Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) (5 page)

I was familiar with several sides of him. The determined look he got when he drove the ball up the court. His boyish grin after making a basket. His freshly showered look when he left the field house—I’d caught it once or twice.

Yet in his presence, I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. In twenty-four hours, he’d played with my mind in so many ways, I couldn’t even count. The night before in the studio, I’d desperately wanted to tell him I was a fan or whatever groupies do, but I let the opportunity pass. Didn’t they carry permanent markers and ask for their boobs to be signed?

Now Blane was seated across from me and wanted to have a serious chat. Who was this guy?

And who am I? I barely recognize myself since yesterday.

“I was referring to the dare. But seriously, why do you call him Mr. Boots?” he asked, interrupting my inner dialogue and setting his water down on the table.

Shrugging, I said, “We don’t really even know each other, so it’s not something I feel like going into. It’s just that I need that internship, and Sonny has a lot of pull.”

The truth was, I needed to set a boundary with this guy, establish control, do something proactive for my mental state. Determined not to care that there was a sexy-as-fuck male across the table from me anymore, I pinched off a corner of my scone and popped it into my mouth.

“We could get to know each other. Apparently I now have a lot of time on my hands.” Blane shrugged, giving me the boyish grin I’d seen so many times from afar.

Up close, it was so much better. Brighter. Blinding. Lethal.

“As friends. Brotherly, right?” I said, tossing his words back at him.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Is that okay? I don’t know if you heard, but I’ve sworn off everything and everyone else.”

I wanted to be mean in a vicious women’s-lib way, to let him know that I wasn’t going to be some chubby replacement for his usual female conquests while he served his celibate sentence.

Instead, I replied, “It’s okay, but I really have to finish this paper. Maybe another time?”

“Cool. I’ll be seeing you, Cate,” Blane said, shortening my name in his own way, sexing it up. He winked at me as he stood up and walked away.

He probably didn’t even realize he’d added that wink. Flirting came that naturally to him.

Blane

I
t was eight o’clock Sunday morning and I was on the gun, my body covered in sweat, my arms aching from shooting jumpers. The balls flew at me in a continuous loop, one after the other, and I stroked them into the net.

“Impressive,” a deep voice shouted over the gun. “I haven’t seen you miss one yet. Looks like that vow’s doing you wonders.”

I couldn’t stop and look because I would get hit in the head with a ball, so I shouted back, “Nah, I’m just this good.”

My teammate Maurice Dawson crossed in front of me and flicked the switch, shutting the machine down. “How ’bout a little one-on-one?”

I crossed over to the bench and toweled off, grabbed my water, and took a swig while nodding. If he wanted to go toe-to-toe, that was his choice. He was going to lose this morning.

I tightened my laces while I waited for Mo to lace up his shoes. We’d been at Hafton together for three years. I’d come straight out of a pieced-together scholarship at a four-year Catholic high school, paid for using a little money from the diocese, some from the YMCA, and a bit more from my own parish.

He’d come from a year at prep school after four years at Saint Something-or-other, following in his brother’s footsteps. Now his brother coached for Brooklyn, and it was pretty much a given Mo would do something for that organization when he was done here. He was in no rush; he loved the athlete status even more than his brother had. Although Trey had been known at Hafton as a notorious womanizer and a lover of Crown Royal, he was apparently tame compared to his little bro.

Mo stood and stretched his wingspan, twisting his torso back and forth, and then bent to touch his toes. His dark skin, darker even than his reputation, wasn’t slicked with sweat yet like mine, but we’d soon take care of that.

I raised an eyebrow his way. “What are you doing in here early on a Sunday?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Not enough sex last night?”

I grabbed a ball and started gunning him chest passes. He shot the ball back to me with enough power to knock out a city.

“Nah. I got a situation.”

“Want to talk about it?”

A few passes later, he said, “Got a girl knocked up.”

I palmed the ball, stilling its movement, and looked up.

“Yep, I’m gonna be a dad. None of the other guys know, and I want to keep it on the DL during the season. I thought I’d come in here and get a little work done in the quiet. Wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

“Well, I got my own issues and couldn’t sleep either.”

“Not enough sex?” he asked with a grin, flipping my own question back at me.

“Well, there’s that, but my shot is on point, so maybe Sonny’s on to something.”

Mo snorted. “I don’t know, don’t care. That’s enough girl talk. Let’s play.”

And that’s what we did. We played for an hour, no talk, nothing. It was exactly what we both needed. Peace and quiet. Of course, Mo thought I only wanted respite from the bet with Sonny, but I knew better.

I’d been bored with the pussy parade for a while, and wasn’t sure why. Now I knew. Apparently, I enjoyed a side of brain with my women. At least, a half portion of wit and an appetizer of snark. Of course, I hadn’t sampled the lady goods that went along with my latest interest, but I imagined them to be tasty.

With growing responsibility on my shoulders, a need to look for something more meaningful felt appropriate. But Sonny had effectively clipped my balls and hung them on his studio wall, stalling any attempts at starting a relationship. At least, for the rest of the season.

Against my better judgment, I’d partied pretty hard last night, holding up the bar and crushing one drink after another. Yet when I got home, I’d spent the better part of the night unable to crash, my brain on overdrive thinking about Caterina—Cate—and what it was about her that gave me pause.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Mo shouted from the bleachers. “Wanna go to the diner?”

I nodded, tossed a hoodie over my drenched chest, lifted the hood over my damp hair, and shoved my feet into slides. We slipped out of the field house and made our way toward College Avenue. The fall air was damp and the campus still quiet; mostly everyone who was anyone was sleeping off a hangover.

Once we were seated in our usual corner of the diner, Cassie came over to take our order.

“You’re early?” Her statement came out as a question.

I gave her a chin bump and a wink. “What’s up, Cass?”

“Not much. Working a double like always, paying the bills.” She rested her hands on the table, leaning forward the slightest bit to give us a full view of her double-Ds.

Yeah, we’d had a few rounds together during my freshman year. Cassie was a ball baby, and made no secret she’d like a way out of her blue-collar life . . . and she’d like the easy way to get there.

But we weren’t a fit. She was too domineering for me; I liked to be in charge in the bedroom. She was also pretty demanding out of the bedroom, and I definitely wasn’t ready for that back then.

“No doubt you look good doing it.” Mo winked at her. “I’ll have chicken and waffles, a large milk and big water, and a fruit bowl,” he rattled off, cutting short the small talk.

“Steele?” She lifted her eyebrow when addressing me, rolling her pencil along her bottom lip.

“I’ll have the hangover special, eggs over easy, turkey bacon, and home fries. Milk and water too.”

“Okay. Be right back with your drinks.”

As soon as she’d walked away, Mo leaned forward and said, “Christ, you could bend her over this booth and do her from behind, and she wouldn’t give a good goddamn.”

“I’m not going to, so don’t get in a panic. You’ll still get your waffles.” I snagged a straw from the dispenser and pulled off the wrapper, ready for my drink. “My throat’s dry as fuck,” I muttered.

“What’d you do last night?”

“I went three rounds too many with a vodka gimlet, some fancy combination Missy was mixing at the bar. The place was lit up with smoke, someone brought a hookah—you know, I didn’t hit that. Not my thing. Got the NBA whispering to me that I got to stay clean. Fuck that, they’re haunting me in my dreams.”

“I hear you.”

Cassie brought our milk and water, then our food, and Mo and I ate in relative silence, breaking for a little hoop talk before heading back to our places.

Back in my apartment, I tried to get into a video game, but eventually passed out in my chair. I awoke sometime later to the radio blaring. Wiz Khalifa faded out, and Sonny’s voice boomed throughout my pad.

“Sonny here with your Sunday jam, helping you all get over your partied-out selves and get ready for the week. Who’s studying? Tweet me, tell me where you’re at; we’ll play you something special for being a good boy or girl! On a much more serious vibe, I’m about done with my tenure in this neck of the woods, the vast wasteland known as Ohio. I’ve got to say, I’m going to be sad to leave. That’s why I need to do two things before I go—see another NCAA title in ball, and find a replacement.”

“Fuck, this guy has got a hard-on for you,” Ashton mumbled over Sonny’s monologue.

The shock jock ramped up the drama. “Last time Sonny B. saw a ’ship was with my main man, Jamel, four years ago. But my new main guy, Blane Steele, is going to give us the gold this year. How do I know? Right here on this station, he promised his undivided attention was going to ball. No more girls, no more escapades. If you’re listening, Steele, call in and let me know how that’s going! In the meantime, I finally got an intern, listeners. A regular badass on the mic, Catie P. is here in all her throaty splendor to give you our next song.”

Ashton turned big eyes my way. “Shee-it,” he drawled out. “Sonny B. is handing his mic over to a lady?”

“Shhh. No one asked you, Denube.” I waved a hand to hush my roommate and moved to the edge of my seat.

And there she was, Cate coming over the airwaves.

“Thank you,
Sonny
.” She drew out his name, the
n
’s rolling off her tongue like it was the first time she’d said his first name, and it probably was. “Pleasure’s all mine to be here at Hafton News 96.9, but I have to say, I have some pretty big shoes to fill. Or maybe not, now that I look at them.”

Low-pitched feminine laughter came through the speakers, filling my head as she got her dig in with Sonny.

“Oh, you’re a funny girl?” Sonny shot back. “Introduce the song.”

“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.