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they dubbed the last game. Each put in their best efforts, and when the practice was over, the coaches were well satisfied. Even Caulley, who wouldn’t be

satisfied with a Championship trophy.

Disgusted by her forty percent foul shooting during the last game, Cat opted to resume her habitual drills after practice.

Unlike during the game, she sunk her foul shots with ease, so she moved back and tried threes from the perimeter. Those went in easily as well. Layups

came next, and those were a bit harder because of her stature. She was always more comfortable shooting from the outside, but also knew that if the

opportunity presented itself, she would need to be confident enough to drive to the hoop and take the shot, no matter who stood in her way.

Dylan walked silently into the empty arena, guided by the rhythmic thumping of a basketball. She leaned against the wall and watched for a couple of

minutes before strolling further onto the court. Cat caught the ball and turned to face her coach

“Hi,” she gasped, breathing hard and blowing out long, slow breaths to calm her racing pulse.

“Hi yourself,” Dylan replied, gesturing toward the basket. “That was more than foul shooting. You were really working it.”

“Yeah, well I need to get stronger driving into the paint. I don’t do it often, but I can’t be wary when I do.”

“True.” Dylan scratched above her brow. “Your game is good.”

“Not good enough.”

“Well, we can always get better.” Smiling, she swatted the ball out of Cat’s hands and spun it on one finger. “Just don’t be too hard on yourself, ok?”

“Yeah,” Cat chuckled. “Like you’re not.”

“Hey! I’m the coach. It’s my job to be hard on myself.”

“Hmmph.” With a wicked grin, Cat reached out and grabbed the ball back. “Heh. How ‘bout a game? The Goddess against the mortal? First to eleven wins?

Huh?”

Dylan’s grin was even more wicked. “Sure ya wouldn’t rather play shirts vs. skins?”

Cat actually heard her jaw click as it dropped open and hung there. Normally, she wouldn’t have been so wide-eyed, but the unexpected flirtation, coupled

with the vision of last night, conspired together to force the expression onto Cat’s face.

Chuckling, Dylan grabbed the ball from Cat’s stunned hands, turned, and arced the ball through the net. She spun on her player, eyes twinkling. “First rule

of immortal combat. Create opportunities and take advantage of them.”

Cat gave a little grunt as the ball impacted lightly with her flat abdomen. She caught it reflexively and blinked. “You gonna flash me now?”

“Would it work?”

Cat’s look said it all, and Dylan laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind for later, then.” She tapped the ball in Cat’s hands. “C’mon. Let’s see what you got.”

What Cat had was a move that went exactly two steps into the paint before she was again summarily stripped of the ball and forced to calculate the angle

of the curve made by Dylan’s body as she jammed the ball through the hoop.

“I hate you,” she groaned, receiving the ball back.

“Hey. You challenged me, remember?”

“Okay, then. I hate myself.”

Dylan laughed softly. “C’mon now. Two-zip. Your ball.”

Cat tried. She really did. She tried as hard as she’d ever tried anything in her life. She pulled out every move in the book, invented some on the spot, and

none of them worked. Her offense was useless, and her defense was even worse. Of course, they both acknowledged the inherent disparity between a

small point guard and a towering forward with the wingspan of a condor, but still, Cat was determined to prove something.

Whether it was to herself or Dylan, she wasn’t sure.

The more she failed, the more frustrated she became, and the more frustrated she got, the sloppier her game became.

Until she remembered her own words of two nights before. How frustration plays right into the hands of an opponent and is something to be avoided at all

costs.

Remembering this, she tried to relax, deliberately slowing her movements and running the plays through her head instead of relying on brute force and

instinct. She also realized a fundamental truth. No matter how poorly she was playing, even at her best, there was no woman in the world who could do

better against Dylan Lambert. And the only thing she could possibly do, faced with this fantastic opportunity, was play on, knowing she would only get

better.

So intent was she on this new revelation, she completely missed the knowing—and slightly proud—smile on Dylan’s face.

Still, Dylan couldn’t pass up an attempt to razz her player. “Timeclock’s ticking down, shorty. You gonna dribble that ball or are you taking it home for a

souvenir?”

Shaken from her reverie, Cat looked up, and grinned at the mirthful eyes gazing at her. Then, taking a deep breath, she made a quick step to her left,

watching Dylan’s feet as she followed. Faking another step, she then executed a perfect spin move, and, spying the backboard in the “V” between Dylan’s

head and her outstretched arm, launched an off-balance shot that, miracle of miracles, hit the rim and bounced on through.