that one dreadful loss, constantly moving the ball down the court toward the basket, his sweatband atop his head and his steps sure, like a lion chasing its prey. The other two losses came after Mo and Demetri found themselves in foul trouble and were seated on the bench.

  But nothing stopped them tonight as they conquered the conference, not even my tarnished reputation. As I watched Blane sink a three and run back on defense, high-fiving his teammate, I knew—just knew—I’d done the right thing.

  Blane

  After we won the nationally televised conference on the road in front of our biggest audience ever, Conley gave up on quieting us down and hustled us out of the gymnasium. ESPN was waiting in the locker room when we filed in, so we gave TV interviews for what felt like hours.

  When the reporters left, we slapped each other on the back and celebrated.

  “Your dunk, my man, is sure to be top ten tomorrow,” Mo screamed in my ear. “That shit was insane, the way you went over that dick’s head!”

  I managed a smile. Okay, more than a smile; I was damn fucking proud. We were over halfway to my dream . . . all of our dreams. The championship was staring us in the face. The league was going to come hard for me, and then I’d be able to buy my mom a house like I’d always wanted. I’d be living my life the way Cate had predicted. It was all fucking coming true, just like she’d wished for me when she set me free.

  “That alley-oop was no joke either, brother,” I hollered back to my roommate. “Wouldn’t be surprised if your move beat me out on the list, Ash.”

  He deserved the good juju after living with me for the last few weeks. To say I’d been a prick was putting it mildly.

  Yeah, I was more driven than ever to win this fucking title, but not because I wanted the fame and fortune. I wanted to control my fucking destiny and go get my girl. Yeah, she’d cut ties and thought I’d easily accept all that. Little did she know, I was letting her have her way and watching her do her thing from afar.

  She was demolishing common thought around here, and I smiled just thinking about it. I laughed to myself. She’d thought she was so cunning and smart, breaking free. We’d only been intimate a handful of times, but Cate and I were friends. Maybe even the best of friends, before the sex.

  She’d grown on me quickly with her sassy mouth and cute ass. I missed our banter the most, and I had a few tricks up my sleeve. The shrimp thought she’d outsmarted me.

  Nope. Not even close.

  The guys made on like I was ridiculous not to use the “hall pass” Cate had given me. Alex moaned about it all the time. I didn’t know why he was so worried about my sex life; he wasn’t attached and could have as many ball babies as he wanted.

  Mo whined that he wanted one pass before becoming a dad, and then he’d whisper in my ear he was lying. “On my soul, Steele, this baby, that woman, best thing ever. But I got to keep my rep,” he’d murmur.

  “Fucking did it, yes!” Mo shouted, bringing me out of my stupor and back to the present.

  “Where’s the party when we get back?” Alex called through the locker room as he pulled on his boots.

  “Heard Sonny wants in,” Ashton said.

  “No,” I said, raising my voice over the din.

  It was one word, but firm. The guys knew one thing to be true—Sonny was dead to me. He could have controlled some of the burn, corralled his urge to spread the gossip. He could have stopped the dumb fucking intern, but he didn’t.

  “We know, bro,” Ashton said. “No Sonny. Party’s at Alex’s, and D got some heavy hitters to make sure he doesn’t make his way in.”

  Coach walked in and raised his hands to stop the chitchat. “Enough party talk, gentlemen. We now have a tournament to win. So get your heads outta your asses and get on the bus.”

  We all nodded but grinned as we shuffled out to the bus in the dark night. There was no way we weren’t having a party.

  Then we were going to win the whole fucking shebang, and I was going after my lady. After all, I wore her name on my body and she wore mine. As far as I was concerned, she was ruined for any other man.

  Catie

  Mid March

  The game was over and my hands still shook. Adrenaline and pride flowed through my veins, making my whole body tingle.

  Hafton won the championship!

  I’d only been a part of it for a short while, on the far periphery of the world these guys lived in, yet I couldn’t help but cherish the moment. My guys did it.

  The New York-based arena was a sea of dark green and white. Fans swarmed onto the court afterward, cheering for the players hefting a trophy over their heads. I’d watched from the nosebleed section, staring down at the hardwood from so far up, my guys in green had looked like tiny action figures moving the ball up and down the court.

  Stupidly, I’d traveled home to New Jersey the day before, licking my wounds and under the guise of wanting to check on my dad—when I only wanted a hug from him—before heading to my new school. I should have gone straight there as soon as the trimester ended but I didn’t, making all kinds of stupid excuses.

  I could lie to myself all I wanted, but the truth was I still liked Blane. I wanted to see him happy and successful. It couldn’t be with me, but maybe I’d catch him making out with a ball baby. Perhaps seeing him move on with my own eyes would finally shut my fucking head up.

  Earlier this morning, fully ashamed with myself for making excuses, I boarded the train to New York City. As I’d walked to the subway and then the thirteen blocks to the Garden, anticipation had begun to pump through my veins.

  My guys were going to do this.

  Filing into the arena, deep in thought as usual, I’d bumped into the guy in front of me and prayed he didn’t turn around. Muttering, “Sorry,” I pushed forward with my head down.

  I tried not to catch anyone’s eye as thousands of us filed in, opened our bags for inspection, and showed our tickets. I hoped my few moments of fame in the Midwest were sandwiched between more salacious news back east. Just in case, I had a baseball cap pulled low over my forehead, my eyes painted a smoky gray, sheer pink lipstick glossing my lips, and a nondescript dark green shirt covering my tattoo.

  Like I expected, my team had done it. Now they were celebrating down below, and I was a lone bystander in the distance. They weren’t my guys anymore. I’d done a bang-up job of making sure of that.

  It had been all on me, a phrase I’d become all too fami
liar with.

  But I’d owed Sarina, and I still did. She and the other girls had put their lives on hold for me, shared their secrets with me knowing I was using them for my own personal redemption, and had my back when shit went down. While my personal life crumbled and I lost any chance with the first guy who called us a thing, those ladies held my hand and rubbed my back. Shelby and Tess too.

  I would miss them . . . a lot. Despite their pleas for me to stay in Hafton, I was leaving. I’d been asked to join two other women’s studies programs. One offer was from a school with a strong communications department where I could double major.

  My dream career was right there, swimming in front of my eyes like a mirage in the desert. I had to take it and leave the women I’d started to call family. They were part of the reason I so quickly accepted; they needed to be rid of me.

  Fuck, I need to be rid of me.

  Now—just like that—all the waiting was over. Blane had led the team to a national championship and was on his way to the league; I was sure of it. Agents would be waiting for him outside the locker room and calling his phone nonstop. Coach Conley had kept slapping him on the back after the game and whispering in his ear—at least from what I could make out through squinty eyes.

  I was certain they were off to party, and I was ready to go home.

  Alone.

  I couldn’t bring myself to leave the stadium until I saw every last person file off the court. I watched the maintenance staff run a wide soft-cloth broom over the glossy pine, scraping off confetti and streamers. One bent to pick up a few sweaty towels and folded up the chairs along the bench. I envisioned Blane, Mo, and Alex hooting in the locker room, celebrating, showering . . .

  Wait, not showering. That was a definite no-no—thinking about Blane in the shower.

  When silence finally fell on the arena, I walked slowly down the stairs to the exit, running my hand along the handrail, taking in the last few minutes and trying to soak in the win. I followed the narrow tunnel leading out to the concession area and found the escalator to the exit. The halls were mostly empty, other than a couple of stragglers sucking down the last of their beer.