?Going corporate on me now, Mac?? The teasing note turned a bit wry, and Mac held back a wince by sheer will.

?You know that?s not true, D. It?s just?this crowd?s making me a little antsy, y?know??

Dylan?s gaze swung away again, looking over the crowd. The intensity in her eyes caused all but the most ardent admirers to blanch and turn away. Her smirk broadened. ?I?m comfortable where I am, Mac. G?wan back up. I?ll be along in awhile.?

?Excuse me, Dylan, but no way. If you?re so set on staying in the lion?s den, I?m staying with you. Somebody?s got to watch your back and it might as well be me.?

Shaking her head, Dylan turned her attention back to the court just as the halftime buzzer sounded. As the players began to file back toward their locker rooms, she leaned back in her seat and opened her program, idly leafing through its glossy pages.

Only when she noticed Mac?s tension reach the breaking point did she deign to look up. A large group of fans was headed purposefully in her direction and gaining steam as word spread swiftly that ?the Goddess? was in their midst. Mac stood quickly, edging his burly body in front of her for protection. Though only an inch taller, he was double her weight, and would have made an effective shield if she had let him.

But Dylan Lambert was born knowing how to play the game, and with a smile more manufactured than genuine, she stepped from behind her living wall to greet her adoring public. Pulling a Sharpie from the inside pocket of her leather trench, she accepted the first program with grace and scrawled her signature before handing it back and accepting the next.

As if from behind a broken dam, the programs, basketballs, trading cards, T-shirts, hats, and the occasional bit of bared flesh came under the heavy caress of her pen. On and on it went until finally the arena?s security guards filtered down and dispersed the crowd back to their seats.

Heaving out a relieved breath, Mac plopped back down in his seat and took out a handkerchief, mopping his sopping brow. ?God, I hate this shit,? he muttered, half under his breath.

Dylan gave him a fond clap on the shoulder, then turned back to the court as the players filed out from their locker rooms. Her gaze immediately zeroed in on one young woman from the Huskies who effortlessly caught a rifle-pass from her teammate and made a sweet shot from just past mid-court. Her teammates cheered as the ball went through the basket without touching the rim, and the young shooter pumped her fist as she ran toward the basket to rebound.

Dylan smiled.

Mac straightened in his seat when he saw that smile bloom, and squinted against the bright lights in an attempt to see what had generated such an expression. It was an impossible task.

?What?? he finally asked.

Dylan turned away after a moment, and quickly leafed through her program until she came to the page she wanted.

?Her,? she said, tossing the program on his lap.

Mac looked down to see a fresh-faced, attractive green-eyed blonde woman staring back up at him, the grin on her face an interesting mixture of sweetness and deadly intensity. As he scanned her statistics, his heart first rose, than sank as her name rang a bell.

?Dylan??

?She?s the best point guard in the game, Mac.?

?She?s also five foot five!?

?So? There are at least ten others in the league her height, and they?re doing just fine.?

?Yeah, but the difference is that those teams didn?t have any choice but to draft them! You?ve got the number one pick and a whole slew of point guards to choose from, Dylan! Why not Keisha Brown? She?s got a sweet shot, and she?s four inches taller!?

?Lousy attitude.?

Mac sighed. ?Well, what about one of the Jackson twins??

?Lazy.?

?Both of them??

?Both of them.?

?Nissa Tomalin? You have to admit she?s an outstanding player.?

?Sure she is. It?s her personal life that?s gone to hell.?

?She beat that rap, Dylan.?

?No.?

?But??

?I said no, Mac. Catherine Hodges is the one I want. She?s got class, she?s got game, and she?ll make the Badgers into winners.?

Mac opened his mouth, then closed it again. What he had to say next made him feel all kinds of a bigot, but it needed to be said nonetheless. ?Dylan?she?s gay.?

The blue eyes that turned to him had an expression that made his balls shrivel up. ?Who she sleeps with is not my concern, Mac. What she does on the court is.?

?It might not be your concern, Dylan, but did you forget about the man who owns this team? The man who is, on issues like this, so far to the right that Pat Robertson looks like a Commie standing next to him? He?ll never go for this, not in a million years.?

?My orders are to turn this team into a winner. Without Hodges, that won?t happen. Period. Either he wants to win, or he wants to be an asshole. It?s his choice.?

?Dylan??

Dylan turned in her seat, facing him directly, clearly annoyed. ?Listen, Mac. You?re the General Manager. So do your goddamn job and convince him that I?m right on this.?

?How can I do that when I?m not even sure you?re right?!?

Dylan?s long arm flung out wide. ?Look at her, damnit! Look at her play, then tell me with a straight face that there is anyone out there who even comes close to her.?

Though technically her superior, Mac knew an order when he heard one, and so obediently turned to watch the game in progress. Not more than a minute later, the diminutive Husky stole ball from her opposing point guard, dribbled the length of the court and fed a no-look pass to her trailing forward that would have made some members of the NBA green with envy.

Mac?s shoulders slumped. Dylan was right. Again. And though he loved her like the daughter he never had, he hated it that she was always right.

Dylan had the good grace not to smirk as Mac conceded his defeat by standing, head lowered. ?I?ll talk to him, D. God knows I can?t promise anything, but I?ll talk to him.?

Her acceptance was gracious. ?Thank you,? she said, simply and sincerely.

He nodded. ?Now, will you please come up to the box with me???

Grinning, she rose easily from her seat, twitching her coat into place and stepping into the aisle. As Mac began to climb the stairs toward the sky boxes, Dylan turned to stare, one last time, down onto the court, eyes narrowing as they tracked Catherine Hodges the length of the court and back.

Her smile bloomed again.

Catherine Frances Hodges, known as Hodge to her teammates, felt herself being carried along in the flow of an overjoyed crowd, heading back to the locker room. The cheers of the audience could still be heard in the background, but they were fading quickly, drowned out by the whoops and hollers of the players and staff making their way down the long, brightly lit hall.

Hodge could only grin like the cat that ate the canary as she toweled her face dry, made wet from the combination of sweat and some liquid that had been dumped on her when her teammates and most of the fans charged the court.

?Phe-fucking-nominal Hodge!? Kellie Wilkes, six feet of exuberant center, easily lifted the much shorter Hodges off the ground and carried her the rest of the way to the locker room.

As they burst through the door, the rest of the team and staff renewed their catcalls and cheering.

?Our hero!? Kellie yelled, spinning her friend around several times before returning her to the floor.

?Oh please,? Hodge grinned, trying to scrub the blush from her face as she waited for the world to stop spinning around her.

?Oh please is right!? Tonya Burns, power forward, stepped into the fray with a hairbrush-cum-microphone in her hand. ?So, Catherine Hodges, your last second shot at the buzzer has taken you team into the history books with an NCAA Championship. What are you gonna do next??

The small player laughed and looked at her friends standing around her. ?I?m going to Disneyland!?

The room roared with laughter as congratulations continued to circulate. Each person took their turn clapping Hodge on the back, or snapping her rear end with damp towels, to the general hilarity of all.

Though she enjoyed the adulation of her teammates, and the pure adrenaline rush that came with winning the long-coveted title, Hodge found herself wishing for a shower. She was hot, she was sweaty, and she was sticky, and as soon as she found out who had upended a jug of Gatorade over her head, there would be hell to pay.

Until that time, however, a little alone time in a nice hot shower would do the trick nicely. Managing to slip away, she headed for the showers and was soon delighting in the feel of the hot water pounding her body and loosening muscles just beginning to stiffen. Bracing herself against the wall, she dropped her head and just let the water beat her neck and shoulders.

?Oh Hodgie??

She groaned at the singsong sound of her name. Slowly she raised her head, spitting out the water flowing over her face. Opening her eyes she saw Marlie Edgars, one of the assistant coaches, grinning at her with an ?I?ve got a secret? expression.

?What?s up, Coach??

?Did you by any chance notice who was in the crowd tonight??

?I was kinda busy, Coach. You know, playing and all??

?Smart ass. C?mon, try to guess.?

Grabbing the towel her coach held out to her, Hodge sighed and began drying her hair. ?Hmmm about 35,000 of our biggest fans??

?34, 999 of our biggest fans and,? she paused, grinning from ear to ear, ?The Goddess.?

The towel was slowly lowered from her face, and a wide eyed kid looking every bit of twelve stared back at the coach. ?You?re kidding me.?

?Nope. She was mid court, a few rows above floor level. Watching you like a hawk, short stuff.?

Hodge snorted. ?Right, Dylan Lambert was here scoping out my talent tonight.? Green eyes rolled. ?Come on Coach I won the game, why do you have to torture me??

?I?m serious Hodge. Lambert was here and she was taking notes.?

?You are serious,? Hodge replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

?As a heart attack, kid.?

?Ohhhh shit!?

The coach grinned. ?Congratulations, Kitty Cat. You just might be the first to go come draft day.?

So struck was she with the news, Hodge actually let the coach get away with using her detested nickname, which was, in and of itself, a minor miracle.

Edgars? smile faded slightly, and she snapped her fingers in front of the young player?s face. ?Hodge. Hodgie. Anybody home in there??

?Huh?? Catherine?s head came up with a snap, and she blinked as if coming out of a daze.

?The press is gonna be coming in soon, kid. I know you could use the exposure, but I don?t think this is exactly the sort you had in mind. Maybe some clothes…??

Hodge visibly drew herself together. ?Uh..yeah. Right. Stall them for me, will you??

?Sure, kid. And Hodge??

?Yeah, Coach??

?You were damn good out there. Way to go.?

Hodge?s smile threatened to split her face. ?Thanks, Coach.?

Dylan tossed her keys on the small table to the right of the door, shifting out of the way as her two dogs, Siegfried and Brunhilde, bounded past and chased each other around the large foyer. Rolling her eyes at their antics, she stooped to retrieve her mail, idly leafing through the envelopes as she made her way through the parlor and into the rarely used kitchen.

?Junk, junk, a nasty letter from Manny, junk, and more junk.? Tossing the mail down on the chef?s island, she looked down at the dogs who were sitting at attention, awaiting their nightly meal. ?Haven?t I taught you to kill the mailman yet??

The large Dobermans stared back at her, heads cocked. Dylan snorted. ?Some guard dogs you are.?

After filling their bowls with kibble, Dylan exited the kitchen and walked into the large, tastefully appointed living room. Chrome, glass, and modern art dominated the room, but did little to detract from its almost sterile air. Grabbing the remote from one chrome and glass end table, she switched on the large flat screen television which stood proudly between the two huge French doors facing the back of her property.

ESPN was replaying the closing seconds of the game she?d just seen, and she paused for a moment to watch Catherine Hodges sink the winning bucket as time expired. ?Oh yeah,? she said softly to herself. ?She?ll do nicely.?

A glance down at the phone caused her smug grin to fade. ?Twenty two messages. Christ.? One long finger flipped through the caller ID display, deleting messages and the phone numbers attached to them with impunity. It was only when she got to the fifth call from Manny Blum, a pain in the ass disguised as her agent, that she pressed the ?play? button, wincing as the whining voice came through the small speaker.