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“I said,” Cat paused to wipe off her face and neck, before looking at Dylan once again. “Bullshit. You’ve got more game in your little finger than the rest of

us have in our entire bodies.” She gestured to herself. “Look at me, I’m drenched. You ran me ragged out there and you never broke a sweat. I don’t know

why you’re not playing Coach, but it ain’t because of that knee.”

Dylan watched, slightly amazed as Cat gathered up her gear and the ball and headed for the locker room. “Well, well, looks like my little spitfire has gotten

her spark back.”

With Cat well out of sight, Dylan sat down on the bench and pulled up her sweat pant leg to look at her knee, which was just a little swollen, but not

hurting too bad. “She may also have your number, Pallas. This could be bad.”

The Coach rose from the bench and gathered her own gear before heading from the court. “Shit,” she mumbled.

“Alright, that’s a wrap ladies.” Dylan tossed her whistle onto the bench and eyed each of her players in turn. “I want you showered, changed, and home in

bed early. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

Groans mixed with cheers as the players started for the locker room. Dylan shook her head and led her assistant coaches to her arena office, to ready the

plays they would use for tomorrow’s game.

Two weeks had passed since their first game, and Dylan was well pleased with the progress the team was making. It was a slow process, but they were

finally beginning to jell. Cat, in particular, had taken her advice to heart and was showing flashes of brilliance on the court.

They’d played another game in the interim, against the Seattle Charge who’d shared the cellar with them the year prior. The Badgers had won the game

handily, by over twenty points, and Cat had earned herself a double-double with sixteen points and twelve assists. She’d shown absolutely none of the

tentative play she’d displayed in the first game, and was beginning to become a true leader on the court. And off it, as well.

Tomorrow’s game would be a true test as they went up against Los Angeles, the best team in their division. To make matters worse, Dylan and the Los

Angeles coach shared a long history, and none of it was pleasant.

Marcia Blanks had been a junior at Stanford when Dylan burst onto the scene. Once considered the best power forward in the game, bar none, Marcia’s

thunder was quite easily stolen by the young hotshot from UCLA, who eclipsed Blanks’ records without much of an effort at all. She’d done the same once

turning pro, and the relationship between them had gone downhill from there.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of her mind, Dylan concentrated on putting the finishing touches to the structure of the next game, then dismissed her

assistants, intending to follow her own advice and get a good night’s sleep.

Dylan left her office and crossed back toward the arena proper. While still some distance away from the court, her keen hearing picked up the sound of a

basketball hitting varnished wood, and she quickened her steps, a bit irked that someone obviously hadn’t understood her orders for an early night.

And yet it was with somewhat less than total surprise when she entered the arena itself to see the profile of Catherine Hodges, standing on the foul-line

with a rack of balls at her side, sinking foul shots, one after the other.

When the rack was empty, Hodge stopped and turned toward Dylan, whom she’d heard enter moments before. A slight redness suffused her cheeks as she

met her coach’s eyes, then disappeared as she lowered her head. “Hey, Coach.”

“Mm,” Dylan answered through pursed lips, left eyebrow slightly arched.

“I know…I know. I should be home now getting ready for bed. But I…um….” A sweeping gesture of her arm encompassed the rack and basket. Her blush

deepened.

With that, the puzzle pieces came together and Dylan understood. Athletes, like actors, were on the whole a superstitious lot. Dylan herself had had her

share of superstitions during her playing days, though none had, to date, moved on to her coaching career. “How many?”

The blonde head lifted, and Hodge smiled with relief at being understood. “Twenty.”

“In a row?”

“Yeah.”

Dylan nodded, impressed. “And you did it?”

“Just now, yes.”

“Good. So you’re ready to head home?”

Hodge nodded.

“Alright. I’ll walk you to your car.”

As they turned to leave, Dylan was stopped by a call from Mac, who entered the arena at a trot. Suppressing a sigh, Dylan turned. “Yes?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute? It won’t take long, but I’ve got a message from Johnson.”

This time, Dylan did sigh, and turned back to Hodge, who smiled in commiseration. “I’ll be ok,” Cat replied softly. “See you tomorrow?”

Dylan nodded. “Get a good night’s rest.”

“I will. Night, Coach. Night, Mac.”

With a final smile at them both, she turned and left through the main doors.

When the doors closed, Dylan rounded on Mac. “Alright, what was so important that you had to run down and find me at,” she checked her watch, “nine

thirty?”

Mac grimaced. “Johnson’s a prick.”