Taking her tea, she moved to sit in the butter-soft couch that lined the back wall of the den. Dylan was off getting her face plastered on Wheeties boxes from here to Peoria. Cat herself had just returned from a relatively tame Nike shoot. All of her clothes had stayed on, at any rate. And right here, right now, she was perfectly content. The past was unchangeable, the future not yet set in stone, and she could, for once in her life, live completely in this moment.

Unfortunately, this particular moment wasn’t exactly the most exciting of its genre, and she soon found her lids grow heavy. Listening to her body, she placed the tea mug on the table beside the couch, and slipped more comfortably into its warm embrace. She was asleep more quickly than she ever realized.

In his opulent office, Horace Johnson mopped the sweat from his brow with a slightly yellowed handkerchief, then looked back down at the latest offer sheet. It was a blind offer, and it irked him no end not to know who was behind this thing. But as his daddy had been prone to say in similar circumstances, beggars can’t be choosers, and it’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. The Platitude King was Johnson’s father, currently residing in the hottest pits of Hell, if his son’s prayers had any effect on the thing.

He looked at the final numbers again, and scowled. The offer was much, much less than his asking price. He was getting scammed by a pro. A pro too chickenshit to show his face. “Shit.”

“It’s a viable offer,” his lawyer informed him, as if he was blind to that fact. “Less than you wanted, of course, but more than anyone else has put on the table. Of course, we could give it more time.”

Time. That blasted thing that Johnson seemed to be accumulating less and less of as the months went by. He could all but feel the combined nooses of the IRS and the SEC tightening around his neck as every hour passed. Most of his legitimate businesses had had to be shut down to conserve rapidly diminishing capital. What he needed, and quickly, was a chunk of cold, hard cash that he could use to buy the best lawyer in town, and let him slide an easy judge a bribe he couldn’t refuse. Barring that, a good bit of grease would get him far away from here, perhaps to a place where there was no extradition back to this cesspit of a country who wouldn’t rest until they saw him trying to pick up the soap in a shower-room filled with degenerates.

“Alright,” he grumbled, finally. “Alright, I’ll sign the damned thing. You’re sure the payout’s in cash, right?”

“That’s part of the deal, yes.”

“Alright, then. Let’s get this over with.” He signed page after page after page after page with his usual flourish, realizing with a sense of almost relief that he was slowly, but surely, taking himself out from beneath that dyke bitch Lambert’s unnatural thumb. Oh yes, he would pay her back for what she’d done to him. Pay her back in spades. And his life would once again be sweet. Heck, it might be that the new owner of the Badgers would be willing to go in on it with him. It was a well known fact that the league owners hated queers every bit as much as he did. Some even more so. Yes, he thought, smiling, life turns out good after all.

He pushed the stack of papers to his lawyer, his customary smirk, which had been absent lo these past several months, returned in all its force. “Now that we got this out of the way, think the new owner will meet me now? I think we might have a few things to talk about.” His smirk broadened, then lost some of its steam as his own lawyer supplied the same expression in return.

“Oh,” he remarked, “I have no doubt that can be arranged. Stay here for a moment and I’ll check with them to make sure everything’s acceptable. Then you can meet, ok?”

“Perfect.”

Feeling every inch a fat, satisfied cat, Horace put his feet up on his shiny desk, pulled a cigar from his pocket, and lit it with a flourish. He eyed the bottle of cognac sitting on an antique table nearby, and began to laugh.

Several minutes later, his lawyer stuck his head in through the door. “The new owner’s ready to meet with you now.”

“Send him in,” Horace replied expansively, round face flushed with joy. “Send him right the hell in.”

The lawyer’s head disappeared, and the heavy door slid open.

Horace choked on his cigar as the new owner of the Badgers strode into the room, briefcase stuffed with cash in one hand, an insufferable smirk on her stunningly beautiful face. “Hello, Horace,” came the low purr.

“N—” He choked again. “No! Nooooooo!!!! It can’t—you can’t---I won’t---”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. It can, you will, and I just did. Enjoy your blood money, maggot. The Badgers are mine.”

Wide, bulging eyes turned to his lawyer, who shrugged, but didn’t look all that unhappy.

“Signed, sealed and delivered boss, just like you ordered.”

With a grin, Dylan Lambert tossed the heavily laden briefcase across the table, where it landed against the chest of the former owner of her team. “There ya go, scumbag.”

“You can’t! I protest! I didn’t…..”

Dylan strode across the room to the other side of his desk. Placing both palms flat against it, she leaned over until their faces were mere inches apart. “Game over, Horace. You lose.”

“Noooooooooo!”

“Mac?” Dylan tossed over her shoulder.

“Yeah, boss?” the giant man responded, stepping into the office. “Something you wanted?”

“Yeah. Get this pig outta my office before I call the cops and have him arrested for trespassing.”

Mac grinned. “With pleasure, boss. C’mon, you. You’re outta here.”

Pale and trembling, Johnson didn’t even put up a fight as Mac dragged him from his chair and across the room. “I’ll get you for this, you dyke bitch. If it takes every last penny I have, I will get you.”

“Don’t ever make a promise you can’t keep, little man. Now get out, before I forget what a gentlewoman I am and kick your ass from here to the first floor.”

“You’re going to regret this, Lambert! Count on it!!”

“Oh, I’m countin on something alright. Now get the hell outta here. You’re stinking up my space.”

Very soon, the door was closed, leaving Dylan to survey her new empire. Chuckling, she moved to the other side of the desk, sank down into the leather office chair, and picked up the phone, dialing the number by heart. “Hello, my love,” she purred into the speaker.

“Dylan? Where are you? I expected you home a couple of hours ago! How’d the shoot go!”

“Fine,” she replied, grinning. “Just fine.”

“Then why aren’t you here?”

“Oh,” she said, “just stopped to take care of a little business.”

“What kind of business.” The voice, rife with suspicion, came back over the phone. “Dylan, what did you do?”

Leaning back in the chair, Dylan propped her feet atop the desk. “Well, after our time in the Olympics, I realized that I still loved the game. It made me realize all over again just what is so special about it to me. And I figured that this league, if it’s gonna have a chance in hell of recapturing that magic, has to undergo some real changes. So….”

A pregnant silence on the other end of the line.

“I bought the Badgers.”

“You bou…you b…you bought the Badgers?!?”

“Yup. I installed myself as player-owner, with Diana Caulley as head coach. She’s paid her dues, and she deserves this chance to prove herself. I’m willing to give that to her.”

“Oh. My. God. You fucking bought the Badgers!”

“Sure did. And, you know, I could use a really outstanding point guard who knows how the game should be played and who can set an example for all those young kids coming up through High School and College.”

“You’re asking me to join you?”

“Well, yeah. But, Cat, it’s called ‘asking’ for a reason. I’ll not force you into anything you don’t want to do. If teaching ball to schoolkids is what fulfills you and makes you happy, then you have my full love and support. I did this for us, and for those kids out there who need to know that there’s someone other than the Horace Johnsons out there who just want to make a buck, no matter how. But you can do the exact same thing by teaching those kids when they’re young and just beginning to dream of making it to this level. The choice is yours.”

Cat thought about that for a moment. She remembered the look of absolute joy on her mother’s face when she told her she’d been considering taking the coaching spot at St. Catherine’s. The woman almost broke down and wept, for goodness’ sake!

But she couldn’t hide the fact that her time in the Olympics brought that competitive spark back so strong that it was with her still, many months after the event had ended. She was honest enough to admit to herself that what would truly fulfill her, profession-wise at least—was another shot at playing at the professional level. There would still be gobs of schoolgirls waiting for her wisdom once she retired from the game. She had too much to do and to learn first, though. Another thought popped into her head. “What…what if I decided to accept an offer from another team?”

“Well, of course I’d be disappointed, Cat, but I’ve always told you to do what makes you happy. An unhappy Cat makes for an unhappy Dylan, and I really don’t want it to be that way.”

“Well, I’d be happiest playing for you. I know that. But there’d be talk.”

“Screw the talk. I’ve been given carte blanche to clean this league up, and that’s what I intend to do. People either get their heads out of their asses and watch the game for what it’s supposed to represent…entertainment…or they can go find another hobby. No more politics. No more bullshit. A good league, run a good way, and we might just have something.” She fiddled with one of Horace’s pens. “So, you just think about things, Cat. Have Haley represent you at contract signing, no matter who you decide to play for. You won’t get a penny more or a penny less than what you deserve.”