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crowd of chattering young woman entering the locker room, arms spilling with gear.

A moment later, they were both on the court and, with the ease of long habit, Hodge moved to one sideline and began her stretching routine, smiling as

Anya joined her. Her body submitted to the gentle stretching without complaint, despite the enforced break in her usual routine. She’d taken Dylan’s words

to heart, however, and no matter the details of her day, managed to put in at least three miles worth of running each morning. She knew the extra effort

would be worth the annoyance endured. She’d never been that fond of distance running.

As she stretched, her eyes idly captured her teammates as they streamed onto the court, laughing and jesting with one another without a seeming care in

the world. Part of her envied them their lightheartedness. Her breakfast of dry toast and juice was sitting leaden in her belly as skitters of nervous

anticipation danced over her slowly warming muscles.

The laughter and talk that echoed through the massive arena slowly faded away as two women, both in their early thirties and dressed identically in black

nylon sweats and golf shirts, entered the venue, whistles around their necks and basketballs under their arms. Hodge recognized the first woman easily,

having seen her on television any number of times over the years.

Diana Caulley was the first assistant coach of the Birmingham Badgers. Standing five feet, eleven inches tall, she was fit and well formed, with sandy hair

that curled around her collar and deep set, intelligent gray eyes that missed very little. A shoulder injury had ended a promising career in her rookie year,

but she’d parlayed her love of basketball and a keen intelligence into a coaching job and never looked back.

The woman standing beside her was one that Hodge didn’t recognize, but to judge by the woman’s body-builder’s stature and the chiseled, no nonsense

expression on her face, she had a feeling that a less than pleasant acquaintance would be drawn up in the not-too-distant future.

So thinking, she slowly rose from her place on the varnished court and moved to join her fellows in a rough semi-circle before the two women, waiting for

the fun to begin.

Diana’s eyes narrowed as she took in the nine women standing before her. She recognized them all, of course, having been instrumental in bringing almost

half into the sites of one Dylan Lambert and setting up this opportunity for them to show what they could do. They were veterans, cut from other teams, or

in the case of Anya Seletskaya, lured away from less than lucrative foreign contracts and into the bright lights of a new opportunity.

The rest were draft picks, fresh from college and chosen by Dylan’s own hand. Of the nine, only four would emerge to fill the vacant slots on an already

established team. It was Diana’s job to help cull the wheat from the chaff and to put forward only those worthy of their contracts. It was duty she

considered almost a sacred rite, and she was very, very good at her job.

Each pair of eyes met hers, then darted away, message received.

Satisfied, Diana smiled. “Welcome to the Badgers.”

There was a soft murmur as the women returned her greeting.

“I’m Diana Caulley, first assistant coach, and this,” she said, indicating the 5’9″ mass of muscle to her left, “is TJ Barnes, strength and conditioning coach.

For the next three weeks, we are all going to get to know one another very well indeed.” Her smile broadened, thin lips curling into more than the hint of a

smirk. “And in order for us to do that with as much ease as possible, here are a few, non-negotiable, ground-rules.”

One hand uncurled from her hip, long fingers splaying to tick off the pertinent points. “First…this is called ‘rookie camp’ for a reason. I don’t care if you’ve

been playing in the league for years or if the ink’s still wet on your sheepskin. You’re all rookies here, and you’ll be treated that way until I say differently.

Is that understood?”

More quiet murmuring.

“Good. It’s best to get that out of the way first. There aren’t any prima donnas here. First round draft pick,” and this was said with a long, hard, significant

look in Hodge’s direction, “or walk on, everyone is at the bottom rung of the ladder until they prove otherwise. Leave your egos at the door, ladies.”

Good God, Hodge thought, this woman is a walking cliché.

Gray eyes met hers again and Hodge resisted the urge to swallow hard. She knew her sentiment, at least in part, had been read and the battle lines drawn.

Great. Just what I need. The drill sergeant from Hell on my ass my first day. What is it with me and lousy first impressions anyway?

The assistant coach continued on. “From Monday through Saturday, seven am until seven pm, you all belong to me. You will eat, breathe and sleep

Badgers’ basketball. When you’re not here, you’ll be home, studying the playbook until every single punctuation mark is stored in your brains. You will not