Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) (13 page)

Before I could respond, he was gone.

“Oh boy! Looks like I have to get on Twitter, Haftees. While I think about that and chat with Michelle, here’s another Halloween hit for you, ‘Werewolves of London.’” I gave a wolf howl into the mic and said, “Call me!” I was turning into a regular tease or flirt, or whatever the name was these days.

Letting my breath go, I went to Michelle and wished her well. After I got her e-mail address, I flicked through a few calls. One was a potential party for my girl, and I dashed off an e-mail to her.

The call lights continued to blink, and as the song finished, I picked up another random call.

“Catie, who apparently needs a Twitter name here. Happy Halloweeen,” I said, laying it on thick. This was my chance, and I needed to grab it.

“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

S
unday 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.