“Not bad,” she murmured, running her fingers across the soft fabric and imagining the day?not so far away now?when she?d have the pleasure of donning one for real. For just a moment, the noise of an excited crowd floated into her mind, interspersed with the sounds of basketballs being bounced on varnished courts and slipping through stiffened nets. A beautiful smile curved her lips?the smile of a child on Christmas morning.

Her daydream was interrupted by a soft clearing of the throat, and when she turned, she saw a tall woman, perhaps two or three years older than her, looking at her with a shy smile. “Hello,” the woman said in heavily accented, though easily understood, English.

“Hello,” Cat replied, smiling.

The woman took a step forward, long fingers fumbling with the straps to her duffel. “You are? Ecaterina Hodges, yes?”

Cat?s smile broadened. “Yes, I am.”

The woman looked relieved. “I thought so. I?saw you on television. You are very good.”

“Thank you.”

There was a moment of silence before the woman?s head ducked, and she blushed. “I am sorry. My manners?.” One hand came away from the duffel and extended as the woman approached. “I am Anya Seletskaya. From Belarus. I am here to try out for a place on the Badgers.”

Hodge immediately gripped the young woman?s hand, giving it a firm shake. “It?s very good to meet you, Anya.”

“And is good to meet you as well.” Anya looked around, as if for the first time. Her lips pinched inward as her eyes widened. “This is?.”

“Dead ugly,” Cat finished for her, grinning.

Anya looked at her, surprised, then laughed. “I?ve seen uglier,” she commented, “but never on purpose!”

Noises from behind them stirred the two women into action, and they packed their gear in their lockers, then turned and eased their way through the small 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 clich�.

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 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 years. She thought well on her feet, was quick, and an expert passer who could read defenses as well as anyone in the conference. Her three point and foul shooting abilities didn?t hurt either.

With a happy sigh, she closed the book, laid it back down on the floor, and sunk deep in the hottub, allowing the jets of water to work their magic on her aching muscles.

The phone rang for the fourth time and Cat?s face dropped. “Come on, come on,” she softly pled, needing to hear the sound of her mother?s voice. It wasn?t an urge that hit her often, but when it did, obstacles be damned.

“Hodge residence.” The voice of her youngest brother croaked out against her ear.

“Hey butthead.” She plopped down in the overstuffed armchair and proceeded to get comfortable.

“Hey Beavis. Whatcha doing?”