Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) (26 page)

Sarina made the introductions at the threshold. “Ladies, this is Ariel, also known as Cate. She’s going to vindicate us.”

I smiled at them, hoping I would do them more good than bad.

“This is Brittany.” She pointed at the young woman with bright pink lipstick wearing leggings and an oversized denim shirt, and UGGs on her feet.

“Hey.” The girl stepped in and pulled me into a hug.

“This is Chantae.”

The woman with the deep mahogany skin and a bright green scarf wrapped around her hair blew me a kiss and walked into my place.

“In the back are Mich and Tish.”

These two were obviously identical twins. It felt like double vision looking at them both in braided pigtails, skinny jeans, flannel shirts, and heavily glossed lips.

“You got any coffee?” they asked and sauntered inside.

“And this is Lisa,” Sarina said with her arm around a petite brunette with enormous boobs.

I dragged my gaze away from her impressive chest and said, “Nice to meet you.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes on me. “So, you’re the newbie taking up all my bestie’s time?”

“Umm . . .”

“Kidding, babe. Good to meet you,” she said, and pinched my arm before she slid past me.

I made coffee and poured generous mugs, passing them all around before making a second pot.

Sarina explained what I was doing with my project, and I chimed in with a little more detail while the women made themselves comfortable on my bed and floor. Their eyes were wide as they listened.

“Basically, my professor wouldn’t even hear my reasoning as to why women might actually choose to be filmed in this way. The more I thought about it, the more I felt how shortsighted she was. Anyway, for her there’s only one way to be feminist. In her eyes, if I date an athlete or feel empathy toward women who believe the best solution for them is pornography, then I’m not a feminist. But she’s wrong; for some women, it may very well be their only choice.”

A round of cheers broke out in my apartment.

“You go, girl,” Chantae called out, and the twins punched their fists into the air.

After a few hours of talking, several more pots of coffee, and more than a few tears, the women said their good-byes and filed out.

Sarina kissed me on the cheek as we stood in the doorway, and I hugged her tight.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“No, thank you.”

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun tonight with your little guy.”

Part of me didn’t want her to go. I wanted to sit on my bed and ask her about my situation with Blane. Was it serious or casual? What did she think he wanted?

And more importantly, was I being a fool?

She reached out to squeeze my arm. “Hey, babe . . . whatever’s on your mind, put it to rest. And you know, if you don’t want to make the movies, don’t. That’s the whole point of this project, right? The power of choice. A feminist is someone who exercises that power.”

“You’re pretty smart, Ri. You should write the book.” I smiled and shooed her out the door.

Leaning against the door after I closed it behind her, I realized Sarina had hit me where it hurt. I was writing about choice. Except, these women had no other choice, but me? I guess I sort of did. I was working on my education and once I had it, would be qualified for something more than the adult-film industry. At least, I thought so.

Maybe I would quit the movie-making part, and would be no worse for the wear. And if I did, maybe I could call my dad and borrow some money?

I tossed the idea around in my head while I jumped in the shower and got ready for my date, or whatever it was. Buddy time? Buddy fuck? Maybe.

There were so many maybes, but that was also part of having choices. I could choose to have fun with Blane or not.

I decided to go with what was behind Door A.

Fun.

Catie

M
y apartment had never seen so much action when my doorbell rang for the second time in one day. This time, two-hundred-plus pounds of steel stood on the other side, and it wasn’t Superman.

But close.

“Hi.”

I answered the door while shoving my arms in my coat, and then stuck a deep purple beret on my head. I was in my usual outfit—leggings, cami, off-the-shoulder sweater, hoop earrings, and lined boots. Blane looked delectable in a long-sleeved black T-shirt, worn jeans, an open leather jacket, his ever-present sweatband, and Timberlands. He only affirmed my choice to have fun.

When would I ever have the chance to do this again?

Never.

I was hard up and he was desperate. This was my only chance.

“What’s happening down there?” Blane teased.

He winked at me, and I pretended to punch him in the gut. He feigned being hurt so he could bend over, and then he tossed me over his shoulder and spun me around.

“Put me down!” I shouted. “I’m heavy.”

“Just showing you what it’s like up here. And no, you’re not heavy.” He pinched my ass and set me down. “Ready?”

“Yep, let’s blow this joint.”

When he said, “I see you’re bringing your filthy mouth along tonight,” I giggled like a schoolgirl.
Giggled!

“And I see you went all out with the sweatband tonight,” I teased him.

“Can’t take it off. No can do, lady.”

He shifted it up a notch on his head, and his eyes crinkled just a tad. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen, better than the first porn we watched. Taking a deep breath, I calmed my hormones.

We left my apartment and Blane grabbed my hand. At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Southern Gentleman held the door open and tossed his arm around me when we stepped outside.

“Shit, it’s cold!” I exclaimed.

He squeezed my shoulder. “You may have to warm this boy up later.”

Rock music came to life as soon as he started up the pickup.

“Sorry, I was jamming on my way over, getting my confidence on.”

I smirked at him. “Oh, I’m so sure you needed that.”

We drove toward College Avenue, but didn’t turn.

“Where are we going?” I asked as butterflies the size of pterodactyls flew around inside my belly.

“Geno’s.”

“Really? For Italian? I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to try.” A warm feeling that couldn’t be more girlie or gooey ran through my veins.

“Me too. It sounds pretty damn good, and I’m in season, so I can eat.”

“You know my dad owns a small Italian restaurant in New Jersey. I told you, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, and I thought this would remind you of home. I know you’re sort of a daddy’s girl.”

“Am not,” I protested with a smile.

White puffs of air formed from our breath, and I rubbed my hands to keep them warm.

“Should I turn the heat up? I had it down because the truck was cold.” Without waiting for my answer, he flicked a dial on the dash.

After a few beats of silence, I asked, “What did you do today?”

“Team meeting, light practice, watched tape, played Xbox. You know, all in a day’s work.”

“Ha! I bet.”

“And you?”

“Homework and research,” I mumbled.

“For your secret project?”

Blane was teasing me, but it only served as a reminder of how much jeopardy I was putting him in. I breathed a sigh of relief over my decision to stop filming. I crossed my right fingers near the passenger door, hoping this whole episode would pass without any detection. I could write my book as if I’d never starred in a porno.

“Yes, but you know, if I tell you, I may suddenly combust.”

“Really? We wouldn’t want that to happen.” A nearby streetlight illuminated the corner of his mouth turning up.

We finally pulled up at Geno’s. It was at the far end of town, past the agriculture school and at the bottom of a small hillside. Rumor had it that Geno grew a lot of his own vegetables and herbs right there behind the restaurant.

My dad had told me all about Geno; he was a bit of a legend. Food Network came here at least once a year, and Geno was frequently a judge on their cooking shows. A local, he’d graduated from Hafton’s ag school before he went to culinary school in Cleveland.

And then I remembered.
Oh shit, this place is pricey
.

“You sure you want to eat here?” I asked Blane as he reached to turn off the engine.

“Yeah, of course. Why not?”

“It’s pretty expensive.”

He gave me a pointed look. “I can afford it.”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. Fuck!”

“I may be blue collar, but I have some money. And guess what? Soon I’ll be making a ton of it. Ball is life, and all that.”

“But I can’t go Dutch here,” I protested.

“I have class too, Cate. I wouldn’t bring you here to go Dutch. Come on, let’s go and forget this conversation ever happened.” He got out and ran around to open my door, and we quickly entered the warmth of Geno’s.

The smell of fresh garlic and tomatoes filled my senses as soon as we walked in.

“Smells amazing,” I said.

Blane leaned in and sniffed the top of my head. “I know.”

Good thing he had his hand at my lower back, because I almost tripped over my own feet at that comment.

We were seated at a corner table near the back window where sparkly lights twinkled over Geno’s garden, now bare for the winter. Tall torches ran around the perimeter of the garden, lighting up the hillside and sending smoke into the night air. A small pink votive cast shadows on our table next to a sectioned round dish with various dips.

Our server greeted us right away. “Welcome to Geno’s. I brought warm focaccia bread for dipping. Can I get you anything to drink?”

Blane raised an eyebrow at me, and I raised one back at him as if to say,
What?

“Can you bring us a bottle of your house red?” he asked our waitress.

“Sure thing. Get started on the bread and dips, and I’ll be right back.”

When she was out of earshot, I leaned forward to speak in a low voice. “I guess they don’t card athletes.”

“It’s one of the fringe benefits.” He grabbed a piece of bread and ripped it in two before handing half of it to me. “Ladies first, and don’t be one of those
I don’t eat
type dates.”

“If you insist.” I plunged my bread into the fagioli bean dip and savored my first bite. “Mmm, this is so good.”

Blane tried it too and moaned with appreciation.

Our wine came, and I toasted to the upcoming away game. Blane toasted to what he called my 007 project. Heartburn raced up my esophagus at the mere mention of it.

We sipped our wine and dipped our bread while I smiled more than I had in my entire life. A few times, I pinched my leg under the table to make sure this was actually happening and not a dream.

He shot me a smile. “I think we’re set to take the team on the road. We’ve been playing well, and the team is really gelling. Plus, Coach banned Sonny from the locker room, so my promise to win him a championship is all but forgotten.”

“I doubt he forgot,” I reminded Blane.

“Who cares? It was worth it to be able to get to know you—”

“Stop,” I said.

“What did I do?” His fingers had been caressing my forearm, but he quickly pulled them away.

“Saying stuff like that, that I’m worth this or that.”

“You know, for some sort of macho feminist, you really don’t advocate for yourself, Cate.”

His eyes darkened with emotion, and I started to laugh.

“Jesus, what now? Didn’t you just hear me?”

I couldn’t stop laughing when the server came back, interrupting our awkward moment. Blane ordered us a brick-oven pizza and antipasto salad to share.

“Seriously, Cate, why do you do that? Put yourself down and then laugh.” His hand settled again on top of mine.

“You said
macho feminist
. It was pretty funny.” I stifled another giggle.

“And the other part? Putting yourself down?”

A tropical storm of seriousness brewed in his eyes. Dark green swirled with deep gray, and flecks of blue sparked inside the funnel cloud.

“Because you’re you, and I’m me. I guess that’s why I always sneaked into sporting events and decided to be all pro-women to begin with—I never saw myself as the cool one. I was smart and cute and sweet, but not sexy or sultry. Like the women you’re probably used to spending time with.”

I stared at the votive slanting shadows on the tablecloth, and steadied my breath. I’d never confessed something like that before, come clean about my shortcomings and how they played into my decisions. Here I was laying it all out there for Blane Steele, the campus stud, all solid muscle and gorgeous hair. He was an icon at Hafton and soon to be iconic everywhere, and I was telling him all my woes.

He squeezed my hand and I looked up. I half expected him to get up and run, but he didn’t. He sat firmly in his seat and continued to stare me down.

“Cate, there are no women I’m used to being with. Yes, I would be intimate . . . or fuck,” he said, glancing around us before whispering the last part. “But it was always just a mutual getting off, definitely not the kind of thing where we’d spend time together. For the last few years, I’ve ate, slept, and breathed ball. I need money, need to make a living doing that shit.”