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As she made her way to the center of the crowd, she laid a gentle hand on Cat’s sweat-soaked shoulder, smiling when the younger woman spun to face

her. “Good game,” she said softly, knowing Cat could hear her.

“Thanks, Coach. Thanks for believing in me and letting me do this.”

“No problem.”

Dylan was about to turn away, but something stopped her. Something about the look in Cat’s vibrant eyes. It was a look she hadn’t seen from the young

woman before, and had doubted she ever would. There seemed to be some sort of hard, savage joy there mixing with the honest pleasure of a job well

done. It gave Dylan pause.

“Are you alright?” she asked, tone still soft.

Cat blinked, then smiled. “Sure. I feel great!”

Still, Dylan paused, unsure of what she thought she’d seen was a figment of her imagination or actually there. She wanted to say something, but wasn’t

sure what. It left her uncharacteristically tongue tied.

As if sensing Dylan’s discomfiture, Cat broadened her grin and laid a hand atop the one on her shoulder. “I promise, Coach. I’m fine. I can’t even feel my

bruises and I think I’ll be riding high for the rest of the night. Some game, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dylan replied, giving a half-hearted smile. “Some game.”

The moment was interrupted by Mac entering in to congratulate them both, and by the time Dylan knew what was happening, Cat had been swept away to

the showers and she was on her way to meet Johnson for what she was sure would be falsely offered praise. Her gut twisted with worry for a brief

moment, then she let it go as she allowed Mac to lead her to the skybox suite where Johnson was waiting.

The next several days went quickly and quietly, though not without note. Cat’s injuries had begun to heal, and she seemed none the worse for wear. She

followed instruction precisely as ever and was sharp as the edge of a razor in practice. If anything, at least outwardly, the assault that had tested Cat’s

resolve had left her stronger than ever before.

Still, Dylan was concerned, and watched her with a hawk’s eye. It was nothing she could point to and say “There! This is what’s wrong!” It was more of a

feeling; a nebulous thing that told Dylan that things weren’t exactly as they seemed. Every time she asked Catherine how things were going she was put

off—nicely, but put off nonetheless—with a smiling, polite “Everything’s great, Coach! Couldn’t be better!”

The look in those green eyes was sincerity itself.

Why, then, did she know, deep in her gut, that Cat was lying?

She spent her days frustrated, caught between the rock of wanting to know if everything was okay with her star player, and the hard place of not wishing to

intrude upon Cat’s private life. Divining emotions from subtle hints was never her strong suit, and her frustration left her snappish and tense. She’d all but

bitten Mac’s head off when he’d had the temerity of asking her to go with him for some lunch, scaring the big man out of a few years of life. He’d left her

alone to stew then, taking great pains to keep from darkening her doorstep any more than he had to.

Luckily for Dylan, her dealings with Johnson and the advertisers had come off much better than expected. A large group of lesbians, gay men, and open

minded individuals had heard about the threatened pull-out and had made it clear that they would boycott the boycotters, thereby proving once again that

in the business world, capitalism won out over bigoted morality every time.

With that piece of desiccated meat swept clean from her overfull plate, Dylan was left once again to ponder.

By the end of the second week, Dylan had had enough. The worry in her gut wouldn’t go away no matter how she tried to subdue it. She knew her mood

would remain miserable until she was finally able to put away any doubts she harbored over Catherine’s emotional state. And those doubts could only be

put away by talking to the young woman herself.

Privately.

Her mind made up, she waited until after practice on Friday evening, staying away until she was reasonably sure the rest of the team and coaches had left

for the day before slowly walking toward the arena proper, running over opening gambits in her head.

She was surprised when entering the arena to find the lights already dimmed. The place was empty save for the ready-to-retire janitor who was pushing his

broom along the side of the court nearest the benches.

“Lo, Miss Dylan,” he said politely, doffing the baseball cap that covered his cotton-wool head.

“Hello, Jerome,” Dylan replied, distracted. She looked down at her watch, then back at the court, blinking dumbly. Even if Catherine had started the minute

practice ended and hit all of her freethrows in a row on the first try, she still should have been in the arena.

But she wasn’t.

Dylan sighed.

“Sure is quiet without the little sprout out here keepin’ me company,” Jerome commented, almost to himself, as he continued working his push broom.

Dylan turned to him slowly, eyebrow elevated. “’Little sprout’?”