Dolce (Love at Center Court #2)

by Rachel Blaufeld

  The bathroom was deserted, which came as no surprise considering it was a Thursday night. Most of the women on my floor had showered and gone on the prowl. I guess I could call them girls and not women, but being a women’s studies major, it had been drilled into me to refer to the female of our species as women.

  At the end of the day, we were still girls with a lot to learn. Look at how I’d been sucked into calling my boss, who was nothing more than another student, Mr. Boots.

  I undressed, peed, flushed, and flip-flopped toward the shower with my extra-large towel tucked tight around my body. Since I was apparently the only one home on the quiet dorm floor, I placed my phone on the shelf outside the shower and set it to play Tori Amos.

  No big surprise there, right?

  Tori’s rich voice singing melancholy tunes filled the silence while warm water sluiced over my hair and back. I didn’t bother to rush since there was no one to save warm water for, and I needed time to deal with my embarrassment and outrage.

  Of course, it was all my own doing. The absurd fiasco was entirely my fault. I was the one who insisted the fifth-year senior shock jock vouch for me.

  All I wanted was to have my own radio call-in show, one where women could pick up the phone and anonymously put out in the open what happened behind closed doors. A place where they could rage against the glass ceiling, or the ridiculousness of the government trying to decide what they could or couldn’t do with their bodies. Basically, an on-air support group.

  Maybe they were being demoralized at work?

  Like me.

  Or they didn’t feel loved by anyone.

  Sort of like me, but that isn’t essential for happiness. Or is it?

  I fantasized about SiriusXM picking up my show and broadcasting it nationwide. I did have a warm and inviting voice, or so I’d been told. That’s about the only compliment I ever received.

  I poured some cheap mango-infused shampoo—seduction in a bottle—into my palm and scrunched it through my thick curls, my only decent feature.

  “You have great hair,” my sisters would tell me. They had dainty features and long, lithe bodies, and spent their days perfecting themselves.

  “Good thing you don’t want to do TV,” Clara had told me. She’d always towered over me, and now had eight inches on my five foot three. She was my older sister and the nicer of the two, but she could be a bitch when she wanted.

  “No, I don’t want to be on TV, Clara, because that would mean the women voicing their concerns wouldn’t be anonymous. And yes, no one wants to look at fat little me for an hour,” I’d told her one day in the room we shared back home.

  She’d been posing in the mirror, turning and twisting and looking at herself in every which way, her dark hair sleek and straight, thanks to one of those crazy-expensive treatments. I’d been stretched out across my bed in lounge pants, my hair tied on top of my head, reading a romance novel stuck inside a biography. The heroines of my secret steamy novels were to be admired; they found men to love them and support them.

  I hadn’t even asked Clara’s damn opinion. I always wished I could have been the one to have my own room. Cedes, the baby, got it. She was the perfect one, Mom’s favorite, a size four even at five foot nine. She was smart too, but not “too smart.” Whatever that meant.

  Rinsing my hair, I inhaled and took stock of my situation. Why the hell was I using something advertised as seduction in a bottle?

  But more importantly, how did I get stuck working for a prick? A guy who made me so nervous, I capitulated to his ludicrous demands. I needed to drop that shit.

  Even worse, I had Clara to partially blame for my wishy-washy behavior. She’d instructed me to act more demure, like a damsel in distress. Based on her work experience, she’d said, “a little giving in” went a long way.

  Why the hell did I listen to her? For one thing, she hated me, and more importantly, I wasn’t a natural capitulator.

  Sebastian Jones might be a legend, a Twitter phenomenon as Sonny Be Knocking Boots, and my only ticket to getting my own show here at Hafton. But that didn’t mean I had to bow to him. Like Blane said, Sonny had been an intern once too. When that ass-wipe was finally gone, I planned to clean up the station. We could bring on a legitimate sports person and do some fun bits, ones not reminiscent of Howard Stern.

  Except now Blane was involved, and he was privy to what hoops Sonny was making me jump through. If any of the women in my major found out, they’d banish me. I’d be exiled from the program, the women’s studies community, and would be the laughingstock of campus—and my family—for that alone.

  If they knew I’d flirted with a jock? Ugh.

  But everyone calls me Catie?

  It had been the most flirtatious line of my life. I laughed out loud in the shower at that. I was so lame when it came to men, and that was normal men, not perfect guys like Blane who were also campus legends.

  I’d seen him play, and now I’d breathed the same air as him. Both his athleticism and sheer presence made my heart race. I knew one thing for sure—no matter how handsome I thought Blane Steele was, I wasn’t the kind of girl for him.

  Although he did seem sort of kind, the way he stopped to chat with me and asked me my name.

  Oh God. But everyone calls me Catie?

  I could just hear my sisters now. Clara and Mercedes would roll their eyes, batting their fake eyelashes and howling with laughter over what a mess I managed to make before I even finished my sophomore year. My outspoken Cuban mom, Glory, would pretend to reprimand them, but would then turn and laugh behind my back. As usual, I’d land on the doorstep of my dad, looking for warm affection and homemade Italian comfort food.

  The water began to run cold, so I turned it off and grabbed my towel before shutting down my music.

  As I walked back to my lonely single dorm room, I decided to find Blane Steele and offer him whatever he wanted—especially since he’d gone celibate—to keep the humiliating details of my internship to himself.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of this all falling apart. I had big plans, and I couldn’t fail. Plus, I needed this internship. It was part of my financial aid package.

  I could always be a coffee girl.

  Maybe Blane would take pity on this desperate shrimp, and I wouldn’t have to beg him—or bribe him—to keep his mouth shut.

  My alarm shrilled, forcing me to get up and turn it off on my dresser. I hurried to use the bathroom, washed my face, and rushed back to my closet. After pulling on a thong and leggings, motorcycle boots, and tossing a bulky, tattered, off-the-shoulder gray sweatshirt over my camisole and bra, I was ready for class.

  After all, I was the one who chased after Professor Cora Stanwick all of last year to let me into her senior lecture, An In-Depth Look at Pornography and Its Ill Effects on Women of Every Age.

  Frantic, I ran through the dining hall and grabbed a sub-par cup of coffee before racing across campus to Stanwick’s class. It was chillier this morning than I expected for this early in October, but I didn’t have time to run back for a coat.

  The witch was standing at the classroom door, waiting for the last few stragglers, when I breezed through the outside door.

  “Morning, Ms. Presto. Glad to see your begging to sit in my class isn’t a burden to you.”

  “Good morning, Professor Stanwick. I’m here, ready to go!” I replied, my half-assed attempt at being chipper, while her blue eyes narrowed at me as she used my surname.

  I’d always wondered why she wasn’t a model instead of focusing on the struggles of regular women. She was pretty enough, despite the severity of the way she dressed, but I supposed she was a bit too patrician for that. And about twenty years too old, from the looks of her.

  I breezed through the door and she pulled it shut after me, the lock clicking into place. There were no latecomers to an In-Depth Look at Porn, nor were there curiosity seekers who might want to tweet they watched porn in class. No, my classmates were women’s studies majors who
took the issues seriously.

  “Hello, class. Today will be the last lecture before the midterm, and then I plan to move forward whether you understand the material or not. Can someone summarize last week’s reading?”

  No one ever volunteered. It was like serving yourself up to be a sacrificial lamb at a sorority roast.

  “How about you, Caterina?”

  I knew she was going there. It wasn’t a Friday without Professor Stanwick testing my intelligence and patience.

  Fuck. I stood and cleared my throat, careful not to knock over my coffee as I tugged my sweatshirt down over my butt.

  “Last week, we finished our unit on using pornography to rise to stardom. We looked at the lives of Jenna Jameson and Kim Kardashian, focusing on the differences between the two women. Jenna, a full-blown adult-movie star, changed the perception of pornography for many, making them feel it’s a legitimate career. But we know it to be what it’s always been, a misogynistic attempt to keep women down.”

  Warming to the subject, I spoke with a little more confidence. “Pornography sexualizes women and does nothing to promote their inner growth. Kardashian played into reality by pretending a sex tape had been released of her, one that we speculate she made especially for that purpose and released herself. They’re two very different women, both noted for their sexuality, and cashing in on it daily.”

  Stanwick nodded and motioned for me to sit. It wasn’t in her to say “thanks” or “good job.”

  Addressing the class, she said, “If you were to pick a pornographic path—not that any of you would—would you take the Jameson route or the Kardashian one, and why? Twenty minutes. Open your composition books and start writing.”

  The sounds of paper shuffling and pens falling to the floor filled the air.

  The lone guy in the lecture piped up. “You could pretend to claim abstinence and then quietly continue to bang every chick in sight. Isn’t that what Blane Steele copped to last night on the radio?”

  I slid a little further down in my chair, silently wishing he would opt out of the course.

  “I heard that yesterday,” one of the women said. “I thought I was hearing things, but he’s a guy. He can make hollow claims or promises and get away with it.”

  “That’s enough,” Stanwick said, standing by the lectern. “I didn’t say we were discussing the patronizing ways of our student athletes or school shock jocks.” She threw her shoulders back in indignation, straightening her pants suit jacket.

  Stanwick’s following this? Interesting. I better get my work scenario straightened out.

  Finally, the room quieted as everyone hunched over their papers and wrote away.

  Blane

  I decided to skip the rest of my Friday classes. Even with my head tucked into a hooded sweatshirt, trying to stay incognito, I was still getting all kinds of attention. Unwanted attention, thanks to Sonny. The asshole.

  “Hey, Steele, whatcha doing this weekend? Crocheting?” some young wannabe jock yelled at me before howling with laughter.

  What the fuck? What the hell happened to dudes respecting me?

  Oh, right. I gave up pussy.

  Trekking across campus toward College Avenue and the serenity of my apartment, I felt Coach’s words weighing me down. Like a thousand-pound elephant, they sat on my spine, bouncing up and down, each syllable worming its way through my nervous system. Although we’d talked behind closed doors earlier that morning, I knew rumors would circulate about our conversation later in the locker room.

  “I get you were having fun with your buddy, Sonny Boots,” Coach Conley had said, pushing out Sonny’s name on an angry growl. Apparently the shock jock didn’t have as many fans as he thought.

  “But if you made a promise on the air, son, you better follow through. I don’t care how silly it is. You’re in your last year, and may I remind you—we do want to win a championship. So, there’s no room for error. I agree, I can’t babysit you punks when you’re hanging out and partying, but I will punish you if things get out of hand and negatively impact this program.”

  “I didn’t know Sonny was going to do what he did, sir,” I’d stupidly answered.

  “Well, he did, and you did something to lead him there., so now you’re one hundred percent committed, and one hundred percent focused. Think of it that way. Now, get out and go work out or something. I’m counting on you, Blane. You were my go-to man all last season, and now I’ve got to let you move up to the big dogs after this year. Give me something to remember you by. And close the door on your way out.”

  That’s all he’d said, but he was right. I owed the school a championship, and I did agree to an on-air interview with Sonny, so this was all on me.

  Shit.

  In my head, I could see it. National champions. The NBA. Parties, girls, basketball every day/all day—that would be my life for as long as I was healthy. It was floating in front of my face, and I wanted to reach out and grab it like a three-dimensional movie.

  Deep in thought, I almost didn’t hear Ashton yelling, “Dude! Where you going?”

  He was leaning out the door of the coffee shop on the edge of campus, wearing a Hafton Ball T-shirt and sweats hanging low on his hips, and AF-1’s on his feet. Pretty sure he didn’t drink coffee or tea, so I knew he must have ulterior motives for being there.

  I splowed him up—slapping his hand, then morphing into a handshake—and asked, “What the eff? You becoming an intellectual now? Hanging out in coffeehouses?”

  “Can you shut the door?” a smooth voice called out from behind the counter, and when I looked up, I knew why Ash was hanging out there. A tall, blue-eyed, blond drink of water was working the espresso machine. She was model-worthy, and just his type.

  “Oh yeah.” He smirked back toward the girl.

  Bells tinkled overhead as the door closed behind me, and I found myself being dragged toward a table.

  “Sit down, take a load off, brother. Tell me your troubles,” Ashton said.

  “Who are you? Oprah? Dr. Phil?” I slapped his shoulder. “What’s her name?” I asked him as he lifted a disposable cup of coffee.

  “Who?”

  “The blonde who has you drinking coffee all of a sudden.” I cocked my head back toward the counter and tugged off my hood.

  “Cappuccino, my good friend, made by Ava herself.”

  “Crap, could you have a bigger smile across your ugly mug?” I slapped the table this time, stifling a laugh.

  “I love when you talk ghetto, white boy, but let me tell you about this grill.” He swiped his hand in front of his pearly whites, nearly as shiny as his shaved head, and laughed loudly. “This is the money maker, my man.”

  Turning serious, he tossed his arm over my shoulders and leaned in. “You’re not letting this Sonny thing get to you, are you? We were kidding last night, you know.”

  “Nah, I know you were kidding, and it’s fine. Coach said I have to behave now.”

  He laughed again, his coffee long forgotten.

  I know he’s not a coffee drinker. Or cappuccino.

  “You’ll be discreet, that’s all. You got us to cover for you. We’re not going to let your dick shrivel up and die an early death.”

  This time I laughed, hanging my head, my whole chest rumbling. My guffaws traveled the length of the shop, disturbing everyone trying to have a quiet moment.

  “Anyway what do you think of Ava?” he asked. “For me, not you, you monk. Apparently, she’s a transfer and a hoops fan. Endless possibilities, my friend. Just like our season.”

  He rolled his eyes toward the counter, looking to see if the blonde was watching, and took another sip of his cappuccino.

  “God, this is shit,” he whispered to me, and winced as he took another swallow.

  This time I slammed my fist into the table. “Knew you weren’t going soft.”

  The little bells over the door rang again, and I looked over to find Caterina from the radio station walking in.

  “Oh shit
!” I yanked my hood back up and stared at our pale purple table as if it were the most fascinating piece of shit I’d ever seen.

  Ashton’s gaze zeroed in on Caterina as she made her way toward Ava.

  “Damn,” he said, “she’s curvy in all the right places. Wish I liked that type. I like ’em lithe and long like a tiger all stretched out, but that little girl is stacked with curves. Moby would love her. He likes ’em a little bigger; likes to grab and roll.”

  “Dude, shut the fuck up,” I barked at him.

  Some strange surge of protectiveness came over me. Yeah, I barely knew the chick, but she was all kinds of cool and spunky. I liked the way she swore and wasn’t ashamed to be her clumsy self. Fuck Sonny for backing me into a corner and making me go cold turkey on the ladies. This one was soft and supple, and had a mouth on her. Not in the way most men like to think about a mouth, but still good and sassy.

  What’s up with her acting all helpless with Sonny? I knew he was a cocksucker, but to make her call him some stupid name? And she went along with it? I couldn’t get behind that shit.

  Then there was also the tiny fact that she’d witnessed Sonny’s bullshit dare with me.

  “What?” Ashton interrupted my private rant, whipping his head around so fast I was concerned he might have whiplash. “You calling that? That’s not your type. I thought you’d be wanting to meet Ava’s roomies.”

  Calling that? As if.

  The way Caterina had challenged me at the studio proved she wasn’t the woman for me. I did kind of like it, though. No one but my mom had ever done that before. Not even my cousin Gigi, until recently when she started to harp on me about my future.

  “No fucking dibs,” I said. “What are we? A bunch of lame chicks sitting in a coffee shop?”

  I tried to distract Ashton, but knew it was a lost cause. We were seconds away from him calling attention to the oblivious woman, and then we would relive the entire throw-down with Sonny.

  Just what I wanted . . . to be mortified. Again.

  “Uh-huh, who’s the girl?” Narrowing his dark eyes, he leaned close and whispered, “Did you go and bang someone already? Not even twenty-four hours after your deal with Sonny?”