Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) by Rachel Blaufeld Page B

sports,” a low voice said in my ear.
    A warm hand grasped my shoulder and turned me. Standing behind me—now before me—was Blane Steele.
    At the sight of him, my heart raced, my throat tightened, and my neck was only one part of many that went damp. Clearly, another schizophrenic episode.
    “I can’t tell all my secrets,” I quipped.
    “You told me, so that must make me special,” he said, his green eyes twinkling.
    I got a good look at them and his blond eyelashes and eyebrows because he had his hair pushed back with a pink sweatband.
    “Guess I fucking walked right into that one,” I said. “You should move back a little; Sonny’s right there.”
    I gestured to the sweatband. “What’s with the pink all of a sudden? Stanwick getting you to join the class?”
    He reached out to touch my mouth, dragging his finger’s roughness along my painted lip. “You did fucking walk right into that one, and I know he’s right there. He let me back in your inner circle. And no, I’m not going to be joining Stanwick’s lectures anytime soon. It’s October. Breast cancer awareness month.”
    “Oh,” was all my jock-rattled brain could make out. I squeezed my fist, pinching myself a bit, trying to shock my brain back to reality.
    “You sounded good. Glad Sebastian gave you the mic back.”
    I averted my eyes, trying not to look at his perfect face with the delectable-looking stubble on his cheeks. I rolled my neck, which was actually stiff from staring up more than a foot to meet his eyes. But then I settled my gaze even with his chest. Although it was covered in a Nike Dry-Fit long-sleeved shirt, I could make out every ridge and plane, and my mouth was no longer dry.
    “Thanks,” I whispered to his pecs.
    Blane lifted my chin with the same rough finger that had caressed my lips.
    “Hey, you were great!”
    I shrugged and changed the subject. “Are you having fun?”
    “Now I am.”
    “God, you are so cheesy sometimes. Are you having fun?” I raised my voice over the music that was blaring around us. “Don’t give me some bullshit line. Do you like the band? The food?”
    Finally, I got my nerve and my personality back. That was a short mental episode.
    “I do. I like their vibe and that chick . . . woman . . . is rocking out. The food was fair. I got the funnel cake for dessert. Now, that was a little slice of heaven that I’ll be paying for tomorrow when I’m running up and down the court at practice.”
    “That’s why I don’t play soccer anymore. Didn’t want to give up funnel cake.”
    “Soccer, huh?”
    “That was a while ago.”
    “I may have to challenge you to a goal-kicking contest.”
    “Then I may have to challenge you to a slam-dunk contest.”
    “Ha!” His shout of laughter punched me in the gut.
    Sobering, I asked, “What are we doing here,” voicing my thoughts without thinking, but was interrupted.
    “Hey, excuse me!” A guy across the table waved a ticket at me. “Can I have one of those CDs? Here’s my ticket.”
    What the hell? Couldn’t they see I was confronting a gorgeous man about why the hell he was talking to me?
    I took the guy’s ticket and handed him a CD that was complimentary for people dumb enough to buy a VIP ticket. You could hear the music anywhere.
    Blane quietly waited at the side, watching me work. I’d just turned back to confront him again when he asked, “What time are you done?”
    “What’s going on, Blane? I thought we discussed this.”
    “It’s cool. What time are you done?”
    “Why?”
    “Because I want to walk you back to Southern.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah. I’ll buy you a funnel cake if you say yes.” His eyes twinkled. “Mmm . . . yummy, gooey funnel cake.”
    I couldn’t resist a smile. “Yes. Now, go.”
    I went back to my job wondering how I went from brushing Blane off a few nights ago to now letting him walk me home.
    Funny what one will do for funnel cake.

Blane
    M o had invited us over for happy hour before