Hodge could only grin like the cat that ate the canary as she toweled her face dry, made wet from the combination of sweat and some liquid that had been dumped on her when her teammates and most of the fans charged the court.

?Phe-fucking-nominal Hodge!? Kellie Wilkes, six feet of exuberant center, easily lifted the much shorter Hodges off the ground and carried her the rest of the way to the locker room.

As they burst through the door, the rest of the team and staff renewed their catcalls and cheering.

?Our hero!? Kellie yelled, spinning her friend around several times before returning her to the floor.

?Oh please,? Hodge grinned, trying to scrub the blush from her face as she waited for the world to stop spinning around her.

?Oh please is right!? Tonya Burns, power forward, stepped into the fray with a hairbrush-cum-microphone in her hand. ?So, Catherine Hodges, your last second shot at the buzzer has taken you team into the history books with an NCAA Championship. What are you gonna do next??

The small player laughed and looked at her friends standing around her. ?I?m going to Disneyland!?

The room roared with laughter as congratulations continued to circulate. Each person took their turn clapping Hodge on the back, or snapping her rear end with damp towels, to the general hilarity of all.

Though she enjoyed the adulation of her teammates, and the pure adrenaline rush that came with winning the long-coveted title, Hodge found herself wishing for a shower. She was hot, she was sweaty, and she was sticky, and as soon as she found out who had upended a jug of Gatorade over her head, there would be hell to pay.

Until that time, however, a little alone time in a nice hot shower would do the trick nicely. Managing to slip away, she headed for the showers and was soon delighting in the feel of the hot water pounding her body and loosening muscles just beginning to stiffen. Bracing herself against the wall, she dropped her head and just let the water beat her neck and shoulders.

?Oh Hodgie??

She groaned at the singsong sound of her name. Slowly she raised her head, spitting out the water flowing over her face. Opening her eyes she saw Marlie Edgars, one of the assistant coaches, grinning at her with an ?I?ve got a secret? expression.

?What?s up, Coach??

?Did you by any chance notice who was in the crowd tonight??

?I was kinda busy, Coach. You know, playing and all??

?Smart ass. C?mon, try to guess.?

Grabbing the towel her coach held out to her, Hodge sighed and began drying her hair. ?Hmmm about 35,000 of our biggest fans??

?34, 999 of our biggest fans and,? she paused, grinning from ear to ear, ?The Goddess.?

The towel was slowly lowered from her face, and a wide eyed kid looking every bit of twelve stared back at the coach. ?You?re kidding me.?

?Nope. She was mid court, a few rows above floor level. Watching you like a hawk, short stuff.?

Hodge snorted. ?Right, Dylan Lambert was here scoping out my talent tonight.? Green eyes rolled. ?Come on Coach I won the game, why do you have to torture me??

?I?m serious Hodge. Lambert was here and she was taking notes.?

?You are serious,? Hodge replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

?As a heart attack, kid.?

?Ohhhh shit!?

The coach grinned. ?Congratulations, Kitty Cat. You just might be the first to go come draft day.?

So struck was she with the news, Hodge actually let the coach get away with using her detested nickname, which was, in and of itself, a minor miracle.

Edgars? smile faded slightly, and she snapped her fingers in front of the young player?s face. ?Hodge. Hodgie. Anybody home in there??

?Huh?? Catherine?s head came up with a snap, and she blinked as if coming out of a daze.

?The press is gonna be coming in soon, kid. I know you could use the exposure, but I don?t think this is exactly the sort you had in mind. Maybe some clothes…??

Hodge visibly drew herself together. ?Uh..yeah. Right. Stall them for me, will you??

?Sure, kid. And Hodge??

?Yeah, Coach??

?You were damn good out there. Way to go.?

Hodge?s smile threatened to split her face. ?Thanks, Coach.?

Dylan tossed her keys on the small table to the right of the door, shifting out of the way as her two dogs, Siegfried and Brunhilde, bounded past and chased each other around the large foyer. Rolling her eyes at their antics, she stooped to retrieve her mail, idly leafing through the envelopes as she made her way through the parlor and into the rarely used kitchen.

?Junk, junk, a nasty letter from Manny, junk, and more junk.? Tossing the mail down on the chef?s island, she looked down at the dogs who were sitting at attention, awaiting their nightly meal. ?Haven?t I taught you to kill the mailman yet??

The large Dobermans stared back at her, heads cocked. Dylan snorted. ?Some guard dogs you are.?

After filling their bowls with kibble, Dylan exited the kitchen and walked into the large, tastefully appointed living room. Chrome, glass, and modern art dominated the room, but did little to detract from its almost sterile air. Grabbing the remote from one chrome and glass end table, she switched on the large flat screen television which stood proudly between the two huge French doors facing the back of her property.

ESPN was replaying the closing seconds of the game she?d just seen, and she paused for a moment to watch Catherine Hodges sink the winning bucket as time expired. ?Oh yeah,? she said softly to herself. ?She?ll do nicely.?

A glance down at the phone caused her smug grin to fade. ?Twenty two messages. Christ.? One long finger flipped through the caller ID display, deleting messages and the phone numbers attached to them with impunity. It was only when she got to the fifth call from Manny Blum, a pain in the ass disguised as her agent, that she pressed the ?play? button, wincing as the whining voice came through the small speaker.

?Dylan, this is Manny. Remember me? The short, skinny guy who gets paid to represent you? We need to talk, sweetheart. Those Nike idiots aren?t getting any younger, and if I show up empty handed one more time, sweets, they?re gonna shove a size 14 golf spike up my ass, understand? C?mon, D, just call me, will ya??

?Maybe I should call Nike and tell them to make it a size 16,? Dylan remarked to the air as her finger jabbed down on the ?erase? button. She knew she?d eventually have to break down and call the little bastard, but she was deriving too much sadistic pleasure out of watching him twist in the wind to give in to the inevitable just yet.

She scowled at the next number displayed and, just for perversity?s sake, played the message.

?Dylan? Hi, this is Hunter.?

?Oh goody. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dumb as a Rock.?

?I just wanted you to know that I had a great time last night.?

Dylan snorted. ?That makes one of us.?

?And I was wondering if maybe we could do it again sometime.?

?When pigs fly.?

?I have a couple of passes to the premier of my new movie, Death by Desire. We could get together for that, if you want. Anyway, I guess that?s it. Just wanted to tell you I was thinking about you.?

?You can think without a brain. I?m impressed.?

?Night, Dylan. Sweet dreams.?

?Maybe, but not of you.? Shaking her head, she erased the message, chuckling softly to herself. ?God, give me strength. I?d hate to have to hurt him.?

Brunhilde came bounding into the living room, followed close behind by her brother, and pressed her cold, wet nose into Dylan?s cloth covered belly. Dylan chuckled, giving both dogs a fond scratch behind the ear. ?Alright, I get the picture. It?s 3 a.m. and you guys need your beauty sleep. Let?s get to bed.?

Upon hearing their favorite word, both dogs raced for the bedroom, leaving their mistress to turn off the television and lights, and follow behind.

Dylan?s bedroom was cool and calming, done up in various shades of blue. Her king sized bed beckoned invitingly, and she walked over to it, stepping over two sprawled canines as she stripped off her clothes before slipping, naked, between the soft cotton sheets.

Propping herself up on one elbow, she reached for the thick stack of dossiers laid atop her nightstand, and pulled them onto the bed. Sharp eyes danced across the lines she?d read a thousand times before. These young women were the best of the best, each one possessing a particular skill which would make her invaluable the team lucky enough to draft her.

And though she read each folio carefully, Dylan?s mind had been made up long before this night. She flipped to the last folder in the stack and smiled at the earnest green eyes staring back at her. She quickly scanned the already memorized statistics.

Five foot five, one thirty five, blonde hair, green eyes. Good health. Average student heading for a degree in elementary education. Mother, father, nine siblings all alive and living in Bridgeport Connecticut. Father a machinist in a textile plant. Mother a waitress in a greasy spoon. Supportive family. She didn?t smoke, she didn?t do drugs, she had no juvenile record. Good work ethic, glowing reports from all of her coaches. Her physical abilities spoke for themselves, but it was the person looking back at Dylan from behind those eyes that convinced the young coach that her decision was the right one.

Nodding with a sense of final satisfaction, Dylan closed the folder, replaced it on the stack, and moved the entire mess back onto her nightstand. A flick of a finger and the room was plunged into blackness.

A moment later, Dylan was asleep.