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drink, smoke, party or otherwise get yourselves into trouble or you’re out the door, contract or no. Am I making myself clear?”

Nods all around.

“Alright then. Let’s see what you ladies are made of.” The smirk fully bloomed as Diana turned and gestured to the large arena. “Four times around, if you

please, and make sure you hit every step.” A sharp blast of her whistle punctuated Caulley’s order, and the women were off and running into the stands.

Hodge might not have cared for running, but she did it well, easily pacing herself as she hit the first set of stairs and started upward. Her father had long

been a proponent of “slow and steady wins the race”, and she’d never seen the need to separate herself from his apt philosophy.

Slipping into an easy rhythm, she allowed her body to carry her along mindlessly as she concentrated on the rest of the group. Two young women, tall, thin,

and looking enough alike to be twins, were far ahead of the rest, playing rabbit. They’d tire soon enough, Hodge predicted, confident in her own abilities.

The rest of the small group strung along in a line, one behind the other, each slipping into her own favored stride. Anya was close behind Hodge, very light

on her feet despite her stocky size.

By the end of the second lap, the rabbits were slowing and, setting her jaw, Hodge began to reel them in like fish on the line.

She led them out of the stands and onto the court, her lungs and legs burning in equal measure. On the whole, however, she was satisfied with her

performance.

Caulley, on the other hand, looked as if she’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon as she stared down at the stopwatch clutched tightly in one hand.

“Abysmal, ladies,” she stated flatly, walking over to the gasping group. “Just abysmal.” Several blank faces staring back at her caused the pinched look to

deepen. “That means ‘bad’, Coles.”

Coles, a rangy forward who’d been drafted in the third round, flushed and looked away.

Caulley shook her head, and turned to her conditioning coach, speaking in a loud stage whisper. “Remind me to steer my nieces away from UC Berkley.”

Coles’ flush deepened, now tinged with anger as well as embarrassment.

Caulley smirked. “Don’t sweat it, pumpkin. I’m sure those underwater basket weaving classes taxed you to your limit, hmm?”

Coles’ mouth opened, then closed, and her throat worked as she swallowed her words.

Caulley smiled. “So, you have some brains up there after all. Good.” She gave each member of the group a pointed look, stopwatch dangling loosely by its

strap. “I should make you run the arena again until you take at least twenty seconds off this crappy time, but I’m in a good mood today.”

Nine sets of shoulders sagged in relief.

“So we’ll do windsprints instead.”

Nine groans echoed through the empty building.

Caulley smirked again. “Two lines, ladies. Get ready to go on my whistle. Ready? Go.”

Hodge groaned with pleasure as she slid down in the tub until her chin touched the swirling water. Though she would have rather had her eyes plucked out

with rusty spoons than admit it aloud, her body ached from the day’s labors. Caulley and her partner-of-few-words were true taskmasters, though she had

to admit they were very good at their jobs. In one day of practice, she’d come close to learning more than during the four years she’d spend at UCONN.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Cat,” she muttered to herself as one slightly wet hand reached out to grab the thick playbook resting on the tiled floor.

She’d already leafed through the book half a dozen times, looking at the plays and their attendant diagrams with interest. What she saw both surprised and

pleased her.

“Dylan drew up these plays, you dolt,” she chastised herself. “That alone should tell you they’d be anything but run-of-the-mill.”

With a bit of chagrin, she admitted to herself that, given the relative youth of the team, and the attendant lack of wide ranging experience, she had

expected an offense heavy with plays that emphasized a ball-control, clock-eating, half-court scheme.

Low scoring, perhaps, but usually effective against bigger and more experienced teams.

Instead, she found herself looking at plays that emphasized what was sometimes called a “run and gun” offense; an offense which was very much like

what many, if not most, professional men’s teams used—heavy in transition, all motion, utilizing the full court instead of just half of it.

Discovering this, she came to realize exactly why it was that she, of all players in the draft, had been chosen to lead this team.

A point guard in a run and gun offense didn’t have to be the best athlete on the court, just the smartest and the most unselfish. And Catherine Hodges had

legitimate claim to both of those attributes.

In spades.

She’d led just such an offense for four years running, and while she was never the points leader, she’d led the conference in assists for three of those four